Take one old saw, applied
just
right to cut
between the sentences
of more original turn and tilt.
It's just the thing you meant it is.
No need to get creative, now.
No one doubts what that old
saw means. Goes without saying,
anyhow! Yet bears repeating, so
it seems.
When you take your hand,
plunge it into your chest
breaking your rib cage
on the way through
to grip and seize
your heart
and draw it forth fresh,
beating and dripping, that's
some grisly stuff, there buddy.
Hint hint: try metaphor instead.
More heartfelt nods and appreciation.
Less
screaming
The fine line between
heroism, hypocrisy,
cynicism, naivete,
bravery and dang
fool love cannot
effectively be explored
by taking these things
and naming them off
with funky line
and stanza breaks,
then calling it all
a poem, so
I didn't even
try, really.
At least
it was
/is
kept
short
People who think Godzilla
isn't scary clearly lack
imagination. They fight
the hypothetical! No
suspension of disbelief.
This shows a small mind.
Think about it.
Really.
If our buildings really
were that small, and
we were like ants
or tiny action figures
living our tiny lives
in our model cities
when all of a sudden some
huge stunt person in a giant
rubber suit came through,
ably supported by equally
huge director, barking orders
to a film crew of giants while
a tinny, doomy orchestral score
tromped and boomed (for
atmosphere and morale)
- be honest
with
yourself.
You'd be
terrified
So many people have profited,
become rich and huge,
yet for our own part in peoples'
vast success, we find
we get the shaft.
A tale of blues,
bummer and wrong.
A catchy and familiar one,
that anyone (or most of us)
can hear the tune, and hum along.
Where is our piece of every pie
we ever thumbed, or bit, or tried?
It's so not fair, this thing called life.
They ought to put a warning on.
Sometimes it can be
a roller coaster,
with long,
flat stretches like a freight train
- boring, but then up come
the humps
and down go
the screamy parts, sometimes
even all the way down
and further: into and through
subterranean tunnels
- banking hard
left and right, slide
- slam, shoop -
breaking the surface
into loop-di-loops and all
sorts of twists that surprise.
It
can be like
ferris wheels, too,
tilt-a-whirls,
bumper cars.
All kinds of rides. Life
can be like that,
especially at amusement parks.
Dang you to heck, mister Elon
Musk, for taking away twitter
and giving us "X" instead.
Look, I'll level with anyone.
I was never much into twitter
in the first place. But suddenly
I realize the name and the little
blue bird
were practically the only things
about it I really liked!
Ow. Just ow.
People have started to hate
the word and even the thought
of it. It's called life, and I know
why. I know what has turned
so many of us against it lately.
Nah, no, naw I'm kidding. I don't.
Probably it's just misplaced priority
or expectation or something. I mean
on most scores, what you see is kind of
what you get, but half the time you walk
right into a humid stink of pro-existence
propaganda, all doily and lacy, drooping
like overripe peaches cut up and topped
with dollops of fresh local honey, finished
with chocolate jimmies, and then when
your turn comes
- where's my sweetness? Conclusion:
bullshit, say a lot of people. I think
that's why.
Just a guess
I'd wake up screaming every night
to protect me from the donkey dream
if that was how it worked at all.
It isn't, though, as we have seen.
You'll lie there, dreaming normally
when suddenly, off to the side
the donkey's there. No argument.
Too real to move, or tame, or ride.
So when you wake, you'll scrape
your conscience patiently; subconscious,
too. Dig. Root around to find: What put
that donkey here? What does it mean?
Is it a sign? Or is the donkey
you
Butterflies and birds don't
seem to want to flock fluttering
in around me and perch on my
outstretched arms, my waiting
hands. Fingertips baited with
outpouring love, but
I guess they have all of that
they need, right now. That's
okay. I can just stand here
looking like an idiot
for them
I can't understand it
I just planned it
straight from the base
out by fork and prong
in case anything breaks,
for contingency's sake
I make arrays of best ways
out by spike and flange
Where everything goes wrong
- that's just a line on the blueprint,
already considered in an instant
I juke, writ large and back-filled
- turn it up for the best, and from there
to where I stand, call it lucky,
I guess
As she introduced herself,
I pictured her: naked
as always. An old how-to
tip from school days to get
over fears of public speaking.
Now, I never really feared
that, but I find it works great
on first meetings as well! Kills
all awkward angling; substitutes
a fresh, direct how-you-doin'
approach. Works with dudes, too
- even better! I can't accuse my
motives of being ulterior, then.
So hot outside my hair
melts, stuck flat and slick
dribbling down face and
neck. For once I can't wait
for the rain. Standing out
back with a cold lemonade
and a big shampoo bottle
A twisted symbol of a self
that is the risk you take as well
by wanting to break out go wide
from all the things you have inside.
You end up being less than real
a giant shadow played on walls
as you dart past - unnoticed yet.
The point from which it pours,
and pools, and falls
Sometimes I think
what gets us into heaven
is how many people
could not be happy
without us there. So
everyone who knows
you, loves you, storms
the gates carrying you
right along in with them!
A triumphal procession.
You do the same for all
who you know and love.
A VIP list made in life
by who knows best: only
each of us. No cap, no
limit except who you
knew, well enough
to love.
to anyone.
Then in walk all the egotists,
right past the rope on the door
- so sure their name is on the list!
And by then it is. It's fine, no one
minds them then. Happy to see
who made it. See, by that point
all the idiot contests are over,
and we don't mind so much
who once belittled or doubted
us. Here we all are, good!
Sometimes, you
only need one person
who really
loves
you.
What about hell, though? Well
hell, I have no idea whatsoever.
If you went all through life,
at every moment not even loved
by one person, not even yourself,
it seems like
hell on top of that
might be overkill.
- But who knows? If anyone
tells you they know that
for sure, edge away
and moonwalk slowly
out of there.
That bouncer is working
the wrong door
I took your hook
right in the mouth,
and bit for all that
I was worth. I wanted
to be lifted out
from all the life
I knew on earth,
And since that time,
I've tried to flop
in your direction
guided by
this broken line.
Ooof
Ahem
I meant to say "when"
but I didn't, so you
overpoured. Amen.
I accept my part,
plus however much more
I'll explain by my failure
to speak. Encore
Sometimes I think I have a
charmed life, but other times
it seems (any fool could see)
it’s probably only that I set
the bar very low
for being charmed
by life. You know, it
really doesn’t seem
so to me! And yet…
...I get it. I make low-stakes
bets, and winning streaks
come easily. Plus
so much charm in life
comes free, you might not
even count it once, let alone
forget.
I fade away,
a lasting gasp -
I die by miles,
none too fast,
'til in the end
(imagine that!),
I guess
I'll let this spark collapse
in darkened frame
of flat matte black.
So, until then,
by such light as
I can produce, perceive
or fight, I'll wake and sleep,
hard up, down soft -
and see
what's here
to be shook off.
If I throw enough out
of what I don't need,
they'll be room here
for more of me, for
me. But I hate to see
certain memories go.
Fixed in place at a glance
- it all slides in so. Still,
it's better to live with
space here to stretch
out and breathe, not
tripping on stuff. So
I'll gather all up, and
sort it all out with
a wistful grin midway
to a pout. I will leave
room enough
One, maintains an internally
-consistent viewpoint and tone
despite all externally-inconsistent
events and conditions reported
to the contrary.
Two, you know the guy (or
doll) and they're nothing like
that in real life. Not to be
confused with audiobook
readers! The narrator is
actually in the book. The
reader they hire is not
the same.
Three, you check in the book
and there's no narrator in
there. It's just flat author
omniscient deadpan reportage.
This is the surest sign of all.
With the possible tradition
-based exception for The Bible,
no author is omniscient! It's
a con job - don't fall for
that ol' wool-pull.
Four, you wrote it yourself.
Five, it was written about
you.
Six: other. Varies.
I live between beats
of a stopped clock,
groping for second
-chance minutes
hours at a time,
only to look up
and find I'm
still
here, now.
Apparently Kurt Vonnegut's son
Mark once almost had to fight
Jack Kerouac when he (M)
walked in on an impromptu
and abortive poker game at
Vonnegut's (K) house. He
(M) wore a beard, work shirt
and jeans, so Jack assumed
he was one of his many
misguided followers.
"You think you understand
me? You don't understand
me" Kerouac spouted. "Want
to fight about it?"
Thankfully, Kerouac
sat down to grouse
about not being
understood
before any wrestling
match could break out.
Good thing too, as Mark
was an accomplished
wrestler at school.
Mark later asked dad.
who that guy was.
It turned out Mark
had never read any
Kerouac.So
Jack
was probably right,
as he probably always was,
about not being understood.
How could you understand
a guy like that? Jack, Kurt,
Mark, or anybody
Some tiny seed or spore
gets damp in a cool, dark
place, and up up away
we go by squiggling shaft,
plump hat: deadly or delicious?
Now we don't know that.
And be fair! It may be both.
Who's to say? The poisonous ones
might taste well sauteed
in butter and herbs and tossed
in a dish which later spells death
and loss.
But for just its time,
make a wish! It might shine
as the star of a splendid meal.
All fresh, local produce
gathered with care, thought
safe
and real.
Innocent and all.
It's hardly the mushroom's
fault we too-carefree
connoisseurs fall.
Footprints in soft wet sand
in the band between high tide's mark
and the waves never wash away.
Looking back on them: they will
always be there, all along the way
back
when.
I feel like I've lost
a piece of myself
with every memory
drifted off who knows
where, now. Gone
when I wasn't looking,
don't even know now
what goes in the spaces.
Gaps left, nothing
but nothing
between
to connect.
I wonder what if it allOh, I don't mean
serious impairment yet.
Just everyday glitch,
troubling in all the minor
ways I forget since I was
a boy. I know
I'm too
young
for worse than this,
but maybe I'm not?
Just missing a few years'
worth of interstitial
material per decade,
probably
taking pieces of me
with it. The important
stuff stays fixed in place
by regular reference
and stiff dependence, but
I wonder sometimes
what's going missing,
dissolving into background
while I'm paying attention
to more important things
He took his pulse
religiously, and checked
his soul's cholesterol.
His regimen was self
-designed to keep himself
obsessed and all.
With God, humanity
and Earth. With nature
supernatural, he kept
the faith and exercised.
His workouts were
exceptional.
All to what end? What
goal? What point? It wasn't
clear, at least to him. It
seemed the thing to do,
somehow. There didn't
have to be a sin.
Nothing like
what I expected
or want,
or need -
but just
what I had
to see. You always,
or at least generally
surprise. Don't know
how or why, but
I trust my eyes
I left a bouquet
for you, sitting right
where it was.
Where I found it,
unseized, unplucked
- a bit scattered about,
perfectly arranged.
Let's walk by it sometime,
right after it rains.
Can you bear the pain
right now? Or if right now
there's no pain: do
you know how
to store degrees
of that painless state
for later use? To fortify
and boost resilience
when the pain's on?
So that you're shocked,
stopped, bowed by pain.
Frenzied with disappointment,
loss, or simple injury. But then
you're like "Oh, let me bring back
some of that stored pain-free-ness"
and you straighten up all
bright and bushy!
Do you know
how to do
that? Of course
you don't.
No one does.
Dumb question, skip it
please. But
have you tried?
If a human being is like
deep soil, sprouting from
a thousand seeds that root
and shoot, come springing up,
then that's a metaphor indeed.
No, wait. It's a simile.
You reached between
the broken parts
to find some secret
hole to fill,
until it's whole. And
everything around it
pulls together still.
Some part of me
is crushed. But
it seems to be
the part of me
that's always crushed. Or
that gets crushed, if anything
does. So we can't dismiss
the what if:
Maybe that's what
it's for?
Never gave up,
apart from those times
I was asking something
of another. Decline
is fine and free,
on balance and whole!
Anything that I'd want,
I don't want by demand,
coerced control or a misguided
act of self-sacrifice. I
would only want
if they want to give.
It's not 'cause I'm nice.
Please don't explain unless
you want to. It is bad enough
the bad news is true. You don't
have to try
to make it
comprehensible, too.
On the other hand
if it helps to grope
through the shards and sprains
of a tumbled hope,
lay it on me, boo
To clarify: this has nothing
to do with current trans
-gender clash, stir and
social upheaval. Trans
-humanists are the crowd
that looks forward in wonder
and anticipation to human
upgrades, via tech. Us
merging with it, with
what wonders become
available and compatible.
Little apps and adaptations,
to begin with - with big
effects for the individual!
Commonly cited are small
things like hookups to access
online lookups directly from
one's brain. All facts of humanity
at one's mental fingertips.
Mathematics apps making
computation easy and error-free.
Why not logical deduction/induction
apps as well? Fallacy free clean conclusions
inevitably reached much faster
and surer
than by the unaided mind. Transhumanists
tout the incredible boost in instantaneous
knowledge
and
functional intelligence
such plug-ins could bring.
They say
the adaptive advantages will be
too strong for humanity as a whole
to hold out. No conflict would be
necessary, no force or violence.
People will see the competitive
edge to jack in and thrive,
versus the alternative: just
to opt-out and fall behind.
Lose the evolutionary race
within one or two generations.
Unaugmented humanity would
be gone, or sunk to insignificance
within a handful of decades, tops
and it would all be opt-in,
or all of anyone who wants
to matter, after that. Humanity
as a whole would be doing so well
the pockets and populations of opt-outs
could be taken care of in a charity
way afterwards, like dependent pets.
Anyway, at the risk of being
a Luddite, I wonder if they've really
thought this first part through.
What it's going to be like
for the early adopters. The
beta-testers, the live-fire
living experimenters
and: experiment.
I don't worry about firewalls,
so much. Not conjuring viruses
corrupting the mind in one sick
swipe, awful hard to debug - although
it does seem a possibility. Or purpose
-designed invasive apps to control
masses of us in tiny, undetectably
subtle ways that add up huge for
someone's agenda in the aggregate
- that old, old dream of MC ULTRA
and other conspiracy DJs, finally
given an opening. A plausible
vector. No, I don't worry so much
about that.
I'm thinking of the mind
itself. I wonder what, besides bonus
information quick, will the effect be
from inside one's conscious experience
and one's
ability to tell.
I mean: to a very encompassing extent,
your mind IS you. Ask anyone who's
ever been mentally ill, or out of their
mind on drugs, or had anything like
a panic attack how easy or even
possible it is to hold
oneself
out of it.
Ask a paranoiac who has it bad
how easy it is to throw off an
impression of reality, once
grasped and held as real
The mind is capable of holding
quite stiff and strong to what once
is grasped as real.
It gets in.
And once in, it becomes
baseline. Reality, duh.
What we all calculate
and figure from.
I don't think getting out of it
will be as simple as sliding
a toggle switch to off.
Worst case, one's judgment adrift
and anchored within all this - the
mind, and what's encompassed
by it - might become completely
compromised purely as a matter
of the change in the quality
of experience. We might
not
even
be able to tell
whether this is or isn't
a poem.
I'm talking worst-case here,
but it's not hard to imagine
even worse. Purely to solidify
anyone's inputs, let me assure you:
it is.
A poem
The abhorrence is in us
for everything drastically unlike
what we know is safe
to touch,
and further know.
Some things
are monstrous and alien. Well,
who makes them so?
It's in us, our experience
- and how far they fall
outside of it.
That isn't to say
that if only we knew them,
they'd cuddly coo in
and love us
to bits
They might tear us to bits,
or infect us to death!
We don't know them
that well,
so perhaps
the abhorrence
is for the best
Hey, casual friend, I hear
you mention you're going
to visit your mother. I wonder
if you'd care to offer her
your impressions on mothers
in general? Perhaps as a
flattering comparison, "hey
mom - normally I hate
moms, but you're a
definite exception"
You know better than I
do how she'd take that,
I suppose. Anyway
See how the wheel
becomes itself. A trick
as sure as centering.
That point once found,
pull out to axis, then
don't do a single thing.
You simply let the world
go 'round about you, as
from start to end
you circle self:
Your center found,
drawn out, and now
you let the world
revolve. Where to?
Oh, who can tell.
You gave me an eyefull,
which looking it up,
only has one "l."
"A full or completely
satisfying view," 2.
"One that is visually
attractive. especially
: a strikingly beautiful
woman"
Accurate on all counts,
and yet
somehow inadequate
to convey how full my mind,
behind both eyes, has become
of you.
I'm ratting you out.
True, I've got no dirt
- no shameful doings
to make you hurt.
And it's way beneath me
to make up lies. This
completes my report.
Please don't ask why.
No such thing
as too much truth! But
truth doesn't really
do anything much.
It just sits there,
true.
In and of itself.
And it doesn't need
you
to believe, or touch.
Wear gloves.
You should, even
in mind
to keep your hands warm
and your fingerprints off
whatever you find
by imagining.
You should wear
gloves, love
to protect from the sting
of ice-cold conception
reality hides, and
venomous barb
sticking deep inside.
Adrift and struggling
with memory loss,
a ghostwriter returns
to the scene of the time
she went comatose, in hopes
of resolving her writer's block
by means of a sexy love triangle
in time to meet publication deadlines
I lie about
inconsequential things,
like lying about inconsequential
things. I don't, really.
Doesn't occur to me, but
- that's not inconsequential,
is it? You'd think "This guy's
a liar either way! Playing
mind games."
If true, I wonder
whether it counts
for me or against that
I don't know the score.
It seems really too much to
take on. But you deal with it
in strong strokes and come out
on new shores, looking always
backward as you break the waves,
dragging the sea with you.
Ignore the last two poems; they
stank. I guess that I could take
them down, but I prefer to leave
them up. This warts and all
approach gets rank, but file
it under evidence and see
where we can go
from here.
Experience's lessons are
much easier to read
where failure's clear,
and left next to success.
And anyway, the one
was not so bad.
I guess
