where you find yourself, at times.

where you find yourself, at times.

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fallen
the skylight is round, I’m not sure how long I have been down here, seems like a lifetime, and I’m told by the suit behind the booth that is all I am allotted anyway, choice or by chance? I’m not sure frankly, these parts are not friendly, not deadly, just keep to your personal space sort of place, a pale place, there is enough light to survive, thrive? perhaps not, when moving about you lose sight of planes of existence, this all seems normal until you catch a beam for a dream to ride up on, what is beyond? and why do they look at me with such disdain, shadow faces sneer, canines glean, do they not see? the up there? monochromatic shirts, brown shoes, unisex doors and signs adorn the shoals of this box, everything is a box if you are contained, only if you see the walls, why did I have to look up? what evil impulse and seven years bad luck cause me to break the mirror in pieces so willfully, on the floor, there has to be one, a floor, but just a blurred mist where my feet should be, with a solid form, I am walking on something I pronounce, a dervish whirling, spinning about, the dos-si-do I do with my fellow captives, although they seem to have the arrogance of freedom about them (they never look up, really upward), and I do not have shackles per se, where did this seed of thought sprout, instantaneous? subcutaneous? every thing has an origin, that much I am almost mostly sure, did this come from out there? or in here? and how will I ever know?
sincerely,
searching for meaning
(unknown who found this note or who may have written it)

notes… one of those that just popped in my head, as if I was thrown down a hole and muddling about with fellow unawares but yet I was aware of whence I came, sort of a vision, faceless faces except for the mouths, rounded features, almost like animated stick figures but more like mannequins… that was what was rattling around my brow in this piece… as usual, all comments, thoughts, eyes and what not are appreciated. you could be watching law and order or something instead of browsing my page (because somewhere, at all times law and order is on… I tell you…)

colander (if only)

colander (if only)

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(stream of consciousness / thought post)

as per my usual musings, I was driving to work this morning, listening to some tunes, perhaps bopping along and singing, so if you saw a guy on the GSP kind of looking foolish this morning, that would have been me, most likely, so anyway, the word ‘strainer’ materialized in my upper ether realm, the idea, so simple, yet so impossible (or?), if I could only pour myself (metaphorically or perhaps spiritually speaking) into a strainer, to let the best parts settle in and let the rest strain out to escape down into the drain of forgotten past lives… why on earth did I think that I had to choose, between one of those old school metal mesh ones, the plastic ones or one that is flat out strange– I don’t know, but my inner voice was telling me so, and to choose wisely it seems, so I did, and for whatever reason (I told myself to myself it was ‘old school’), I picked the metal mesh type for this imagined realization, so I crammed in all of me to let the process begin, this seemed like a simple mental exercise, one to exorcize my demons or just feelings I no longer cared to have taking up space in my inner abode, the cracks in my what seemed to be a perfect argument started to unfold in the folds of my brainium, just like pouring in cooked pasta, what if there was overflow? you never pick up the bits that fall in the sink, perhaps you toss them to the dog, but does that make them less than the strained survivors? what if that is a piece of parchment that has the cypher to unlock the code in the remaining strands? panicked now, I thought I had such a simple elegant solution, instead I am being titanic-ed by minutia, also, when you strain some things, inevitably some gets through, perceptible or not, something is lost in the process, more than you might want, or more that you might not never know, besides, everything, all your stuff kind of gets mashed down, sure the top looks perfect and all the extraneous liquid is gone – but – the bottom thoughts or stands are being pushed up against the wall sort of like the crush at the stage in a concert hall… damn, my metaphor has faltered and failed me now, I suppose there is no quick solution for unpacking myself…

perhaps I need to approach this like going through an old closet, looking at each thing, making a determination, and travelling forward or backward from there, this takes more time, but perhaps offers less orphans, cast offs, miscreants, regrets, all of these, rather than examine flipping about a trapeze, on the ground, grounded, methodical with a giant magnifying lens, to relish the details, the flaws, live them once again, and then – perhaps, then fold them back up neatly or dispense of them.

phases…

phases…

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(a stream of consciousness post)

Is this really me, completely? I feel like a pilot, in a suit, in pursuit of… I’m not so sure anymore, more days, more time, for what? I speak of, I think of, lives past, no, not in the reincarnation sense, although it would seem I have had my cycles passed, I am in my current life, or phase, not defined by decades, no, more or less my surround, what is around, my circumstance, a stanza in time, in a sense, not clearly defined by lines, at least not as strict as haiku, but definitely with form, I have not learned, or grown to, or allowed myself to be myself completely without the forms of norm, does anyone? there were the early years, the carefree, the cage-free, the free range days, certainly, but, my memory is so sparse, was the freedom just a way to breeze through those times, not wanting to sit down in my mind and record such things? I barely remember anything prior to the age of ten, or maybe even twelve, a dozen or so things that stand the time, like perfect ruins, snapshots really, I recall my teens more well, but such a twisting-morphing-growing age, from day camp to college all in a daze, no… college was the third phase, maybe I am getting ahead of myself, that short span at rutgers, was definitely it’s own thing, as I remember those dorm days better than most prior, coed dorms the norm, cohosts at late night soirees, the grease trucks (specifically Mr C’s) near dawn, slapping together forty page papers in a storm of no-doze and jolt cola, one friend in particular whom I wished I maintained contact all these years, that was it’s own time, separate from the rest as I recall those moments best, even now, strangely, and then phase three, my florida years, the pinnacle of hope, early twenties when everything is there, so much fruit flowing that one could never imagine an orchard bare, or even such a place in winter, there was always sun, like some bad analogy or pun, christmas lights on palm trees, and her, my love, the anchor on my heart all these years, but also the picture of a perfect flower, smiling – undeterred by the cracked earth of a dessert planted, no, that much has not faded, a dualogy that haunts me to this day, some would say, don’t let it, for yes I have tried to travel that forgetful path, I have, but it has done me no good or lifted the cargo, now phase five, in life, just seems as if I am on a ride, just riding out the time, pushing forward in a circle, all advice on paper, print and speech says move on, and I have, as much as I can, but I can not shake the past, no matter what I do, sometimes I think why bother, and accept the way, I can refurnish the room, paint the walls, change the carpet, but the room remains, I just have to see if in the next phase things will change, I’m not so sure as this has been the longest phase to date, but one never knows, will I find the providence to lead me to elysian pastures, and they might just be around the next corner bend, so I go, so I go.

the manor… [“_“]

the manor… [“_“]

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the manor

in the house of the dying sun,
a knock on the door
an uncle a cousin a brother
and I forgot to remember-
that he is gone
for father has traveled on
into the land beyond (our senses).
the wife, a sister, my mother
left with the charge
for every crack and nook
imbued with the marriage of years
strolling through photobooks
slow motion silent cinema tales
snapshots of a life no longer in motion
told and closed,
the deacon of my being struggles
struggles for reason
for faith to believe in our fates
for a reason, for a meaning,
I yearn for the voice of dominion
for guidance, for wisdom
for the power to accept
as we must, and accept
there is no choice
no choice in the matter
for soon enough I will join you father
and once more
be of your manor.

notes… been mired in the weather so not posting too much, I have been writing however, just not posting, sometimes life gets in the way, you know ? Thanks for all the looks and comments, I appreciate your time and stopping by.