in the mind of mutiny…

in the mind of mutiny…

(this is an imagining of a writer tasked with writing about a voyage into the unknown before the world was all mapped, when ships were the only way to go continent to continent)

nautical twilight

traveling out on these very sturdy oak boards,
pitched and yar on the earth herself,
land long past behind us now
a promise- a distance in front of us now
from outwardly run the captive mist of isles
and onward bound so I am tasked
to write of this supposed bounty, adventure
of land far past the eyes of any maps,
so in trust we sail on the captains word and keen
sitting under the lateen-rig yards
and at night surrounding ocean crowned with countless stars
in circles men unwind the day
yarns and tales round spike the ears
words and slurs round pass the ale
for most now I’ve heard these many days
monsters, mayhem and the soft serenades (of mermaids?)
but we never speak of-
never speak of that, as if the ocean
will swallow whole the mass
this quiet nervousness however is a chill past in night
doubt grows in passing hours, days
the wonder if wisdom was to turn back
but never speak of this-
never speak of this, looks lock to say
if they were but literate men may they
write the same;
I’ve travelled many places on the fair continent
by caravan, by foot, by beast,
always something to see, feel and feast-
but here, danger breeds in the sameness swells
fear seethes out in that vastness casting spells,
and every day placed for the next,
ritualistic into effect for the coming breath,
the welcome consort of a racing dolphin escort

or a whale plume’s that recalls city-park fountains
or so I imagine, reminisce of the standing ground
of trees, of birds, all of these foreigners now
fleeting memories out of grasp of hand
now, after all these months,
I learn of the certainty of land.

lost.love.letters.

lost.love.letters.

sometimes you come across unexpected things when cleaning, a forgotten article, a book, clothing… or a photo, dated on the back 10.99, a lifetime ago, but the impact is still a sinking-hole feeling inside, a sick feeling to reside, something, something I have never been able to shake, HER, the one, the one, there has been no cure, no elixir, no remedy, no replacement, at least so far, all these years, you begin to question, you wonder, wonder if you are a lost cause, or just flat out insane in some manner, but the feeling, the feeling is so raw, so guttural, ripping into your core that I can not ignore, am I just a broken person of the heart? the worst part, of course, is I blame myself for most of what happened, the separation, retrospect, of course is an easy road, but does that mean it is incorrect? I suppose, I feel (or am) broken, knowing that all of us are, somewhat, to lesser or more degrees, but knowing that does not soothe the driven cold spike I feel on moments like these, I don’t think I will ever truly be healed even if I pray to be, and I argue with myself, looking around at the world, do I even deserve a reprieve, when I can not even begin to forgive myself.. 10.99… October of 1999 – I wish to an inch of my death I could hold you close again, just once more, to feel your heartbeat and your warmth as we are one, just once more, as the reality of that memory is so faded now – those immediate memories, just the empty chasm of regret and pain… I wish I had a higher IQ of the heart, back then… I miss you, still, if you only knew, if you could only know, how sorry I am, how much, I am forever to dwell, in your love, and how much I will always love you, wrapped within myself now… within myself until the end of times, where I hope to see you, for that is all that keeps me alive…

notes… this was stream of consciousness, the photographic record of us is not large, I doubt she even has one of me, I can count only a handful, but the time we spent, two stars of different galaxies aligned somehow… there has never been anyone else but her, I have tried, replacements, forgetfulness, time… no, none of it was worked, but I am still alive, so there is always hope, even as my years fade into time, at least I had that time, and I would walk there gladly again, even in delusion, even in dementia, or anything, the pain of separation is the poison that dims the light of my soul.

dilemma (a short)

dilemma (a short)

sentiment, reality though.
I never seem to have the time
to properly metamorphosize
so will I ever be…
externally
who I am, to be ?

notes… and so I ask you (yes you) what are we meant to be? are we free? (to be?) I’m not so sure sometimes, and others I am a blustered fool spitting in the face of an obvious tornado, what an odd fellow, one of my neighbors has a rooster now, I hear it in the morning, thankfully it is on the next block or my neighbor might not be waking up…

PS: if you have a word reaction to my work, send it in, the best I will tag back onto my post, as a reaction? a question? a continuation ? sure… any of these, so if I invoke a response from your muse… please share…

the consequence of bile… (s.o.c.)

the consequence of bile… (s.o.c.)

the consequence of bile, the hoarding of poison, the purpose of same, in actuality I am not painting myself as some viper or venomous snake, or perhaps I am, for the sake of this context, certain things annoy me, let’s say, push my buttons so to speak, but who is in real control of such things, do I lie in wait like an ambush predator ready to strike when given the predicted stimuli, yes, I must admit I do, but why? should I just let the rain swipe off my back like rain on a duck’s ass, instead of being an actual ass? yes, probably, would be better to avoid toxin to store and use, why bother with the poison at all, I guess that is my point, as I caught myself this morning, recoiling at a co-worker’s obvious intent to ruin my mood, but if I respond with kind (not “in kind”) the button of my tolerance gets rather stepped on merely than pushed, as if the throttle wants to go full open tilt, “kill them with kindness” when I just want to kill them, figuratively of course, I am no beast, well, at least not until Friday’s most weeks… the “ignore” does not seem to work either I’m afraid, the lack of action just creeps up my back not so subtlety, like a rolling volcano boulder up into my neck, causing the hairs to stand up and stir and cry “what the heck!” (or more likely more ‘colorful’ language… if I am to be fair), so easy in moments that pass to judge and say what would do, much less of an impress to put on those shiny goggles of hindsight (as I am now), I wish there was a trick, a magic one would suffice, where as I could slow down time and think things out, but that is not going to happen (no matter how much I study the arcane), the answer (I propose) is preparation, scenario recognition, they say life is too short, for a great many things, probably for toxin as well, but the gulch of what we know and what we do varies in the seasons…

epilogue: I caught myself this morning, being mean for no sheer reason, although I know I was being prodded, I need to work on myself, does it matter in the long run? probably not, but it matters to me, there is no reason to be terse just to be a jerk, or to live up to my reputation of same, even if I have to bite my lip, I should, there is no use spreading disdain in this world, our lives are too short, it is hard to remember that in the moment though as we play our roles, but I guess my acknowledgement shows some growth, not a trophy though, not a finish line, I must remember… to be kind. because, why not?

the nature of a voice.

the nature of a voice.

voices are distinct, such as we, think about how much goes into a particular voice at any particular time, time, yes, time, genetics, body type, the evolution of ears that are around for the voice to enter, the endless amount of variables that makes a voice unique, because they all are, and then suddenly, like all things, there is silence, that distinction, that amalgamation of so many things… is gone. Never replaced by the same, there is no way to duplicate the recipe, sure, one can try, and maybe even bake something close or near a clone, but never, never to be exactly the same, so that voice has gone out, like a snuffed flame, once a life consumed, a remnant only in memory of a distinct sound, a singular voice, gone out, a golden disc, destined to roam the stars…

voices disappear
voices go out
like lights-
once guided, gilded
gilded lighthouse that surveyed the shore
gone, swallowed by the surf of years

and perhaps not all are lights
but some are
we come to trust
to guide
lessons learned
beards grow long, and grey
salt in the air
whether calm or fray

a beam we rely on
even when we know the way, so well
a voice gone
taken back into the sea
a light out
never replaced to be

notes… in tribute to my father, been a year now, he was not perfect, so neither am I. But his voice, the noise, the frequency… there is silence in that space since, his sound’s occupation is absent there… and is missed.

the waiting room…

the waiting room…

waiting room,
there is a window

(always a window)
stopping to admire the view
ever-changing molecules
ever-flowing change
even on this calm day
or nights, the light lets pass
a signal to our brain
the waiting room
with the window

and once more
no, once only
we find
a door
(the exit … or?)

notes… written at the car dealership (I know, how romantic)… but isn’t this all a waiting room? at times… we are in our little existence, our building, our world, looking out, from a window or the sky-light that caps our ceiling on earth, something is out there beyond, and I don’t just mean the ancient alien guy, there is a door we all go through, what’s on the other side? I wish I knew… I sort of hang my hat on the ole “matter is not created or destroyed” but what if my consciousness is set aside? what then? I admit, it terrifies me, even if I won’t be aware, I will just be… “gone”.. but I did exist so… at some point in time, I was there… but that does not quell the rumors ruminating in my fear…

retreat. (in a mind, or?)

retreat. (in a mind, or?)

the desire to
lock myself in my own room

spin a yarn for a time or two
as the outer light does fade
spinning round the barrier
a protector, a soft wall
but yet a border just the same
so I might pause
and rest
ahhhh, respite
no, waking sleep
ability, to transform
and emerge
in time
-to fly (forward).

in the know (the crows)…

in the know (the crows)…

crows on the rooftop there-
what are they trying to tell me?
(light signals switch, black eyes twitch- looking)
they are not permanent residents
at least not in this noisy cloister murder contingent;
occupying whole oak tree and surround
what is so special about this house (now)
what draws them so here and near
why do they understand better than I
they possess any land, under, the flown sky

notes… sometimes, OK, often I look out the window… and wonder, what draws a crowd, what is the call, what am I missing? something? or nothing more than a dinner bell? or deeper?

imagine-nation…

imagine-nation…

imagination is on the wind
sometimes drying on the vine
or a snake through a valley slides out into a plain
flat-up-face-frolic lounging
in the mist of sudden rain
taken to steering flocks, of wings
teasing out sculptures from moisture forms
at times brash dervish made of hell-bind-self

to the quiet mind, a rested leaf
underneath, a blooming tree
gossamer seeds, floating about
like armadas of tiny balloons aloft
who knows where they might plant
and sprout out a thought, from the land
– or not!

a muse walks into a bar… and how would you know? maybe the peanuts make a face, or bubbles begin to race, condensation sighs, or a barstool sings as it rides across the floor, their is music in even the most mundane, after all…

machinery (parallels)

machinery (parallels)

I wonder of the running machinations
processing in those memory banks

that still dream in DOS
connections soldered
into the past
by their own regard

notes, I wanted the lines to have flow – but not perfect flow, like a machine that is input in / output out…