the crucible of a cubicle… [__]

the crucible of a cubicle… [__]

‘cubicle’
an interrogation of flies-
I sit at my desk
cigarette, half cocked, not lit
ashtrays, ashtrays are long gone my friend
papers, semi-arranged, by year, by slot, 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 a life
wife, kids, but no, here I am, here I am in this-
this prison to pension, this desk.

notes… in my mind this is double edged, I pictured an old tortured soul sitting behind a desk somewhere in the 70s with stacks of things on all corners, almost a hoarder situation, kind of a noir comic vibe, I don’t smoke, never did, but that vibe, the angry, gritty, smoker stuck in a corner with no smokes, ashtray an anachronism laughing, ending a life where you fought so hard for truth and found naught… just what was in my head when I wrote this. oh, and yeah, in a way reflective of me, in my newish shiny office, I have a window, and that makes me the happiest performing animal in the zoo I call my office home…

the kingdom effect… [-]=[-]

the kingdom effect… [-]=[-]

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I do not know
if I believe in a kingdom
without a king
or a monarchy
without a queen
or a fiefdom
without a thief.
a puppet’s head propped on a spike, proper
from towers to tillers
lest the hands forget;
the rise of a river
from up on the mountain slides
fed deep from the mother
underground wells ripen fruit
spent before, spent on high
to grace life on down the line, by line, the line
but drains out into a bog
a stinking cess of rot
quicksand kills, I’m told
but the bog is a python
squeeze and swallow charm
coils wrap, breath is shallow
and all the while
glaring down from gilded hill
the sound of glassware ringing
singing songs borne on broken backs
from where all bones wash white
so this, I tell, is civilized life

random prayer…

random prayer…

on occasion little things like this pop in my head, today, @ work for example, which is strange, usually work is not the place I am musing, must be a friday thing…. anyway, without further pause…

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A prayer to absorb
from those who came before
might I turn to the wind
and hear your voices
bathe in your wisdom
if only for a moment
if only a small slice of the vast
share with me your vision
so I might not repeat the past

/drive

/drive

dog on concrete road
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the random photo
in the bathroom
the frame is a bit crooked
or is the line of white tile beneath
something is off
someone is wrong

running into the sunrise
a neighbor
directly
black suit
neon shoes

the sun looks more like a gestating star
with all the gases orbiting round
converging into the core

a pure black cat
sitting on a lawn
like a silhouette
prone, ears up
back to me
my luck
I suppose

an accident
on the southbound side
tarp over the car, meaning
mile marker 96 I notice
no, more distance has passed since
I am supposed to feel something
aren’t I?
should I meet such an end
at any time
not the fairy tale sleep I promise myself
traffic is backed up for miles south

over the snake mountain bridge
the sun has burned through now
a jewel nestled in swirls of mist
the empire state building stands the middle piece
the land between
quite unremarkable
but the skyline –
as you might imagine
on a day like this

notes… this was an experiment of sorts, kind of stream of my consciousness in shorts, literally the bombardment of rampart in my mind as I woke and drove to work this am… I don’t record myself I write these in my mind as I drive and repeat them like a mantra, I lose some lines here and there, sure, but I really hate my voice on recordings, it does not match the voice in my mind, the voice I speak to myself always in is not what I hear in there, if you know what I mean…

Orphans…

Orphans…

old photos in the wooden box
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Sometimes I flip through some old stuff, and find lines or short works, or incomplete thoughts, and I post them in the quiet moments of weekends, perhaps you like them, or they help inspire, to me they are snapshots, ideas lost, or just something the moment has passed on, and with that, so here they are…

(1)
she ruffles my brow
as only she knows how
(2)
do I trust the path of crows
for they are mischievous sprites
do I stay the path I go
and risk the safety of never light
(3)
I looked up, and I thought:
“could I die under this sky?”
and yes, I could, I would, maybe not the radiant blue you are thinking of, but layered textures like purposefully settled sand, layers of slightly not the same shade but related, surely I do not want to go, but if this was the end I might not mind.
(4)
all of the circles of sand
when will they end
(5)
I see
rolling hills
of sand
from which wind blows
shifting landscape
yet remains the same
a one note
chameleon

notes… hey, always a chance to push my fave vocalist right now (doug pinnick is my all time fave along with tori amos)

just a quip, a thought…

just a quip, a thought…

sky space dark galaxy
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morality
religion
not twins
nor siblings
often confused as lovers
but they are quite
something other

notes… just a thought, there are those that post on high moral standards using the crucible of religion.  you do not need religion to have morality, I am not discounting religion, that is a personal choice, and I am good with that, but those of us who do not believe in said religions can still have solid morals, I used to be that snobby northeast agnostic who looked down on religious folks as dummies who believed in a voice in the sky (an easy position in retrospect, just a way to dismiss), I don’t claim to have the answers so who am I to think myself superior in some way to those who have found their answer, I don’t, I am not them, I am not you, I am me, and I respect our  differences, I would love to have an answer, the big answer, that would really quiet the storm (and fear) in my mind, I do think I will die without the answers I seek until they confront me in that ultimate time, and maybe that will be to late, but I have to admit my fear, my panic, my scrambling, do I have faith? yes. because I try to live morally as best I can, if that is not good enough for my soul because I didn’t follow a book or a man?  I have to be accountable for that, so I am….

the song of spring (poem)

the song of spring (poem)

close up photo of a bed of white flowers
Photo by Simon Matzinger on Pexels.com

the song of spring
awaits the gates
of winter passing
slumbers under
forests waking
snow is melting
eyes now rise
bulbs bear bursting

the song of spring
awaits the grass
the birth of seed
for those once lost
a sweet reprieve

notes… I could delve into the layers I was weaving, but nah, I am still working six days a week through all this covid madness, and back at work physically every other day, my job intersects the poorest and richest communities in the tri state area, I will literally be in Bed Sty one day and Franklin Lakes NJ the next (many NY Giants/athletes there – Go Giants, sorry, couldn’t resist, glad my parents were not Jets fans) … talk about interesting… and my specialty, self check outs (NCR), orders are out the door these days as you can imagine

drowning…

drowning…

black and white dead die diving
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I woke up drowning
caught in the undertow
so normal now the flow
and I am lost to the surface
to the sun
I wonder under without struggle
further, further down from the sun
surrounded by depths
a siren of fathoms
the light stretched hand
spires in flight
can not even guide
these hands, lost hands
no grip, no will, slides down a hole
why was I asleep at all
I would rather never have known

notes… I have said it before, but it bears repeating, I had some serious asthma attack when I was in my teens, I am talking turning blue and barely making it, being pumped full of adrenaline so hard that I walked around my house for 96 hours straight without sleep, no complaint, that is barely hardship compared to some but damn it made an impression, breath, we take it for granted, even me, but I have been on the other side of it, and I expect it to kill me honestly, I think we all romanticize our own death, slipping away in our sleep while whispering to our loved ones, it is rarely like that, I waver now and again, sometimes I want to be the wolf in the face of it, knowing what is happening and fighting to the end, I used to want to die in my sleep and not know… but reality is… I will have no choice how it goes.

medieval… sometimes I have to get medieval on yo’ posterior…

medieval… sometimes I have to get medieval on yo’ posterior…

castle near body of water under golden hour
Photo by Ray Bilcliff on Pexels.com

titles and lands befall
faith to leave a legacy
for crown and cape belong
shroud a tapestry cover-all
chapters written by the sinners
winters won, castles stone high,
blue bloodlines pulse in reign
across those european plains
and yet mighty disease may pass
black the night
black the mass
for even this creeping death
kneels! before the many thrones
a monarch, and his court of butterflies
with iron horses of noble might
upon the back of serf shall the break
for the glory of titles, lands, imperial weight
all glory to the king
all hail to her the queen
caste out upon the scene
records top down history
ground into down under plow
for the common folk
unmarked burials
fields of nameless flowers
even now, even now

notes… I did go through a mild medieval obsession at one point (college), I actually collect swords as well (medieval and japanese mostly), kind of like art to me, if you want really good stuff check out Kult of Athena, great site, not a plug, no money for me, just a recommendation, and in terms of medieval literature you have to read the letters of Heloise and Abelard… maybe one of the most romantic things ever… for us dreamers anyway,  And  would be remiss if I did not throw out some darts of thanks for the love, likes, eyes, and all else.  I write for me and just put it out there, no agenda, just take it or leave it, I am glad there is anyone (you) who takes their valuable time to read it.  We are all stuck here on this planet right now for some reason… or no reason, but we are here together at this exact point in time, all of the universe made this happen, pretty neat my friends… thanks.

Paradise Lost… thoughts.

Paradise Lost… thoughts.

statue angel cemetery
Photo by Francesco Ungaro on Pexels.com

sharpen the spires
so shall be done
as the angels fall in deluge
from the heavens won
may they land upon these reminders
of their mutiny of god

and then there are the born apples

the serpent’s tongue
coils up wrap my spine, constricting,
becoming the whisper master of my desires
and the plunderer of my dreams

and so mankind begins…