trying for the answer to life
in others’ reasons/questions/
who’s right? who’s best? and
who’s willing to accept anything/
everything/nothing as the explanation?–
what’s it matter when the clouds
follow the wind/or do they push it/or
are they dragged along by something else/or
are there things you can’t prove ‘less you
look at the revolutions/the evolutions/the
push/the pull/the wobble/the
suck/the blow/the loud/the calm/
the thunder/the rain/the turn/the
left behind/the yet-to-come/the
held/the lost/the let-slip-away/the
falter and the swagger/the stance/the
standing/the rest/the leaving/the
known/the lived-in/the what-may-come,
Posts published in “Year: 2005”
this globe
shakes for those
who know
it never snows
’til you’re standing, naked in the sand
with no one near
but damn
if she
doesn’t make you want her to be–
ah
take care of that shelf,
it’s the support you need
when you’re too damn heavy
to be held by anything else–
ah,
let down your wall
and let her come,
come to you/
fall your eyes
to the ‘rizon and
let her raise you up–
forget the setting
when you’re in the light-blue sky
and welcome both
outside yours/mine/
break your night with gaze of looker-onward/knowing
a ball a bit bigger than the passengers rolls/wobbles way
from flock’s fold to field in dreams/that
land you seek ‘hind the words/the oppurtunities/the
regret you know doesn’t change you now, just
adds another reason to close your eyes when the world comes a little closer to suffocation–
all’s good when you have a place, a stance, a face
in the crowd you keep seeing but know changes daily/
can you fall and raise like moon/like sun/like leaf/like rain/can you
feel the hills/move the wind ’round you/can you
smile the years away/retain the minerals but let glide the water ‘way/
undrown yourself in those salty badges of insecurity and pound your chest
LOUDLY
let the heart know you’re there and not going down without a reason to stand/can
you look above you, now, and see the world is round/a spot on the table, lively enough
yet just bare without something else/anything else/the givers:light, those
who lay on you a technicolor err you can only hide from when most are scared.
random/choppy/needs work/etc.
it isn’t
very fair
when you
steal the sunshine
and leave me
wilting in your wake.
it’s not
as though
you ever
looked upon me
and only me/damn
you and your wake.
it ain’t
like you
took ‘way
all the air ’round us,
but you sure
didn’t leave much else.
isn’t it
odd when
you smile
and the land low’s so
the sky shakes
loose any trap of gravity?
ain’t it
true you
left for
the right time to
come back and
grow more you on me?
language is not a matter of knowing
the words to speak, but rather a
comprehension of thoughts left unspoken
for no writ nor vocal manifestation could ever
replace the origin let crawl from
mind through splitting time and chance
in given circumstance.– that which may never find
another route, if not through that subtle genius,
Epiphany, may fall as leaf to be but
nut on ground beneath the tree
unseen, unfound, for who notices
the bearer until the given is believed profound.
a ghost-O’d outline waves its way
down screen of window,
silently backing to the shadow-deepend woods.
as a tree
as a voiced cricket
as a splattering rain
as a twist-turbined fan
as a direction-uncompassed gnat
as a bulb let slown to sight
this life is but a branching plenty
a branching plenty to the still’d & hungry leaves
a breaking call unrepeated in constant
a breaking call unrepeated in constance
a falling raised
a falling raised
a mutterance mumbling incoherently
a mutterance mumbling with incoherence
a changer of path
a changing of path
too fast to comprehend its speed and brevity
too unknown in speed to comprehend its brevity
originally designed with the first ‘a’ only, but both seemed so appropriate.
perhaps better read with ‘as’ repeated twice, once with the first ‘a’ and then with the indented ‘a’.
a muse is someone/something that cannot disappoint,
merely disinterest.
emotion is not wasted on the muse, merely displaced for a bit.
Nature will never be delegated to status of “muse,” for Nature is a permanent-inspiration. the muse may wax and wane, but it is not the permanent moon, just a moth you notice in the light.
those who inspire: Mom, E, Katie, dad, Grandma, family, Sarah : they are permanent in thought; they are me in some odd linking.
the muse is but a flash, while those who inspire :including Nature: are the light. the muse may linger, but lingering is not comparable in force to motivation.
you may say the muse is but a parasite, a hinderance, an obstacle of inspiration–
i prefer to call the muse “practice.”
Apparently, someone I had let access my FTP decided to send massive amounts of e-mail to AOL users, with a link to a virus, ” Hallmark.scr “. I have removed said user’s access and the virus. I sincerely apologize to anyone who has received unsolicited e-mails from this individual and would request your forgiveness.
In short, sorry I was a fuck-up by letting some child use my server.
when the voice, or blood,
or whatever
is clogging throat,
boils at room temp
to eyes–
the sticky ‘lids
hiding as
ashamed curtains
pulled to feet by
someone–
her–
the one keeping me
strung,
well-tuned,
but unfree to enjoy the air–
how
repulsive
this sight of a sickened child
rotting in thought
from too long an exposure,
inward,
of her.
thought,
what
of
our
time?
alone, in stare or conference held,
she is
she is
here– in front, beside, behind, around me–
if that
time,
that
solitairy fixation on
us
could
extend,
grab
us
and
stay,
not run, not walk, not
s
tu
mble
from
as so
prone
we let it be–
perhaps,
just
by chance
by longing
we
could bring to
us an envy drawn
from other,
an
outside onlooker–
me.
groans.
that is all they are,
side-stepping in hurried wave from one spectrum to the next
on those damned, barren wastelands of rock.
what scroaming beasts, these skippers in roar of rush;
what beckons them to pass as though nothing, they, were to stop?
can they, these slow’n’ slicers of the air, not see what is here,
idle and unafraid to be still?
can they not follow our way, to remain?
such noisy beasts, these crawlers–
why do they drown the ticking symphony of night?
and how they bother to pull the followers from Earth in their frenzy’d flush–
these defiant ones, determined in their motion,
know not the route of friction-less–
how could they, with Sailorswind and Hoppers
so worried of their path, so longing of their kin’s return–
yet, this breeze about them stirs a curiousity,
the killer of the brave,
to hope one should learn what rustle, this, does not show from afar
or be let known to they who are in doubt of journey.