a prayer for myself
a mantra
a love letter
to
myself
perhaps I should write this down
or better yet a tattoo
(heart) mom
notes… I am adopted, but I have never considered any other mother but the one who raised me, that’s all (oh yeah, and thanks y’all)…
going through my mother’s kitchen cabinets, I am astounded by the collection of things, various vessels, plates, platters, some I have seen, some seem like they are on loan from museums of era, glassware that screams 70s disco, ornate sterling silver plates that seem fit for a castle service in england, every matter of serving platter and gravy train saucer container, some glassware is clearly 80s, some screams post modern, others are timeless classics, others covered in dust as if stored in the attic, tacky freeware from tropical destination locations, hand made donations from school projects, mostly bad ceramics, even the firing is showing some cracks, all with a maker’s mark on them, mine or my brother’s, from our childhood exploits, a time where you don’t see your father and mother as people going through life, they’re the guides at that time, the law, the rules, not real people until you learn that is the real truth when you are later with age, every shelf has something else, blenders that look like a 60s caddy, an ice caddy that could have been from the copa back in the day, I’m tempted to flip it over and play it like a bongo, that special electric knife set for special occasions, the big ones for carving like thanksgiving, I can hear the specific song of that thing, the rhythmic stop and start, almost like a chainsaw indoors that activates your appetite, for carving is the last wait before serving, other plates speak country store, some are reminders of other holidays and gatherings, when the house was packed with relatives, casserole dishes laid out for buffet on temporary fold up tables, loud mostly meaningless conversation, children weaving in and out, there is salad dressing containers when you never made your own, an original thermos, iconic cup still secure on top, a fondue set, a fondue set ? that someone else bought, cocktail forks, nutcrackers, can openers, all manner of spoon from baby size to cartoon huge, tongs, a complete world of their own, all the same purpose but so many forms, an egg timer, and egg slicer, a mandolin, sounds instrumental but isn’t, a whisker, a masher, a smasher, a tenderizing mallet, all sounds violent but isn’t, all manner of knife, some have teeth, some not, some on both sides, some on top, all have had a role current or past but here they remain as a testament…
There are many way we count time, clocks, watches, wall calendars, all those now carried even closer on our phones, but what else is there when we look closer enough, books, bookshelves, baubles, random art, gifts that have no use except the important use of reminding those who gave us them, photos, clothes in closets, and so much more.
I see a whole life here, a story, laid out in dishes…
notes… freeform tonight one shot write, looking around my folks home, poking around, they are older now, elderly but that seems like an insult, especially since I feel like I will be there in their place in no time, even though that is decades out on the horizon, a horizon that ever approaches, just the weird little things of life have been catching my eye… this is one of those. And thanks to all for the looks, likes, and other such things, if I can entertain or enlighten one person my job is done (hey, a thousand or so wouldn’t be bad either, eh)
just driving, picked up korean for lunch, warm soup on a cold day, spicy hot soup really fits the bill, even if the bulgogi is quite tempting (and damn they know how to make fries), but anyway, on my way back to the office, the sun is kind of obscured, just a diffused globe hanging there lost against the wash of gray, I see some birds off in the distance, as I am sitting at a light, wondering why the guy in the tesla a) does not pull up all the way b) is way too close to my lane for my liking, but back to the sky, birds, we just accept they are as they are, I wish to imagine a time when I didn’t know them, or perhaps if I was blind and this is the first time I laid eyes on them, these little darting black triangles dashing all over the sky just far enough out where they are more like outlines, some gliding majestically as if by magic or string, forgetting my knowledge of thermodynamics, I have a hard time trying to imagine, or grasp, what I might think these little devils were without the context of the knowledge that traps me, we watch dragons and zombies on screens but here, in the sky are creatures just as unlikely, just familiar, just known, so we forget the experience, the first time, I try to think back, when did I first see or recognize birds, I would have to say my earliest memories, which do not even seem like mine anymore as they age and fade like old photographs in a box tucked in the corner of my closet somewhere, my earliest time had to be the shore, the beach, the memories seem like a legend now or a bedtime story I am telling myself, I feel out of my body, looking at myself in the past, molding wet sand with art deco neon color plastic buckets, the blazing sun turning my blonde locks near white and making my neck resemble a lobster cooked with freckles, looking up, watching the seagulls hover, standing still in the wind almost like my kite, the pipers playing tag with the surf, back and forth, scampering toward them with my child legs, they do not know I mean no harm but they stay just out of length, probably for the best, but I love to watch them pace back and forth, to this day, the constant tide, the ride, back at my office I arrive, trying to retain a child’s eye, trying to remember what it was like… those first times, for every piece of worldly fabric we may take for granted…
“for I am“
in the dawn of my dying days
awaiting my birth to be reborn
for I am
truly and forever yours
sustenance brought unto your shores
may heavenly vision shun your eyes
so I may pass
and grant refuge, for you
sacrifice to the bearer
so you may go, along that river
for I am
truly and forever yours
for divine light shall strip my flesh bare
strip by strip and cook my bones
so I might spare you
a moment of death
I will gladly suffer the tolerance the toll
no burden shall fail to fall
for I am
truly and forever yours
dare I face the gauntlet of god
inside the crucible of a dying star
collapsing pressure beyond all
humanity before and gone
all so you may walk upon
a golden gossamer waking dawn
may all your suffering be laid upon my door
for, I am, my love, yours
truly and forever more
notes… part of my lost love letters collection where I contemplate her, the one, my only true ex whom I will hold some love at some level forever, the LLL works are compiled on my collections and series page (scroll down a touch), so if you like this one check out the others, I try to keep everything current, however this is a hobby, an outlet, a needed one, I admit, but sometimes life butts in, you know, how it has a tendency to do…
music…. (something about the guitar sound just sounds like pain to me, the vocals for “what’s inside says” just rules, it begins to rock and then subdues)
the equation of love
1 + 1 = 1+
music to ponder a few moments by:
I had the, ahem, pleasure of driving down to a corner of my state I certainly do not visit often, but Monday night I was tasked with a software upgrade in these forsaken lands, normally you would not think (I did not) of parts of New Jersey being south of parts of Delaware, well, now I am aware as this locality is due south of Wilmington, funny how perception is, we (new jersey types) always think of Delaware as due south of here (well, it mostly is), but that does go to show how off the main heartbeat and arteries this joint is, it is not barren by any means, they have their share of Targets and Walmarts, just a whole hell of a lot of land in between them, you hear a name like “Millville” and do not associate it with much, but it is funny how things have origins, this was literally a Mill Town (seems obvious, I know), founded somewhere around 1720, and next door to this town is Glassboro, you know, where they blow glass, seems simple enough, if you look around your own state such simple names pop out all over the place, and they tell you about the history (or lost history) of the area, there is Marlboro, no not a cigarette thing, the history goes back to the 1600s and the area became famous for… wait for it… “marl“, never heard of it ? me neither, but apparently it was the goods back in the day before commercial fertilizers came about, in fact there are other towns with the moniker, like Marlton, then you get into more obscure named things like “Furnace”, this was a designation of a foundry or iron works, mostly in the pine barrens (you know, where the Jersey Devil is rumored to live), there is Weymouth Furnace, Hanover Furnace, Gloucester Furnace (eh, you get the idea),
…and then there is the colorful or animal themed ones like Red Lion and Hog Wallow, to the strange and mysterious like Ong’s Hat, even on to the ominous Double Trouble (seriously)
…anyway, my trip down south was quite uneventful, full of traffic, enraging traffic, did I mention traffic (where rte 42 meets 55 is mind-numbing), bleak black rain, cold rain but not cold enough for snow or ice, just the type that drips on your neck from some building corner or tree and chills your spine with a flinch, or smacks your ear on the dime, the town is quite barren but I was not in the town center to be fair… but the name of the town got me thinking, and writing, so many simple things in a name, all around us, especially in this area of the states, the original colonies, there is a lot of history here, and probably wherever you are, whether it be 100 years ago or 50, there is something hiding in the corners and cubbyholes of your state I bet, check them out when you get a chance… you might find something unexpected.
thanks for the look, the like, the time, if you like what I do or have any suggestions comments are always respected….
there is always the ordinary, and mixed in there somewhere the not so, I was just walking outside to move my car, outside of work, to park where I am now allowed, as to not offend the local signs, vengeful as they are, the clouds are a gaggle of grey, no, more of a singular mob, one great mass of bland nothingness for as far as I can tell, I notice people walking down the side street that I do not recognize, the warehouse across the street, closed so many months ago that the near presence of life startles me a bit, why would anyone be walking down this street when there is nothing here? I suppose it does not matter, just the matter of moving my car literally fifteen feet to a more preferred spot, under a tree, which is nice in the summer, not so much now, walking back to the office, cutting through the lot where I was not supposed to park, I notice a couple, and then a couple more, slowly floating down, snow, actual flakes, the kind you dream of when thinking of it romantically, individual flakes, each with their own personality, you can read each one down as it goes by, flows and floats here and there, flakes the size of fifty cent pieces and seen just as rarely, so very few, to stand there and admire, and the background world fades for just a bit, I forget about the drab urban sprawl, the faded yellow lines in the asphalt of the local street, various plastic wrappers tumbling by my feet, a retreat, into the recess of my mind, the little spark of a child, that first time you saw snow and after, waiting for the snow to pile up, the fun, the sledding, the snowballs, falling down and not getting a hurt or a scrape, snow angels, running around until your outfit is soaked to the bone, peeling off layers, hot cocoa with those little marshmallows, all in this moment, just the trigger, these little flakes in slow motion all around, no sound to them, a little kid still bound to those early experiences, and then, a honking madman at the local left turn signal, apparently the cretin in front of them has not turned in sufficient speed for them, there are honks of courtesy and then those of unbridled rage, these were the later, my trance broken, I soak in one more moment of this perfect snow globe, and then, back to my desk, my daily home.
“my only hope is in the stars
to upload my soul upon release
so I may travel the walkway to god”
notes… my mind likes puzzles, and is constantly working on such things, I have trouble blocking out the ‘big one’ sometimes, that being our mortality, half way through life (I hope) there is no way to not consider it, that is, for an agnostic like myself, I would love the relief of belief but to date nothing has satisfied me, I used to be smug about it in my younger days, looking down upon those who are religious, I realized later that I do not have the answers so those who find theirs I am grateful for, it just has not happened for me, maybe never will, maybe it doesn’t matter, that is my struggle, really the one we all share regardless of how we got here, into this time, now, the idea of basically never existing, death, is daunting, to say the least.
let my eyes speak sex
with lurid intent
a sultry stare
the thrust of wet
bodies bare
dripping sweat
tight embrace
coital lock
in that moment
pure escape
notes… I think about things like “can I communicate with my eyes”, can I say “I want you” with these baby blues, why do we pretend, the games, the end, there is times when desire and lust are just forefront, we all have impulses and I am no exception, life- lust- visceral… and I think this is just one of the sexiest songs ever…
“interrogation of flies“
I sit at my desk
cigarette in hand
half cocked, not lit
ashtray, ashtrays no longer exist
papers arranged by ear by year
slop across the desktop
or what the cat lady dragged in
priorities rise and fall like a tide
always coming in
always high tide
I would like to think I made something of this life
wife, kids
but no, here I am, here am I,
mired in this, my domain, my cage.
notes… in my head I saw this beaten down disheveled lifer newspaper guy, who can’t smoke at his desk furiously anymore, and like any of us he misses the “good old days” regardless if they were actually good, they were the routine, and most of us fall in love with routine, but then we wind up, here and there, with a waking moment like “what the hell am I doing here?” and then it passes as furious and visceral as it felt, falls back to the routine, so this poem is not technically about me but definitely has some pieces of me in the bones…
and…. if you do me the honor of sharing my content, cool, please do, just a hint of credit would do nicely though on the karma meter, and thanks for the look, the read, your time, I appreciate it.
Shades of My Garden 