all roads lead to… wherever I may…

all roads lead to… wherever I may…

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Rome was not built in a day…
So why am I trying to finish it all today?

So is the way we are, eyes on the prize, the charge of momentum stirring in our skin, when we are set out on the path to what we want to reach we want to sprint, when walking (or at least a decent jog) is in order, but that gleaming trophy is all encompassing, enticing, enchanting, you can feel it manifesting in your hands, so you rush toward that horizon, and maybe stumble because you are not paying attention to the rubble in the road, because rarely is there a road of pure paved perfection, trust me, I have travelled many, and many a mirage of such perfection has seduced my seeking soul, I’m not one to proclaim new year’s resolutions, but mid year ones? OK, color me guilty, but just the same, the fever, the fervor burn you feel in those first hours and first days completing those tasks that propel your mind to dream of the end of the toil, as if a field of crops to chop is all laid out before you in a flash mob instant, but- the real field, just to bare the blazing sun, the heavy sweat, breaking hands from the engage-reset equation, and you want to get it all done – in an instant, but that is the trick, the false deity at wit, you must deny your own temptation, conflagration, intoxication, for the feeling of progress truly can be a trance, so you must learn to slow this dance, to a waltz, to a halt, or even a rest, a breath, a step, a realization that a yard is full of inches, a mile full of yards laid foot by shadow, you did not arrive at the where you are in one day’s travel, nor will you get to the over there you want in just a moon shot’s sojourn travel, plodding might seem downright like… well, plodding, and so it is, focus on the steps, a one, a two, a four, but not more, soon enough you will arrive at the prized station of the horizon, your destination, it may just take some time more, so ponder in that direction, write yourself a note of discretion, goals, with morsels and meals between, so that penultimate banquet will that be much better received, when, and you will, have built your Rome, your home, in a time that suits your will – and the satisfaction will.

notes… for those in the know, well, stop reading, for those not this is stream of consciousness, me riffing on a topic in one take… of course your thoughts and comments are always appreciated, as well as any tips on growing hot peppers in my climate… and when I mean hot I am talking habanero plus… and if anyone wants bamboo tips for northern climates… I have 6 types currently on my property – and I am expanding… I love the stuff, bamboo is an evergreen and there are many varieties that can survive here in north new jersey, lawns are boring… go exotic and more natural.

the grudge anchor…

the grudge anchor…

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the grudge anchor

man I was burning, a little tiff @ the homestead this morning, and it was crawling about my skull all commute, no, scrambling, rambling, rumbling, an out of control locomotive, consuming all voraciously like a black hole drilled and dropped into the center of my being, screaming, swirling inward, I suppose when things happen in the earliest of hours, pre-dawn, pre-coffee, pre-civilization they are just that raw, primitive, to the bone, no time to waste at these hours, every minute planned out until, well, that first punch of life hits and your plan splits, a swing and a hit from your blind spot, which is decidedly big at that point, and all the worse… you are right, not that it matters, does it?

I understand holding a grudge, the temptation, the salivation, the ability to relent to base animal instincts and bare your inner fangs wide, and in the moment, the adrenaline does provide the sensation, but we are not mere animals, well, at least I hope so, or strive so, the more I thought about it, the whole situation, without even needing or providing details, the more I saw my machinations for another later in the day confrontation – as wholly shallow, an unending conflagration over… nothing, nothing more than two egos like continent plates crashing into one another, regardless of motive, stance, civility or morality, this seething, pulsing seed of anger I was fertilizing all morning – for an afternoon reunion with parties injurious to the situation, ‘boy will I get them’, which turned in time, no, ‘what is the damn point you fool?’ I ask myself, as if talking myself off a cliff edge from oblivion, a hotline to my well being, ‘what is the actual point of continuing this?!’, I confess, almost a blush of embarrassment, how easily wound around an obvious finger outstretched I had become, I was in the right (most mostly), a tip of my toe in the wrong, but what did it matter either way, in the long run…

the grudge anchor, for we all have one, or maybe a dozen, and we have all thrown them deep, for various reasons (some with more merit ballast than others), I was sure as can be ready and my righteous anchor was already half an ocean fathom’s down, and plunging faster as my mind delved, then clarity of thought, the nature of an anchor is intransigence, and then your entire voyage is going nowhere, good, bad, trade winds to and fro – a no go, a stalemate, or a stale mate at home, perhaps a circle winding round the anchor point down, and there is comfort in this fort, this port, this stance, this standing still and marching about your own land, for perhaps that anchor is true and decent (even worse if it was constructed with just an alloy of ego and pure pride), no perhaps I will just apologize for my slight even if the greater slight was a mountain to my little trail hiked, I can have right on my side but not let that collide with my progress across the ocean’s wide, a sacrifice, for the sake of shipmates, for running into those lost at sea, raise the anchor and be on my way, cognizant of the history, logged in a captain’s book for keep not conflict, rather extend the laurel leaf to see what comes about, maybe nothing, maybe spite spout, so be it, let them cast anchors, let them allow their blood to boil at the behest of base instinct in the cauldron of grudge, let my path be free, let them cast anchors, not me.

(notes: this was written in one swath, stream of conscious thought…)

thoughts… from the porch…

thoughts… from the porch…

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(a stream of consciousness experiment going on four years now…)

this is, well was, the first truly day of spring, no, not the first nice day, but one that seems to announce the semi-permanent arrival, I’d love to paint you some ethereal picture of beautiful perfections, but that is not to be today turning into night, the air, is a soothing temperature though, a soft flow, however, in one direction I pick up the heavy scent of lawn chemicals like a teen with too much drakar doused on, I almost feel for the pests and grubs that must absorb that cruel gruel, I used to think a wonderous sparkling lawn was a wonderous thing, no more, I loathe such a faux carpet as more of a waste of resources these days, and a desert of imagination, not half as alluring as a mix of exotic and native plants that change like chameleons with the seasons, the pandemic must be slowing a bit, just from the sounds of the world, or the ones drowned now out, for there is a not so subtle undertow roar of cars in the distance, emanating from the local four lane road, oak tree road – as if that name imparts some gravitas of nature to course pavement and the sounds thereof, of course, there is the delightful, occasional throttle mash dash, a bugle call for ego small down our town’s little famous stretch, a couple of robins are chattering, not some euphony as you might think, the sound more like a cantankerous old married couple arguing, knowing there is no point in this dos-e-doe, knowing they have an audience’s ear for their nonsense, besides their own (and they are the only ones enjoying this show), robins are not songbirds I tell you, at least not those of this local herd, well… at least my various bamboo plants are blooming, in actuality shooting up new spikes left and right – which does not sound as nice or flowery, but a new generation looking to take a place in the some-day-ending parade, this past winter was very harsh on my crop, they look like a blonde wig that has been tossed about the mall parking lot floor for a few weeks or more, you can clearly see the glory that once was, like an outline, or a memory, but you surely would not pick it up to wear it; a commercial airliner is roaring out there somewhere, horizon-ish, hidden by the darkened clouds, not quite dark enough to see the beacons blinking indicating and exact location, a lone goose passes by, one honk, no formation to amaze by, this only confirms the underwhelming litany of this night, yet… even with all this, and that damn dog barking it’s head off some blocks away, the people walking by yapping loudly on their important calls, the last blasts of the mating calls of leaf-blowers in landscaper hands, somewhere, even in this, this imperfection, my eye is taken, to a small broken branch, barely more than a mere twig, I watch as it swings back and forth like some hypnotic pendulum, am I getting sleepy? no, just the back and forth and the back and forth, breathing in… and breathing out… and I am found, all of time, all of history, have brought me right here, the enemies of my revelation send various types of gas chariots down the street to distract me, but they only make me realize, and crack a wry smile, I found peace in place, the subtle trick, the wave, a fractured stick, sometimes… is all it takes.

notes… I wanted something dissonant… and probably something you never heard, I have eclectic tastes to be sure… but this evening felt like an immersion and birthing all in one…

the onus of shame

the onus of shame

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the trees, their looks bear down upon me
a whole row of judges bent the same forward
their stoic state confirms
they feast rightfully on my shame -;
peddlers of the rain-
the rumblings resonate in the scrum of my ancestors,
a small-broken bird lies, in a puddle, flat mirrored frame
surrounded by lily pads of cherry blossoms fallen
a bloodless crime-
not drowned but that of a twisted neck
captured now placed unto that final nest,
I contemplate the darkening-looming
and attempt to tabulate the celestial math
but I have no means to the master
for I am locked in the strands of man-
for- I am.

notes… this is one of those more cryptic ones that just came to me as is… so, this is how it is… the inspiration was a bunch of trees planted in a semi circle, they looked down at me, or so I felt/thought, and so it was….

origins… -*-

origins… -*-

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origins
cruel perception
the trick of life
am I the culmination
of thought of dream
my parents decision
cosmic reconciliation
into being
the universe quite decided
for I an now

sometimes my view of life takes a turn, or perhaps perspective shifts. is this all a dream? how would I know, how would I really perceive it, and conversely are dreams real, are they reality, we think of something so it does and did exist because of that thought, it did happen, at least somewhere, in some space, in our mind, but yet we may dismiss this as not reality, what is reality, what brought us forth, a thought? perhaps, it is all a circular firing squad from there, a never ending loop, are we in the act of creating merely by imagination, or is imagination the cauldron of truth, of life, all determined by perception, a house looks much different from the inside than from the out, a mountain looks different when staring at the base than when peering from the summit top, and that is a matter of mere feet, not a cosmic mile like looking at earth from the moon or taking a ride on neptune’s 165 year orbit to look around the solar system from another view, these are the things swirling around my brain this day… how about you?

the unexpected but gladly accepted injection of love into the everyday junction…

the unexpected but gladly accepted injection of love into the everyday junction…

(stream of consciousness type post, I generally call it free form, call it what you will.. just call it!)

the injection of love
(no, not some bad romcom or adult movie)
reminders, life flicking your ear lobe so you pay attention, a moment, as the feeling wells up you are reminded of other times, those eyes, I forgot her eyes, of course that is all you see these days with mask mandates and the like, the old saying, gateway to the soul and all that, overacted, but like many things scooped from some basin of truth, with some people you just have a gaze, there is something more there, an instant lock, indeed, almost a ghost-physical embrace, at some level, you feel it, you know the other person does as well, you can just tell, by the feeling in your bones, or wherever this emanated from, but there is no denying the fact, the attraction, the familiarity, the instant comfort yet butterfly fragility, we see so many eyes over so many days, a glaze, a haze, a zombie trance as we walk through, enough that the fog becomes the norm, partial blindness to the remarkable form, and then, every now and again, we encounter someone who orbits our star, becomes our moon, even if for a moment lost too soon, that instant bond, love at first sight at some level I suppose, or just a knowing, a simpatico, a fellow traveler in this world with some strange unspoken bond, yes, I forgot her eyes, not the color – but the light, all the time spent floods back in an instant, her laugh, her smile, how she destroys all my ramparts instantly, I used to be so oblivious to all this, and maybe now, as I grow longer in years, I appreciate these awakenings of time, and there is a boost in my step, a pep in my smile, an inner warmth that I can recall like a memory translated into injected elation, an elevation of the spirit just because of her presence, of course this reminds me to be both jealous and happy for those who have found their true love, and have nurtured the same into an enduring relationship, I can only imagine, or dream, or reach but I know this fate exists for me in these moments, even if I trip over the realization or miss the signs, perhaps my mind is best set looking, or perhaps my heart should lead the line.

notes… couldn’t help myself here, Hall and Oates were a staple in my household growing up, so I hated them naturally, but in retrospect they really were better than the average pop band of the day, catchy tunes and Daryl Hall is a good dude who hosts all sorts of musicians these days at his website/venue… check it out.

forsythia (and a treatise on spring)

forsythia (and a treatise on spring)

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forsythia,
my dear, my consort
cast out upon the land
a golden plume
a golden mane
the stirring locks of ostara herself
harbinger of spring
message received
for you are truly born of the stars
from your roots rise sunrise up upon this earth-
rejoice!
spring’s sweet songs do awaken.

for spring is a procession of progression
cherry blossoms bathe the path in white to lavender and all manners up to purple, urban planning has them lining the streets in rows like a royal parade celebrating victory over the great winter – for at least a time, and short lived they will fall like confetti littering the street on the day after, the daffodils, holding golden cups sky-upward ready to brim with the coming rains, those same rains will flatten them as they nourish the rest of the surely coming green flourish, the ramps, onion cousins, or maybe garlic uncles, no, more like tiny onions, their chive clump headdress pokes through looking like unruly fits of grass, spring onions – yes, they are known to check in with such a name in certain establishments, the arcs of forsythia, golden arches with no drive thru, inspired in such golden rod as to make midas blush, the mornings are filling with song and sun, Ostara winks as her womb births the dawn of hope, and so I do, spring is hope, hope is spring, and then the worn hot complacency of summer sets in, burns out all the green, and then the world must sleep once more to regain, to regenerate, to be born once again – better to enjoy this now, the colors, the procession, the daily progress of life bursting to be seen, yes, take in the scene.

simple, sunrise.

simple, sunrise.

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sunrise-
for surely
you realize
I have waited up for you
all night,
like a train that arrives at the station,
yes, I have the brochure
the times and destinations listed-
but still,
the vanguard on the shadow loom
prompts fear on the loose
as time drips slowly down
fears bread and brood
rampaging now – out of sight
slightest sounds reflect
until- that morning light –
a morsel of salvation
as mana from heaven.

notes… restless night, waiting for the birdsong, waiting for the sun, anticipation causing anxiety tapping insomnia, not my usual gig, not my usual thing, but every once in a while the night is long, longer than others, at least in thought, at least in my craw, so it was…