When Sanity Snickers

When sanity snickers, and memory mumbles

When angels dither, and darkness drinks yet deeper pools

We wonder, singular and many, how long to remain patient and patently obtuse

When complex considerations become simple choices

When merely wishing to write out these thoughts is chilled from doing so in digital format

When the medium becomes the danger

When we wonder what paranoia is suspect, and what is sufficient

When the eyes and the brain no longer agree

When the scratch out tells more than the perfect calligraphy

When shape becomes more than a relationship of structure and surface

When color was born, and flowers first bloomed across the Earth

Tully Ate Cooly

An articulate condensate

A matriculating coagulate

The last Labrador believer

Elucidate hallucinate

Heretofore Henry Ford

if you know what I mean

Syllable cymbals

Snitching creeping crime

Break meaning, break time

No allowance, Clearance

No towels, Terrace

Take this bottle, and spin it

if You know what i mean

Such a terrible trench

My dear rendolant wretch

Sorry you hear this

Little test of a twitch

Some tees buzz like bees 

Dancing directions

Obliged in the Hive

If you Know what i Mean

A Phrase in the Spiral

 

http://www.jgiesen.de/hohmann/

Way Station

 

Think upon the way stations.

A place to wait. A mental locale defined by a singular limbo realized. And here we find ourselves.  

Such a phrase. Here we find ourselves. 

Were we lost?  What created such disfunction?  The answer lay in the riddle of perceived time. 

Is it time that separates self from self?  Of course, you think. But is it not interesting that it is this other riddle of 'self' that notices? 

Perhaps the twisted question rests in this play between self and time. 

We are creatures of cycles, diurnal experience. We intuitively discern breaks of identity from one day to the next, one hour to the next. Noted in the calendar and the clock, our experience of the now expires and is recorded, and then reflected upon. 

Yet, isn't it just one long day from birth to death? The insomniacs understand how the cycle can be broken, and seen as a stream between light and dark and then light again. Seamless. 

So when separation of experience fails, then the mind can see the continuance of self. The unbroken length and breadth of our time, alive. 

It is a questioning of the very personal paradigms we carry high on a flag pole, as we each all march forward, discovering how choice later describes destiny. 

We all follow ourselves. Through the needle of our eyes. 

Is there a point to this?

Ask the balloon pierced by the hand that made it, as the moment of a birthday party's surprise,

arrives. 

You Burn, I Burn

You burn. I burn.
Ashes, dust, Again to learn.

Been falling since I woke,
Midnight, 3am, a late cloudy sunrise. 

Found the fire lit by my own hands,
Again, consuming the consumed. 

Left my breath blowing, careless,
Sometime last year. 
Lost your faces this year,
In a pit of fate, and fear. 

Dug the holes,

One and then two.

And meanwhile, my father, you. 

Can't find the time machine I wish.

Remaining is just cruel evaporative memory. 

Seems so silly.

The depth of feeling I deal,

Minus you. 

Compared to the rest of this desperate world. 

I don't know if sorrow has increased 

Over the long course of this earth's natural history. 

But it has increased here 

Of late. 

And I'm so sorry, and thankful.  

And other such ineffectual communications of my experience. 

Nothing I do will fight this known horrible beast. 

This relentless Entropy. 

I sometimes hate that I was brought here to live.  To have an I and eye. 

Pitiful self serving remorse.  

Yet it's real. And I declare truthfully, it's been with me since I had a me. 

And forgive me, you who finds this. 

Such notes do nothing more than a sudden culvert absorbing the momentary deluge. 

If I could just back up. Back away the recent floods. 

…

Fall Singularity

And, ultimately, it's just me. Everything falls away, the distractions dissolve in the fluid flow that is my continuous heartbeat. 

I confess I don't know how to live. Just work. Work through adversity, challenge, and the deaths the creep up on us. Like a hungry wolf pack on the icy plane. 

It's fall now. Generally the season, and specifically of my life.

I feel the passing of my father into his late winter state, and the house move from where maybe the sunniest years of life were spent with my betrothed, and the sudden loss of our dear pets that followed us here…marks the turn into the said third season. 

It leaves me sad and at a loss in this season of loss. 

Yet relentless, the world turns, and cryptically makes the sun appear to leave and come again. These revolutions will be the death of me. And may I add, literally. 

My continued coping choice in the face of irresistible entropy will hasten that personal death. 

But maybe. Maybe a light will find these eyes and actions. Maybe. 

I do not live without hope. Hope in this life is a jacket hanging in the closet. Waiting to be worn. I find only the logic of next steps, and smile to dissuade the truth. 

This act of writing is nice. Something I've enjoyed and feared. Very akin to the other coping mechanisms. 

I wait for the future (death), as I waited to be born (life). 

I'm sorry to those who thought I have a heart. And I'm sorry to those who thought I didn't.  

I'll try to not disappear into darkness, this Fall. But there are greater mysteries pulling us below than gravity.  

We can only pray light does yet find an escape from such singularity.

...

 I won't post this on more common social media. 

But, I'd like to address the God, lord, what have you. 

I know existence is a mixed bag at best. And I hesitate to emote an ungrateful tone. 

But, for fuck's sake, do you maybe want to fuck your own ass for a while?

Write me back to discuss. K thanks

Things

 A lot. A lot of transitions of late. Saturn or Uranus moving on, some semblance of outside explanation, explains it. 

Bit I see, and notice.  Some crossing has announced a crossing. 

And there are things, to be considered upon this midlife marker. If I make the continuance of a life. 

There are things. To be done. 

And. And the meaning of And. 

It comes. I desire. If only I can defeat self, in favor of design. 

Turn over

 It's about that stretched out series of moments between dreaming and waking. When your dreams, your plans, fall away to the pragmatic barking demands of the awake hours. 

Things central to your soulful progression way laid, sacrifice before the necessary. 

This is my current time and small epoch. 

And who's to bitch?  Not me. Not in comparison to the wretches of this present world. There are many more due. 

I was made for struggle and strife. 

But I can't help but wonder. Of the other hours spent in speculation. In sublimation, in exercising more joy and art. 

This is but a grieve for my life, as I rightly preserve the happiness of others. 

No expression of martyrdom here. Just noting other desires. 

A wooden whisper

 Can the taste of teeth find a message beyond conception of mouth. As the vocal consumption capsule extends beyond the skullish mind. 

It's in the thick fraught of frenetic lingual activity that the way forward breaks the wave. 

We will only see, as we forget the angst of eyes. 

The ears will give way to music without sound. 

The signs will find their places in us. 

She gave a question

 And she said, where are your words?  Hidden on your phone, in one app or another. 

And so, I give forth. 

It's 2021, January, in the year of our lord. 

AD. 

And the followers of the fox are closing. They cannot know the speed and position of the fox at the same time. Thank you Heisenberg. 

So I am outside or inside the house. During this perpetual covid lockdown. And I am on my way back to you, or questing away. 

Pick your set of knowledge. 

I'll continue this note, as entropy and rhyme allows:

Beyond The Blush

Just when you see the bloom,

A blush of youth,

Then,

The maturity so strong, 

And with a final suddenness,

The reverse of dawn. 

and it

And it feels like all my choices are bad now. Not in totality. Not axes and curses. But I know. I know I've not lived up to the full frame of my picture. And I don't mind telling you this. Because nobody reads this blog anymore. Well, except you. 

And hello you!

I've gone from poet to domestic warrior. The energy and effort expensed upon the real and concrete actions of day to day making, and maintaining. 

Perhaps if I had been cloistered as Emily D. I would have been better prolific. But now I've gone to rot with booze, tobacco, and sprinkler systems. 

La!

I'll take my award as a stable, listening, on time someone. But the novel is not coming now. Not until a watershed of wellbeing.

And for that, I apologize. 

Fear not. This, as ever, is not my final form. 

darkness daring unedited throw

The pandemic rolls on. We gather in isolation. Wishing the normal to return. I wonder what makes the future. What dreams we notice and become. O live now, but not forever. Life has gifted me many things. May it present a path away from personal pronouns. Eye see.  Mystery mixes along a tangent line. A touch askew. A vision anew. And eye ask, is this disturbing unfocused sight true. Give me teases of wisdom and rhyme. Make the line sing a pleasure, but for a poetic moment of blue.  And then sue. Accuse and assign. My mind darkens and drifts. Though I  cover my face. Only the eyes peek.

I'll take the time and regret. I'll meet you there. I loved  shadows all along. Never trusted my perception of things. And as age and sin compound, I suspect shapes playing about beyond the peripheral.  A slight slicing position of mind. Drift. In and out of bottles, mornings, manic cleaning, measures of affection. Solid A there.

And so. Keep course. Find. Make the way forward. I'll always play. Rip on, try again. I'm not going to stop. I'm life as pure as I know it. Because there's only me here, and you. In small doses. Envision flight and Desire. Walk on. Walk on.  

And The Whisper Says

And so the whisper says
Go
See
Analyze
Record
And I see the people compacted
The range of body space contracted
The memory redacted

But the leaves of the tree let go
Like future porn, falling like snow
Don't you feel it. Denatured dentures flow

Into a pocket, into the so
So, so it goes
Trembling sleep flies in the face of hidden clocks
Flying time, held desperately
Fingers clasped fruitlessly against the
Gravity and water

The tumult, the sliding seen
The accretion of self sentiments
Sediment
Then rocks forming and grinding
Dust to dust
From one star system to the next

Glory beholden through yawning expanses of time
Met and dreamt, marked and marbled

The trinkets of eternity
Clicking and scored
For the game of progress

Progression idealized and lost

We find ourselves in the darkening mist

Pieces of Tall

I see us walking the same daily paths
To and from the train station
Like tall ships of old
Driven by schedules and need
Pushing rain and sun before us
Manned by the multitude of small things
Self contained Cells stacked high
Brandishing legs and hands and eyes

We move through the self same
Shipping lanes
Never questioning the captain on high
Atop the spine, behind the micro faces
We throw
Greetings and good nights
To the other tall ships in passing

Do we know what lurks in our bellies
Of cargo, and bilge, and ballast
What subtle signals writ large from our lives
Find others' lives
Sweeping by casually concentrating
Watchful for rogue waves

Silent virtues of the civilized
Brushing by each other apologetically

I see us traveling alone
Together home
And away again

Initially

I'm starting to see poison.
The bones laid crosswise.
The teeth bared in a dirt eating smile.

Peace isn't a birthright.

Entropy needs no assistance.

Only hope.

Illumination

And beneath the subtotal line of my life's calculations to date, I find that perhaps the sole source of joy is the sound of others' laughter.

This joy is fleeting, even perplexing.  It is liberating, mystifying, humbling in its purity and undeniable truth.

What I'm saying is, the laughter of other people is the highlight of my existence.

I like other parts of my time and experience just fine.  But it's: that tinkling sound of a glass pane finally giving in to the shatter; that sizzling frisson of mirth bubbling up and over from under the pot lid; that sudden guffaw strike of the ringside bell...   it is that sound of laughter that makes me feel real.  That makes me forget despair, the woeful burden of consciousness knowing and noodling and nudging itself relentlessly, the throbbing tick tock of breathing and heart beating and blood blood blood flowing in an endless circle.

And it works best coming from people I truly love.

This laughter cracks the foundation of what holds us together inside ourselves.  It is release, explosive and uncontaminated.  And I'm a fan.


It is this position I find myself in, that makes me feel somewhat better about myself.  I like this about me. 

Anyway.  Just a passing thought that recurs with regularity.

And yet

And yet I'm still brooding. Am not closing the deal on brooding. Brooding on brooding.

Brooding on the best course of brooding. The memories and ways, the silences and Vega's bad wisdom.

And I'm off, going no where. Merely the hearth, and not yet the inspired recipe debuting at the celebrated gathering of friends. The folks' lore accomplishing and beating back autocomplete.  

Make me a mix tape. Meet me at the mall. Take me home. Give me bus fare I'll use for booze for the long walk.

Make me, break me, intervene upon this sad man in the middle of his life.

Just give me warning before the end.

And yet, the beginning.

Love only ends with pain.
And pain only ends with love.

So love this pain and tickle my mobious strip soul.

Remember the laughter that brought tears to our eyes.

And fucking drink a beer.

Scintillating