"Under The Milky Way"
is an overrated gem. They
shoved it down our throats
in the old days 'til it dissolved
inside us in a barely-sweet spray
of stars. When we went to
the bathroom it never came out!
It is still inside us
Play that one again
Sometimes when this place
gets kind of empty
but aren't they all random?
Saturday, October 31, 2020
Classic song critiques #4: The Church
Your adorable mole
Your adorable mole
is out of control
I see it everywhere
on other people
when I look in the mirror,
there your mole is.
Oh how did you get
on my mind like this.
vampire pedophile
We had to change the band name
Somebody already had it. Anyway
it was dumb. We came up with something
worse. Spite works wonders as a muse,
and what's the big deal? Everybody
knows vampires. They don't exist
so how could they be more horrific?
Surprisingly easily, but arguably
the point wasn't worth being made
explicit
Friday, October 30, 2020
bumper cropper
I sense in you a generalized
comfort stemming from and
stalking a deep-rooted security
that leaves buds to bloom into
fruits without tending to pick
any.
body mnemonic
If I never get to kiss your chin
again,
at least I'm not sure
if I did before. Apparently,
it left not so much as a mark
on my memory, but damn
if I didn't? I'd wish
with my whole
full heart,
and if I did?
I would be so contrite
to have missed, slipped, lost
from my memory
so sweet a kiss,
'pon a target so well
and shapely made,
just under your lips
where my lips
should be laid.
Exuberance par excellence
I am the exuberor, and I warn you.
Don't bring, cite or invoke the exuberance
if you can't exube. I will zero in on you
like a crosshairs convergence in a scope
you hadn't considered at any scale, and
I will exube you. Just
so you know next time
what it means
to be exubed. Really, really
exubed, and maybe then
you won't throw terms around
like you can't
understand with exuberance
sufficient to bring it home.
To make us believe, like
the bystanders we are, trying
to dial in on your vibe. Which you claim
is exuberance? Hey,
try ebullience next time.
It's bubbly, it doesn't have to be
much more. Long as it bubbles,
you can lay and stake a believable,
bubbly claim to ebullience. I suggest,
though,
leave the exuberance to people who know how
to exube. And just what it means
in fact,
to be the exubulator.
Wait, fuck
sorry, not the "exubulator!"
I got out of hand on that.
A function of my exuberance, though
I think
we can me cut off a chunk of slack
in fact. Fancy what shall we do with it
after? Hey, revel maybe. Exult.
Don't exube.
Not unless you know how to know
how to.
It wouldn't be advisable, and so
I couldn't advise you. Some things
can't be born or taught, just
done right,
or not.
I warned you.
Thursday, October 29, 2020
disgusted by waste.
Why are we so
disgusted by our waste? As
the waters stream through
do we brook no creeks?
Are the rivers of the world
and the lakes not to taste?
Do the oceans not circulate,
or the land not recreate
in this recreation? As if food
- used food, good in creation
of strong bones and teeth, hard
muscle and fat, had been nothing
whatsoever to do with us, or
with that? As it surges through
our canals. Do we disown it
when we know we've had done
with it now? Does humanity
no longer value its source?
It has served, it has done,
we're on to the next course.
We've expunged and spilled
all our toxins available, down
this hill, into waiting streams
as the river runs foul. It is only
we, now. Just you. Just me. Just
us here beings. Are we not it, now?
When it once was us? Shall we turn,
in abhorrence of what we cast out?
Make water, make way for the revolution!
No, there never shall be any way than
this, here, now. If you think
you're the shit, better
learn
how to piss
and not hate yourself
for the turn. For the service
you've done. Yourself.
Relieved. You are equally all
you've begun, plus me and the rest
of we humans being and doing
and soon to be done. All birthing
and screwing, and all of you
all of we will come
to eventually.
Don't ask
how this bell was wrought,
or wrung, or wreaked, or
this hymn was sung.
No need to freak. It's
a common event!
If we must, let's be
infamy, with intent.
What a piss-pour fart joke,
though. So bent, so what's wrong
with this stuff
that once was us? Go
slow, and just squeeze all
the sweat and pus and just
everything else, 'til it comes
out of you. Reason yourself
to a natural point! It's true.
Why is such shit foul, when
you ate
that joint
of beef, that slab
of tofu ham? That brussels
sprout sauté - oh hey, man
with the scallops? That's my jam!
This smorgasbord spread
is before you now. Cafeteria style.
Buffet, you can all
you can eat, and you are
the one who tucked in. To - all this?
Why, though?
Were you not complete?
Is what's good on the way into you
so bad? So foul, so nasty as hell
in the end? Is it just
you're an animal? Can't pretend
that you're not?
But you want
to be human, though.
So pretend.
Job three four teen
We don't need to be tested
Our faith is strong, except
we've never believed in a
thing
or
a one we could not understand
in experience. By trial and err,
it all makes sense, but
there's no need to send no err
our way
If we haven't encountered it yet,
let's stay here with best grasp and hold
it's empirical, you
have it all to unfold
and a Job
to do.
Observable reality defined.
Capital O, little r, as
to the theme itself: we should
not
define
Observable reality
too narrowly.
"Observable" = all sensory input
counts. Minor caveat: testimony
is not the same as the event it
ostensibly depicts. Like many motion pictures,
a person's testimony is a separate, new
event! Marketed as
Based On A True Story.
or
Inspired By.
Take your pick, but
"reality" is a hypothetical medium
through which one individual interacts
with another (hypothetical) individual.
There it is.
This definition was started by accident,
and is being continued on purpose, confirmed
("proof" = one {1} instance of affirmative result
in the test) either in or by experience,
in aimed intent with sincere desire
to falsify - same attitude I strike
towards life. If that isn't any good,
at least it's the best.
Do you remember when, we
green greysilver,
blue-eyed hazel
girl.
I don't ever
remember what we used
when we used what we used
to sing. What we used
to be.
What we
'We've used up
what we used.
To be'
- Peter Gabriel
I draw the line.
The line of strength
that pulls me through
the fear. Here comes
the flood.
It's in your eyes
that I was loved.
Suicidally,
Suicidally,
I tempted fate
and tested you
a bit too late. But you
have won this joust, this round
and I will never take you down.
You are my better. Best, in fact
I cannot fall where you hold back,
when you make bank, or check
at chess, to mate. But at your contemptuous,
contemptible ease, I hate
sometimes, the fact
that you could lay me
six feet thick, oh
please.
Not that. Unless,
you want. At that, it isn't coy.
Not droll. It's fatalist
inevitable, and that's
the sound, as I fall down.
I am, or should be
to you
as
a vegetable.
Except
I was much more than this,
at once. Or relatively.
Comparison's a bitch,
and odious,
they say.
But I
can't
see
even
one way.
A detective show, has
A detective show has to kill someone.
Or else,
it's a trivial exercise
in solution of crime,
of fraud, of theft, another
somebody done someone wrong song,
well. Some one, some real individual one
(or at least fictional) has have
to have met their, his, her
end. To justify
My emotional stake
in this excellent friend
of justice, deduction, or (sometimes)
mercy I've found. In this high-stakes character.
But by justice mere, or compassion sheer,
I wish they could have some
margin to fail. But they don't. Even
Sherlock Holmes missed, times.
And he wasn't even real,
but he was
sublime.
A show to live up, to that.
The rest of us have
to make livings,
stat.
Or shat.
Diagnosis. OR, A PUN: Die, agnosis
I am slow and dense
with anything blessed with
anything less then previous overthinking
and consequence,
in examination digressed, dissected
deformed, re-warmed, undressed
I have expertly messed in everything.
Except what I haven't encountered upon.
For everything that,
I misclassify. And treat it as if
I had already won. And found out
and known all through - it's that thing
I've pondered upon,
and won something. Of course, I've
a vested interest in
every found good, and proved
I have been. But
It's grievous fault
to misclassify. I have done my best,
but I always try.
House of horrors
House, or sometimes House M.D.
is like a horror movie every episode
except the monster is you,
or could be
Whereas House
is the Greatest American Hero
forgot his supersuit on the way
to what I remember (as a halcyon
child) as a surprisingly-excellent
comedy horror film, a thing
- I honestly hadn't considered,
accounting for the high-value
novelty (I ignorantly considered
novelty a value in those days) (we
all did), but the point is: it had a 'Nam
flashback guy played for not comedy
relief, but straight tragedy relief. Ralph
Hinkley was going through all this,
buddy, missing child and all. Probably
an ex-wife, who was no Connie Sellecca
(née Concetta Sellecchia - is that sexy
or what?) but she couldn't possibly be, unless
she was dead. In which case, forget it. Point is,
In that movie, as I recall,
that poor guy went through everything he went
through. And
you felt bad
it was funny. But
some part of me
wishes Father Hugh Laurie
would have walked in
to perform his patented exorcism
-via-sardonic irony routine
to make you,
or somebody
well.
next time, sunshine
They say nothing's perfect, but
I seem to recall every day with you
in incident's sprawl, and even hindsight
and monstrous critical faculty finds
not a thing wrong. Which by definish
Would be perfect, y'all.
No detectable flaw in these days of mine
which were times of yours, as well.
So heaven is made in the absolute
lack of hell you forever bring
in me to dwell.
These times that come in glorious
ongoing spurt and surge that runs
all together inside of us, reward
all urge and bring to fulfillment
all drives and such. We were made
to serve such purpose and want,
in suchlike loves. So much like
need, we push to shove and crowd
ourselves into each wide space
we have made on this beach, in time
to waste all our unspent speech
in a kiss that gives pause
to the air we breathe.
no comedy
I'm not a comedian, folks.
Nor do I aspire to be standing
in front of people trying to talk
about something so they can all
laugh at me! I tell true truths,
well-grasped, firmly and easily
and often enough right-sized
and which-end up. If they end up
funny, I wasn't. It's just how I see
fit to deliver them cocked at a blithe,
oblique angle - precisely and accurately
as they exist in the world! Don't blame
me
if the world's peculiar. It is just.
Seems perfectly normal from where
I stand, but maybe I missed something
I wasn't privy to in your upbringing? Spill,
if so! I'm keen to know, but otherwise: go
find a corner and stand on your head,
not mine
next time, sunshine.
dick
I'm sick of all the dick jokes
this guy rich tells. He isn't
even rich, he just tells people that
so he can make dick jokes
and pretend they're not offensive.
I don't even think he has a dick,
but it's a non-issue, as I prefer
to honor his identification
as a dick.
As a dick myself,
I generally do. It's just easier,
plus funny in an ironic way
to respect people as whatever
they claim to be. No skin
off mine, I note. Still,
getting pretty sick of all
the dick jokes, rich. Can you
lend me fifty K? I'm thinking of
starting up a venture capital firm,
and money like that could give me
ideas. No, I didn't think so. What
did the dick say to the asshole?
How many dicks does it take
to walk into a bar? A dick,
a rabbi and a rabbit were out
in a rowboat. Probably
overcompensating
for something
good working relationship
She was pretty sure one of us
wasn't a detective. How do you
figure that? I asked. Powers
of observation, she quipped
back. She had a face like
an angle of light, and a body
like East Berlin. Whenever
she wasn't trouble, he knew
it. She made a big show
of wearing clothes. Perhaps
to make up for the other times.
She always had a case, but
the business end was all wrong.
Didn't want it solved. Wouldn't
say what it was. The details
rang out empty like a wrung-out
rag that hadn't seen water since
July, and with her, it was always
July. Miss July, they called her
and they weren't wrong. It was
her last name. Mine was Destiny.
Used to catch a hell of a lot
of kidding over that, but hell
I was a kid. Kids can be mean,
and I was the meanest. I grew up
nice, but some streaks never
go away no matter how much
you scrub, or soak in bleach.
When she walked in I was
scrubbing and soaking as usual.
I gave her a nice smile. Should
I come back later? she queried,
unsure? Sure, I said. She always
did.
Wednesday, October 28, 2020
a candle's worth of game
agreed to try
for just this moment's short supply -
however long we'll make it stretch,
between us 'til there's nothing left.
The length of one wax cylinder.
It's fit and snug in socket, now
The wick is lit. The timer's on
in dripping down like sacred song.
In sketchy light we make our moves
And once we've guttered, spent in light
- in breathing dark, we'll know the weight
of how much this was right. And then,
we might decide one candle's worth
is not too much to spend again.
reasoned detachment
Stay where you are. If you
were closer, I would keep you
at arms length. Draw you in
by closed eyes, there in the dark
to embrace and kiss.
For in the light, too close
to deny, the inordinate,
exorbitant attention I would pay
to scrutinize you minutely
were you right here, always,
no love could withstand
- could it? My love of you
would be blasted and withered
in your presence, by your undeniable
reality, in the disjoint and dissonance
between idea of you and you.
In the pause wonder gives
to all curious flaws and virtues
contemplated, not noted before,
but here
and now,
impossible to deflect, gloss, or otherwise
miss. Unignorable, however ignoble
or glorious. Probably a bit of both,
in every bit of you taken point-blank
without quarter asked or deposited
as the game begins
my love of you dies
lives after lives
restarting at level one, each time
remade and alive in everything new
and newly-known and recombined
in my eyes - by your idea of me,
similarly mixed and combined,
falsified and refined. Grown
and growing alive
in your eyes
It could be disastrous, peril,
surprise
Tuesday, October 27, 2020
the best-laid tropes
The spectacular failure
of the most high-profile
top-secret mission
to outer space ever conceived,
attempted or faked left all
of us here on the edge
of our seats, smoking
like fiends and deceased
in the wake of our crashed
and shattered hopes. This team
were all charming, cocky superstars
destined against all odds to save
our days, battling heroically against and with
omnidirectional sexual tension so thick
you could butter it, only to ram triumph
down the open maw of defeat
and gloat
But it didn't happen that way
Something happened out there, and
and it happened quick, so we'll never
know what. 'Cause the rays they supposed
themselves to save us from (so we'd supposed,
too) came down. It was obvious something
went wrong. We were all rendered drooling
mutants, or charcoal effigies. Fork it
with a stick, boys
this world is done
roving root cause
They say it's a bad neighborhood.
And it is, but what they know is
the reason why it's a bad neighborhood
is me. I'm a bad neighbor. The worst.
The one rotten apple that could disease
and filth the whole orchard! When I
showed up, property values dipped
precipitously, and people began
to shun their homes as much
as possible. Skulk into them
or shoot in like darting varmints
to use the bathroom. Once inside
stay inside, no faces at windows. Gone
are the old porch swing days and lemonades,
neighborly greetings called out, stops for chats.
Now it's eerie unease, and a feeling of disgust
that it should come to this. That I should come
to this
sweet bucolic idyllic halcyon
of a beautiful-day neighborhood,
and with only my veriest presence
to work with, turn it all bad, bad,
bad.
Don't worry, folks. I'm just passing through.
I'll be passing through every time
you see me.
the problem of human habitation
suburbanites
harbor a deep-seated fear
of city streets and godforsaken
rural wilds, which is why
they dig mown lawns
and the innocent carnival chimes
of the ice-cream man.
But nevertheless, their ghastly end
comes
and comes,
and never stops coming
all the live-long days of their spaced
out lives. Complacency kills
like a case of pills and scotch.
But society's ills do not
stop there.
Meanwhile, ruralites harbor
a deathly phobia of breaking waves.
So they tread very carefully, angling
sideways, gently into the sea
to return again to the sea
and become again dolphins
and starfish, the endless cycle
in order to escape
their repressive sexual mores.
Only to be eaten by what else?
Morays, or something else
eelish at any rate - a sea serpent,
the selfsame death we scoffed
as it approached - in numberless
surfacing humps - our becalmed
armada of ships and boats
scheduled eventually to come in.
Another sad ending, considering
our hopes.
The cityites, though -
Who knows? Make something up
Something horrible, with a twist
of melancholy tragic to it, like
they deserved it, only no one could
deserve that, but
they did.
For living in the city.
Whatever you make up is
the terrible made-up price
of such unnatural dwelling.
Wallowing in such rife places
of kink, titillation and moral threat
Nobody could deserve it, but that's
about what you're bound to get
hacker as romantic archetype
Apparently, hackers
can do anything the plot requires
as long as it's done with screens
and wires, and tippy-tap fingers
and clicky-clack keys
That's a pretty distinguished knack,
with ease! But there must be a point
where sweat runs in rills
down brow's anxiety-furrowed hills
'cause the moment has come
where it must be pulled off
and there's some complication
to suss, but soft
same beans
in the huge glass jar,
and you have to guess
how many there are.
It's a charity con.
You pay for a chance,
and I guess if you won
you would shit your pants
conspiracy from hell?
A forest fire
could provide a good analogy.
But there have been far too many
of those, lately - how about a warehouse
fire? And, make it an evil warehouse.
Or what about an evil corporate
headquarters? And how come
so many of them don't burn down?
Is it really that fire-prevention measures,
sprinklers, extinguishers, drills, emergency
response and what-not - have gotten so
sophisticated, so effective that giant
monolithic buildings founded in evil
and housing evil simply can't be burnt?
Burnt all the way, I mean. Burnt down.
Or is it something more sinister,
like Satan. Maybe Satan is in league
with heroes - the firefighters themselves!
A devil's pact: "Here, you guys go, fight
forest fires. Be heroes. I'll make sure
this building here never burns down."
I don't think it's something you could prove,
but you notice nobody has disproved it. Or
even denied it. Oh, except Satan
probably
Satan denies everything. Preemptively
and comprehensively, before even
accused.
Probably
out of force of habit. Past a certain point,
gotta be tiresome. Always the one
being blamed.
No one is really sure what happened
in that last poem. Was he or she
really that nice? That oblivious?
Or did prey turn destroyer the moment
the manipulative predators tightened
the circle at just the inopportune moment,
some juke, some jaunt, some bold and cruel
and entirely suspect reversal?
Torn to pieces, all of them! In some grisly
ballet, moving in slow motion as if underwater
and breathing adrenaline? We can't gloat
or revel in that - it was horrible what happened
to them, or might have. On the other hand,
for all we know, it was no act. And
who was torn apart then? Nobody
knows. No one
is really sure
chump change
Change, chump.
Change. Every con artist
in the game has you marked
out, set up on their prospect easel
and is plotting a quick and easy
masterpiece. They're
circling 'round
in converging arcs
like sharks fast approaching
the frenzied feast, and you
- blithe, naïve and doot-di-doo,
stand in grinning and wide-eyed
sacrifice. Change, chump!
Change
this moment. Now
This deal is about to come off
quite nice. That grin of yours, almost
painfully dopey and sweet!
All hands on deck
and swept out to sea,
as the calmest day
in a hundred Julys
turns suddenly in its depths
to wrenching surprise
plot twister
What if there isn't one of us?
What if at some climactic turn
it is revealed than one of us
is the other's imaginary friend?
Never existed, except as a sort of
double-act. Half alter-ego, half
hallucination? Which parts
of my life have I been you,
and vice-versa if so? How
did we pull it all off, and
never know?
It's good to check
into these things
to be sure. I know
if it comes to the worst-case
scenario, we'll both have
wanted more
criminal decorum
It's true it was your turn, and
you should have gone first,
but you should have and didn't
so I went.
And anyway, I am always the one
to panic and shoot the guard. It's my role.
How was I to know he'd call in sick? You
were supposed to be crowd control,
I planned this thing perfectly.
It was explicit in the plan
that nothing go wrong.
I emphasized that point
several times, all through. It's
not my problem we make such
a hash of it. It's okay. You
did the best you could.
I'm sorry, I'm not mad - just
sorry. Well we both are, there's
an end of it. We'll do it better next time,
agreed? But first - whose turn is it
to do the prison break
I have an idea
This time you plan,
and I'll fuck it up
The calculator
know, or would believe. It's because
I am so willfully naïve, I'll always
things are true, of what you've done
I don't make stuff up, I go with
what I get. I just don't make up
your mind for you out of mine. If
the plain literal or other legitimate
sense of your words could be inoffensive,
Gotcha. I'll respond from there.
It's a trick. I do it because it's the easiest
way not to mess with your head, and
whatever's in it. Take you for real.
So, you know, people are like
"This guy's not cunning."
Well, I don't blame them. Fact is,
I put scant to nil to lil' emphasis
on how cunningly I wend my ways
and work my wiles and tend my
ever-wiser and wizening bias. No one
would suspect how suspicious I am
underneath, in my reckonings
and calculations, imagined motives
ringing your head like a vector array
halo, because I dismiss those nasty things
all blithe. To respond from the best
you are, which I know full well
you could be, or maybe not.
We'll see, I reckon. A cunning trick,
like a glass full of light, half-full
of water when your throat's so parched
it's like it has taste buds all down it,
dying for the no-taste of truth.
And swallowing, thirst coming full
to relief, they think "Is that really
what this poor sweet fool thinks
of me?" And "Could I really
get away with it?"
Monday, October 26, 2020
your kiss and everything else
is your kiss. And everything else
leading up to it, and everything else
leading on is grown and strewn
and renewed in these four lips,
made one in moments chanced
and charmed. Made to exist.
Friday, October 23, 2020
stillness even still
I saw a shriek,
a groan pass by
in silence under
watchful eye.
A laugh was lying on the ground, prostrate still without a sound. Then a song took up my hand, and led me on through hush and lull.
Through it all I felt
a sigh, but made no sigh. The emptiness was still too full.
Tuesday, October 20, 2020
coincidence is
Coincidence is fate, we two
were bound to disagree on this,
plus any other area nonoverlap
between exists.
But where we were by nature,
essence, inclination bound
to find and come together,
share, agree: coincidence is
quite a different kind.
For so we coincide. In place,
in time, in angle, view - I see
that I could never help but find
within wherein with you. Where we
have chanced to coincide,
and so agree. Perchance exult,
or stray.
It is as if coincidence
was only always just the way.
Thursday, October 15, 2020
failed embrace
You said you thought we might as well
be in love, for all we feel.
Make it worth the hassle.
What you call it makes it real,
that was your theory
Sounded worth a test to me,
So we reached
and we missed
and we flailed
and caught,
and fell.
my dotage
Because of my childishness, I think
by age 9 I had entered upon my dotage.
I would dote on the world, people,
examining, pondering fondly - this
was a puzzle I could figure out. I spoiled
to get what people wanted of me, so I
could best decide what to give. Which
I never did, figure it out - so I've simply
kept doting! I dote to the left, dote to the right
- people don't even realize that's what it is
I'm doing. I don't think, but I dote, dote, dote
like a dotard. I am fond of. It's what's always
worked for me. A precocious dotard, but
I suspect one day I'll find it catching up
to me. If so, I will greet it
affectionately.
isolationism
If you need a product
advertised in a wack-ass infomercial
just to have friends over
without being embarrassed by pet stains
and odors, get new friends yo. I have gone
over many friends houses, many times
and I have never once embarrassed
my friend over this. It's absurd. People
who can't deal with the vicissitudes
and peccadilloes of nature
in the house
for those who want it there, and
derive a humanly-relatable level
of solace and comfort from its
natural presence
can go pound sand. Those prissy
meticulous individuals should seal
themselves in plastic, cut off
from all humankind and everything else
that smells. Their plight
would be so sad then. You would want
to comfort and solace them, but
there would be no way
Tuesday, October 13, 2020
conflict of similars
Underconceived and overwrought,
wherever we've gone, we've only
fought. We think through too little
and make too much. So finely-turned,
with an artist's touch.
your chin
Your chin
is unspeakably cute
in the way it tidily
winds up your cheeks
and jaw, and supports
your insupportable
grin.
the catch
but I cannot name any
single one
an abstract human
being. It's the particulars
that catch, and
they do so
particularly.
Monday, October 12, 2020
unoutcome
happens
due to some weird
inconsequence deal. It's not
usual, but sometimes what
you do
doesn't turn out
the way you expect.
Yet the last thing you expect is
it doesn't turn out at all. You
sit there, waiting
for the equal and opposite
reaction, or at least necessary
and inevitable consequence, or
something
something
nothing.
So you do it again
on her majesty's
She is on her majesty's
public service. Her own
majesty, that is. A wicked
bit of espionage, pretending
to be who and what she is.
And all are fooled; succumb.
And she gets done what she
gets done. She's saved the world
in personal ways. It's just how
she must do, some days.
Sunday, October 11, 2020
the say.
what play is foul? Only they.
Where two say yes, the world
has no say no.
It is allowed to, though.
Such say is dumb. No force,
no harm. A guess, and wrong
as it turns out.
We're free to go and free to set,
this is our song. In knowing yes
for only us, we make
what we're about.
The 100 Invincible Daughters of Shaolin
Shaolin Jones had 100 daughters
and he taught them all kung fu
'cause he had to. It was a hard world
they'd been born into. Shao felt
responsible for a thing like that.
Anyway
they got real good,
even to the point you might
say they were invincible. Then
some bad shit happened
- their teacher was killed, and
they had to take revenge, except
oh snap. The killers were
the 100 moms.
Turns out in some respects
he had it coming, arguably
true. But man o man that
man was one hell
of a teacher,
at least of kung fu.
healing is about
healing is about
changing the way
you reimagine yourself
in relation to who you are,
and why. Taking the pain
and trauma as a point of
departure. Not leaving it
behind, just letting it go
be in the past where it
is already. The past is
part of you, but you
don't have to be it
anymore
Thursday, October 08, 2020
chainsawing
in shaken blood and nervous swarm,
but skin stays whole, and mind controlled
as every balanced aim unfolds in total cold
and pulsing flesh. So easily, could be
such mess. A knee sawn off, a finger
strewn. A gap to spray - please give it
room! I almost feel the need of fail.
Of injury - as wood resists, I swing
hard flail, press push to it where
calculated force has bit, and hushed
its rasp, and forced it through. So splintered
tender greens and shoots sprout blistering
from limbs and roots! Still trying to
remember calm, and do. In just about
desired strokes,
I make the harsh sense I intend
of this minuscule wilderness. In majuscule,
my will is writ and bent. Thus some demented
artist (me) makes bold: improve upon a tree.
I hate this kind of hubris, folks. I warp
and weft and wend in brutal strokes.
And yet as if it weren't distaste, stand back.
My hopes so won, so disappointed. Spent.
Upon such waste of wood and leaf so fallen
now. So empty now, in front of it. This task
behind, I have made fit.
And proud, and trembling like a leaf. I have
had done. It's some relief. Contemptibly,
I'm proud of it.
It feels no less than permanent.
Tuesday, October 06, 2020
one's companions
She stood up like a penis,
unfolding herself lazily
languidly and as if unawares,
stretched herself. Shook
just a bit. Yawned, an effort.
Spanked herself on the fundament
once, totally unselfconscious
(one never really knows
about such things) as if
to get herself in gear,
pretend-riled up, and left
like the hole she left.
Like the cup and plate
of crumbs she left. And I,
who all the time she was there
had noticed she was there,
random along with several
random others, had not noticed
who she was, there. Or why,
and will never know now.
How could I?
Monday, October 05, 2020
composure
The devil's in the details;
there's angels in the aspects.
There's people in the means
and ends and man, the whole
thing's hapless.
But if you figure out your part
then move on to the next one,
you can connect from dot to dot
and make some picture dizzy up
enough to make the effort worth
the heartwring and the headspun.
Sunday, October 04, 2020
wombful of puppies
I had a dream I was in
a wombful of puppies
and it made no sense.
I could sense these dudes
packed loosely in and around
like beans were puppies.
But I was a fetal
human
being.
Then the cosmic bitch mind
intoned: "Unso. You died
and have been reincarnated, yo.
You have only this choice:
assume puppy form
Or return to unbeing,
no more to be born."
But I said, what about
this fetus I am? I can
feel the toes. I can feel
the hands. These are
not puppylike as
appendages go.
Will momma dog
not be traumatized
to see such dead baby
as me in the mix
sliding out when
my puppy sibs arrive?
"Unso" intoned
the cosmic bitch mind.
"We've got all that covered,
you'll see and find. Or if
you choose otherwise,
you'll see what I mean."
It was not a dream.
It was not a dream.
Friday, October 02, 2020
Lime sherbet
Lime sherbet
sweet and cold
thick and melty,
tart and bold
is so refreshing
down the throat
but doesn't taste
that good, you'll
note.
Thursday, October 01, 2020
load mode
Not yet - it doesn't fit
yet into words. It's rising
up and riding in, it's
coming down in full
reverse from all around,
or somewhere close. So far
this moment traveled here
to now. To me. This is some
thing I've always known,
eventually. Somehow
- or always had
to know, but not
epiphany
just yet. Just never
yet. So far, so good
I've got along - I had
it once? Did I forget?
Or is this new? It feels
like something never
known. I didn't
find this focus yet,
on what this is
I've almost got
to call my own.