this is the ire
of the ire
of night
where we find
no, we meet with,
gladly- our demons,
for they – our ours
no reason, we choose them,
we surely do,
invite them,
and as we choose to
fight them
or have a drink with them
or a conversation
at the bar
or the backyard
behind the barn,
for-
that is what we are
individual beings
thrown into this boiling ocean,
as babes,
all commotion and screaming
facades and screens remaining
until we come into our own,
even off stage we are on-
we carry on in this dream,
a performance-
and in those rare moments become us (for how long?)
Author: David Koblentz
Inspiration is a fickle muse. Sometimes empty, sometimes overwhelming. These words I write are my own but they seem driven by something else (perhaps?).
the organization of being
we are, in a way a battery, a computer, a machine, flesh as it were, in this case, but does that make us more real… ? or less, who can say? were we out there- waiting, for the introduction, in utero, for ourselves to move in, the matching of being an electronic impulse, or some matter of energy, to meet and ultimately inhabit this being we now are? perhaps floating out there in the universe all this time as an ‘old soul’ as some describe, or perhaps a new wave, a new wave of energy created just in time to mate with the available and compatible fleshy machine in utero made available in that instant becoming one, a vehicle, to experience this world with the various senses, an explorer sent in, a navigator from the fabric of space, our self awareness might come from our previous state of being not a human being but the energy signature that has sparked this machine, a pilot, to remain as long as the vehicle shall allow, then to move on to the next phase of the journey, for physics states E=MC2, and are we not the manifestation of that indeed? if only we could touch those memories of our different phase…
so… are we here? I ask tongue in cheek with the background of ground breaking band’s song blaring in my flat at the moment.. it is intoxicating… in some sense, but the seriousness, the underlying question…
walking (is this haiku or staccato)?
2am
I am glad there was rain
the familiar daylight houses
look menacing at this hour
but I know they are not
but my mind-
questions them
anyway,
so I go inside
to have a dream
down in this forest
made by human beings;
like myself.
perception is an interesting thing, how some people love change, some love comfort, I suppose you get used to either by exposure, and by exposure you gain experience, it is almost criminal you know, that we gather all this in a lifetime and can not transfer it… that is why I hope for an afterlife.. besides the obvious of the stopping of my existence, well, at least as time moves forward, I will have existed, but I am not sure what condolence that might leave me… as i leave…
staccato verse
in the mirror
I can see
the reality
of age
which we never see
when we speak,
as ages
go by
we try
with wisdom
but is wisdom
just
the passage
of time
and filling out
the ledger
of-
experience.
no apologies, I throw things.
Footloose, get mediaeval on ya’
the delirious dancing denizens
with wit and spit to spin like tops
when all must rest the ground does fled
and precarious limbs will flail a crop –
“what madness is this Frau Troffea?”
for whipped some up of the Strasbourg lay
frenzied are the initial thirty spot
on that quite strange strange summer’s day-
then, as a great fevered wave,
the hundred’s came and came and came
to crash in-on the unannounced ball
to bounce, to sway, to bray until-
perhaps St. Vitus himself!
came to cast upon a further spell-
a month or so does pass, a slower dance,
or the summer heat had waned at last,
the footloose mania until September had gained
a brief coup of the normal sense of man
the dancing feet, the writhing arms, the thoughtless gaze
all the world is not a stage
but became a dance floor just instead,
no more-
the town square worn bore for what she could
“Frau Troffea, what have you done?”
on the more the merriment the town is gone-
for now only a tale on the books to initiate
the mad revelry that beheld there fifteen one eight
by that river, a forgotten prance
the mad dance in the year of our lord, fifteen one and eight
has passed.
for reference as to what I am writing about… go HERE (it’s a wiki link, relax), sometimes historical context grabs me and asks me for a dance… this would be one of those times….
your full circle…
I have met my end-
and it is me
for what else-
could it be?
not always (but often) we are our own worst enemy… puts new meaning to sleeping with the enemy (though not much choice there except the pain in the ass sprite known as insomnia, a fellow I have met on occassion)
3am walk
no, this is no poem, this is literal, or is it? I was taking a break from watching Tori Amos “Winter” reaction videos (I will get to that later, maybe), so I gave the dog a biscuit (at 15 she can still melt you with her eyes, but I do at least make her sit), went outside, for the first time today, I spent most of the day in bed, not from ill, free from harm, I could spend all day indoors as long as the rain pours, I knew from the forecast (not that that is ironclad) that it was supposed to rain today, and this is my once a quarter full weekend off (yes, I work 6 days a week solid, all year), so I can not say I have mastered the art, but I am sure an avid student of lucid dreaming, I am a big believer in it, well, at least for now, until something else comes along, as it always does, in life, so anyway, dog sated, I slip into my old beat up merrels, almost time for them to go, the back end wall is in terrible disrepair from my heel, but still, you could not pay any amount of money in the world for that true broken in feel, and besides, I have another pair I am secretly, slowly breaking in… and then it hits, the breeze, even with my windows open on the inside there is nothing like stepping into the space, occupied by the outside, now, this odd time of night but yet my mind is on fire and bright for some reason, probably all the rest today, I look to my right and my new calla lilies are as bright as I recall, the strong LED from my fancy new amazon ordered usb powered flashlight shows them to be like purple speckled canyons, collecting the rain in their cups, but in a few steps, the real fact, that impact, the smell, the verdant radiant intense grain of green of spring smell when the ground is wet, and soaked, like you can smell the earth herself, now, if you know me, my allergies are legion, so the powers of the nose avoid me often, but not on this evening, as you can not imagine, this is a treat, I can take it all in, and at times it is overwhelming (so is this what ‘normal’ people smell all the time?), granted, I understand, and I truly do, that my allergic affliction is but a blip on what can curse a person’s life, so I do not consider it a handicap, it is just my life, stuffed up nose, nasal voice, often shallow breath from the occasional asthma storm, so be it, I have it better than most, but tonight I am free of such host, for once, so I decide to walk among my babies, the only ones I have right now, my plants, such a strange year, the winter was not harsh, by our standards, but for some reason my bamboo varieties took a beating, even those long in the tooth that have been taller than my roof for years now, in fact my proudest batch looks the worst, but experience tells me, it has leaves it is still alive, green stalks are the sign of life, but still, you worry about your brood, correct? you always do, regardless of the years of experience, and near death experiences, until that first shoot pops up you wonder, did I do enough? and the way bamboo is, for those who do not know, it grows very tropical, when the conditions go right bamboo will pop a foot a day, so it goes from dead nothing to an explosion in an instance, so here I am wandering my property with a led flashlight looking at all the pots, seeing new shoots coming up from everyone now, a relief, but still so much work, and then I pause from my manic bamboo obsession, and take the night in.. damn, I almost think where in the world can I have this right now every night every time… but then… would this be special? if I lived in the florida keys, and saw those insanely azure seas every night… would I rejoice like I am now. and yet we yearn for such things… like a vacation, we want that encapsulation, that perfection, but would we tire of that if that was not the exception but the reality of every hour… of course we all want the opportunity to try that world, the world of a billion dollars, but all the money in the world can not buy right now, it could not if it tried, so I suppose I am lucky, and I am, I really am, to be walking around at 3am, with no major worries, less than some, more than some but a good life, I must remember that, and that my bamboo children, all nine varieties, seem ready to rise and shoot new children into the atmosphere, I check the last of my pots, the newest, which actually did the best this winter, all green leaves, and to this point, no new growth, no shoots, and I spot one, the relief, even with a variety that seems so strong, not a leaf gone from winter, what did a I really risk, nothing but still – somehow I feel responsible for these plants, maybe it is obsession or passion, all I know is that it helps me to come walk around and be part of something I built, even now, at 3am, a perfect chill in the air, seeing the droplets clinging to the next generation on which my superstition will be focused on next spring…
notes… still up now at 3:37am eastern… but I walked outside and felt inspired, so…
man and consumption
flesh and butter
might I
if given the choice
to baste my own skin
or drown my best friend
if given the chance
nature is outside
the arena of humanity resides
inside;
inside these binds of tooth and claw
to respond, in circumstance,
the rational would fall
but would all?
just one to chew on… mentally of course.
consumption. survival…
maybe the flesh of animals
is that which sates us
after all, we too are animals
albeit
well dressed and behaved-
but so are those in the wild
in their home
their habitats
across the world,
perhaps across all worlds,
but yet we feast
upon the lesser forms
with no defense
there is no honor in this
but then,
there might be no honor in survival
the perception of holding the clock’s hand
a thought
of control
when there is none,
instinct above demand
and so
we are,
bon appetit my friends.
eve n’ning
so the serpent sheds the sin
as belies a belly that travels
so close to the earth
to transverse into a tree
a scapegoat
if there ever were
I am just a man, of one, but all these thoughts, will it all be gone and for naught? by some simple analogy, an apple, a sin, the real sin is living, and knowing, but how you deal with that knowledge, that hit Newton on the noggin, well, that is the thing, even is this all has no meaning, why not go for it all… even if I also fall short, with you, take my hand, and let’s go.
Shades of My Garden 