as once the sphinx asleep in the sands so clear now upon excavation my mind wanders a, lone, last, resident, heart incoherent, time travel to a place, a palace of emptiness a tomb, once resplendent in the adornments of love a blooming garden in the sun, long gone – dilapidated ruins, strewn columns, passing uncaring tourist feet wanton blind, I travel the path, to the lost oasis, armed, with no reason a fool’s journey of temporary reprieve or warm habit had but old empty hands itch for anything to grasp and so this goes my fantasy, once reality, my past a proud worn marker once, leans down broken, half buried in dirt once mud, discarded, on a side road forgotten by some haunted by others tethered by one
notes… Of course I am fascinated by the pyramids and such… the sphinx was buried until pretty recently, so imagine the sphinx sleeping for a time, where the meaning maybe was forgotten, but have I made a monument in my mind? to my love… yes, maybe, and then the years pass and you forget, for a time, but then maybe revisit that monument, that love, buried a bit, worn, but never gone, that is what I was feeling here, and the gist of the thrust of the poem… as usual it came up upon me and just wrote, the first few lines just popped into my head.
blogging is a strange and wondrous thing, I like to sit back and reassess things from time to time, try and look through another looking glass as best I can guess, examine what my motivations are, the paths, the pushers, the markers, the maps, the blind stumbling into something in the night, in those corners I do see a pair of eyes, not red glowing ones like you might expect in some horror movie, more like intensely Mona Lisa eyes following my route, knowing it before I chart the very lines, as if steering me somehow and soaking in the satisfaction of pulling puppet strings, always there, staring intently with mal-intent, or maybe not, just being what nature made this creature to be, a role fulfilled, a perfect part in a Shakespearean play, who am I to judge, this has been around far longer than me anyway, the eyes you say? that spy? that sneak thief of the night? fear. Sometimes just a hint, ‘should I post this?’, ‘what will people think?’, ‘will anyone care at all about this?’ and the usual litany, I have to say most off these wash on by me down river, not that I am impervious to such doubt darts, but I didn’t start my blog for such things as clout or monetization (if you do, that’s fine, to each his own, no worries there), perhaps more of what bothers me at times is when I pour myself into something or feel that ultra bright hot inspiration strike, the feeling is so unique, a fire inside that gears the factory into the production of your creation, exhilaration, and then expectation that the rest of the world will see this brilliant shiny thing you just made, and it is met with virtual silence, or a comment generator looking to sell you viagra (I’m good for now, thanks), I am always amazed at what does catch fire as opposed to what I think should, I think about the prospect of re-posting some of my faves but never do, that was ‘that’ time I always tell myself, other people re-post sometimes like it is a new post, I can always tell as I have a near photographic memory when it comes to things I have read, but as always everyone is not me, hard to step into those other shoes unless you do the exercise to excise yourself from the time sometimes, and even then you are always a little biased toward yourself, I mean, how could you not be, we’re not robots as of yet. I think the one ghost of any real substance hanging in the back-end of my closet would be a drought, the sudden realization I had nothing to write about, it seems absurd when I look at the sheer volume of my work, but those times when the words seem out of reach, hanging off a ledge by just my fingertips, the thoughts creep in like a cold wind under a usually stout door, and go right for my feet, sending that chill right up my prime meridian like an instant freezing spell, the doubt turns on itself, like sharks in a frenzy, muddling up the water, with blood and bits, a slaughter, a tornado does never seem to end when you are in the middle of one, but you must learn to let things settle, one breath at a time, time always moves on, just let the dust settle, things will become clear, but always those eyes, that fear, never truly retreats, you just have to accept the beast as part of your tapestry.
(irony: I wrote three other pieces when I wrote this and some I posted before this… I should learn to turn my internal thermostat better)
notes… hey, sometimes I have to flash my metal street cred (and decades of knowledge in the realm), the original fear factory album was insane killer but this remix EP was fierce, a great mix of metal and techno, and rhys (front line assembly) is just an unrecognized genius who never got his due like Trent Rez (NIN) has… my opinion, and heck, this is my blog so my opinion rules here…
she is the calm in at once the womb of death herself
how many times a stone washed before the surface is no longer itself but round
notes… I am not going to over analyze this one to death, I am playing with a few ideas here, and of course, I would be remiss if I did not say thanks for the looks, likes, hot chile recipes and such… we are all stuck on this globe right now together for some reason, when someone figures it out, text me, will ya?
am I a companion to this, what I might describe as a perfect summer night, but I suppose that is balanced out by my experiences, some shared, some personal, some individual, a midsummer’s night dream perhaps, or something of that, there was a furious thunderstorm last night, so the land is sated not baked and worn from the day’s focused sun, the humidity has tamed and is down to just a hint of warm, call it comfortable, call it humidity that does not cause sweat when you are walking the dog, the dog too, she notices, she knows whats up, her tongue is not half whole hanging out of her maw like an indecent wet flag flapping, no, just her usual happy skip-me-go jaunt, no need for copious slurps from the bowl when we get back to the house, maybe this was not the complete perfect summer day, that would entail the beach, that level of tired that only a day trip like that provides, between the sun sand and surf you are happily drained and spent, ready to crash in bed in the post glow of a beach day, even feeling the waves as you drift to sleep, no, this was not one of those, they are fewer and far between as an adult, or maybe the pure experience as a child is not quite the same without the dogmatic weight of the world on your shoulders, so, rather than get mired down in that reality, choose to notice what good fruit is available for picking, like tonight, I must be a true suburban animal, the gentle hum of my neighbor’s AC unit provides solace, there is a certain sound to those big outdoor AC units, maybe it is soothing obnoxious, maybe I have the same quality so I am told on occasion, even my neighbor running his edge trimmer seems like part of the song, the scent of fresh cut grass wafts over, even though I am allergic I find it quite intoxicating, hoping maybe, for once, I am not on the avenue for tissues but soon I will be, there is an ease in the air tonight, an unspoken treaty of all, the trees are full and vibrant, the grass is green and tall, a robin lands on a careful landscape rock near my feet, unaware of me, for a second or two, and then the second of recognition, and surprise, lock eyes, then flight, the jacks are nearly half size now, busy back and forth across the street and under bush, even though I am sitting here alone, I close my eyes, and know, I am a part of all this, or is it a part of me? I breath in and the world exhales with me in calm beats… in calm beats…
notes… the porch thing is my thing, a diary ? nah, not really quite the same, in spirit ? maybe, but I am trying to capture what I see with these eyes, and this mind, my own experience, my own influence, maybe it resonates as I am surely not a one off, well, I am but any components we do share the same…. thoughts?
am I just a bird searching through fields of grass hoping for a single worm
notes: all about the rise and fall of the syllables, well, at least to me, one of those I call “haiku-feel”, you know, not haiku in the strict sense, sometimes simple is simple…. seems reasonable, at least to this mind…
(that thing I do) …and the strange summer continues, the singular perfume of coppertone replaced with the stark drying reality of hand sanitizer, as of late the humidity and heat bear more of a resemblance to late summer, and these hazy hot days have strung together like an oppressive archipelago stretched across an ocean ring of fire’s back, all in the cast net of my immediate sight and sense seem worn down, the world knows that only needed effort be spent, anything above that red line will be savaged drowned in sweat and drained out with haste, like a sudden plug at the bottom of a lake pulled, like in a bathtub, downward down, spirals and gone, to the last drop, even sound can not bear the weight, there are a few, creatures here and there, wise asses, singing from within shadows fronting proud, but no brazen chasing from branch to branch, no courting, romance or anything other than rest and wait, the first ambassadors of summer, the fireflies have come, admire and rejoice in their strange shows, there is no Broadway you know, I wonder what I would do if I could flash a bio-luminescent part of my body, I would hope to have control when off it went, even the pages of my journal are moist after a few minutes out this evening, paper sweat, unfortunately this does not make my words more salient or have more depth, I wish I could hear the purrs of the clouds, for surely they are doing so, sun on their backs, casually rolling through the darkening azure path, rubbing the corners of their mouths on the horizon bent, nothing on their agenda tonight, except to simply be, stretched out for miles like mountains, motion barely perceptible like dreams sleeping in the deep oceans unseen, I see leaves moving, bobbing side to side, and yet I feel no breeze, just this stifling brick cocoon of moist heat, barely evaporating off me even as an hour or more passes, not so long now I will retire back to my man made shelter, with the control of the weather at my fingertips, and then might straighten right up like a parched flower placed in a vase of purest water, and bloom again – for at least some hours.
ever wonder about the time of your life, I mean, when you happened to be born or not, sure, not much choice involved, I’ll grant you that, but there is always the wonder about living in other times in history future and past, we have approximations or even good (solid) ideas about what that means, at least in theory, in words in books, but not the day to day, moment to moment, breath to breath experience of those actual lives, what we take for granted would be miraculous to those in the past, and conversely those looking back at blogs and us might scoff, ‘written words… on a screen, tell me more grandpa!’, for whatever reason my mind drifted just now, tonight, as I was packing up my car for work tomorrow, I walked outside (as my car is not parked inside silly), the night is quiet, humid, hanging low, kind of ominous and pressing down like extra gravity, the street light, the actual light seems suspended in the air before finally exhausted reaching my eyes, and that leads me to wonder how the streets must have looked in time of just flame lamps, the time before electricity transformed this land (and the irony is not lost on me that I live in Edison, mind you, we have a big light bulb monument just around the bend), so, those flaming lamps, imagine all the time having to deal with fire and fuel instead of outlets, fire seems like such a dangerous thing at times, and is, but during that then it was the daily tool for all things, especially to fight off the night, how much darker things were then, most of us do not live that daily reality, fire is more a cute thing now when it is not a menace burning something down, a fireplace is a nice seasonal convenience my entire life during the winter holidays, or a fire on the beach leaving embers rising into the sky for late night memories and revelry, or out on a mountain trail cooking up breakfast on the peak of one of the Catskills, but just the replacement for a flip of a switch in everyday convenience? of course I could opine all that about ‘simpler times’ and the like, but every technology has it’s own idiosyncrasies in their moment of shine, every society looks back and raises a snobby nose at the more ‘primitive’ times, even if we are surely ever becoming someone else’s primitives by design, back to my musing vision…
the time of gas powered (or kerosene) street lamps, in a way romantic, yes, in my mind I hear the sounds of horse drawn carriages, that perfect rhythm of hoofs up and down wooden wheels turning and churning, I think of moist cobblestone with a night sheen at certain angles, uneven roads that translate even the most comfortable ride into some level of bobble headmotion, we live in a world of static shadows, as our electric street lights are now pinnacles of consistent stability, save for those broken ones or the ones that flicker like twitching fireflies, those old gas lights, dancing flames, shadows twirling with demons, owls asking questions openly, light cast on doubting watching eyes, all things to the imagination, perhaps I am romanticizing, or have seen too many horror movies set at the turn of the previous century, when I think of those old flame lit streets I think of London, and Jack the Ripper, strange how a kid from New Jersey has such a singular view and vision, but it is what I think about in singular fashion, and the night, this night triggered the notion, so I go back inside, to my regular life, to resume all that consumes, so I might retreat back into my own time.
the dampness in my heart has been replaced by a restless cough born, of barren ash once blood did flow a river of hope life in – pump by pump deadened – to a still birth a trickle down you are gone, my love and so I evolve into the ground
notes… sometimes I get caught in themes or a mode of thought, the world could be celebrating but I exist in my own head, as we all do, sometimes retreat feels like the obvious option, but yet I persist in moving forward with anchors of the past, so I must have hope in there somewhere in all the despair, there is always hope, I search for the light, and I often fail but I aim for the light, I do.
a prayer for her, for let the ground upon which her feet may rest be bound in all the world’s blessing, may light so shine and guide her way forever to seek safe passage until that day when I might be with her once more in passing
notes… and indeed I do miss her, and long for our coming together, if it may ever happen as it once did, I can only imagine….
ladders and stairs paths and ways tread and wear I strain my eyes carefully to examine the face made of porcelain all the while I am the puppeteer holding my own tender strings, from orbit, lines are lessons in person, rifts to dear ledges the more the experience loads in the fading light ticking grows – the burden of the coming, for a mere message bobs up and down between the shores a millennia maybe more sailing unto distant lands a note from the world unfurled in a stranger’s hand, might I be a comet and visit all vectors, sectors the domains of light and the space between until, at last my tail glows unseen, a candle in a courtyard with a slight wind bent aged eyes slow close tired as the flame is utterly – spent.
Shades of My Garden 