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to see those two,
the live's and dead's embalmer.
your life,
your choice,
your breadth,
your noise,
all as chirpings
of fresh-hatched birds.
wake up
and roll over
and get the fuck
out of my bed.
all we need are tentacles;
a way to breed, and control
'strokes in 'cession.
perhaps early primates
developed a lack of hair due to the
fire they harnessed; less fur, less
hair, less of a mane, and they would
survive in close proximity of
the open flame.
we're not talking, "millions," anymore, we're discussing, "billions." and, once you've done ranting, isn't that all you ever really wanted in this life?
your person is so beautiful,
and your art, your creation
so hated, so unyou.
i wish you knew these words
as though they were but thought,
as though they be in heart.
When holding all breath inward,
The head appears to be as
Rolling, backward, tilting
Over crest of hill,
Into darkness,
The waiting,
Still.
This time
he'll come,
he'll come up and he'll say,
"Hey there, smart guy, won't
you introduce me to your girl?"
This time
he'll come up,
come up and say,
"Hey there, you there, won't you
give me a chance to apologize?"
This time,
this time he'll come up,
"Say, you wouldn't know
the way to Saint Moreau's?"
a wind fell
and i, a stranger,
listened, to be but
awoken, waking, still,
as rustling now-friendly breeze
play' kind words upon these, thoughts.
I know you miss him;
I figure to you I'm nothing;
I hold a smile and give a tear,
feeling these fingers find their way
through tormentions, aforementioned;
I will be holding myself on knees,
forged steel, and I will know one day
you never gave me a chance to be
who I know I can;
a Dinasty of a here and now,
a Place I knew how to leave
until the music stopped
and I rewound, fell apart
and it all went cr
a
shing
down.
Logitech Music Anywhere, Windows Vista, and foobar2000
Logitech Music Anywhere barely works with Windows Vista. You must go into, "Playback Devices," from your, "Sound," Control Panel app. (or through the speaker tray icon), and select, "Speakers: Logitech Music Anywhere USB Transmitter," and click, "Set Default." This isn't that big of a deal, because the program at least works with Vista through this method, but it makes the tray icon provided by its own software, Logitech Music Anywhere, pretty much useless.
foobar2000 requires the foo_winamp_spam component (http://www.hydrogenaudio.org/forums/index.php?showtopic=42941) to emulate Winamp half-what properly, and this is also, I assume, required to make the Music Anywhere IR remote control foobar2000. The stop button pretty much stops and plays, and the play/pause is finicky, but, once again, this works.
Maybe I should just switch back to iTunes or WinAmp and make this work 100%. Maybe. Mayb-- nah. foobar2000 is lighter, quicker, and more nimble on its component side. Yeah.
About the Asus G1 Direct Messenger
christopher staines to m.mierzwa
5:06 am (41 minutes ago)
I'm not sure if you've found any method to show current settings
dynamically with Direct Messenger, but I did find something nifty:
If you browse to, "\Program Files\ASUS\ASUS Direct Console\ICON,"
you'll notice that each icon is 32x32, and named, "icon_###.bmp." I
then created (copied) my own icon into the folder and named it,
"icon_022.bmp," and this was then added to the, "My personal settings,"
icon list. Pretty nifty.
Some limitations to consider:
1. Each icon must be 32x32, though I'm pretty sure you can change the
width, but the height is based on what the OLED can display, so that's
maxed at 32. A maximum of 6 icons may be displayed at once on the OLED.
2. Each icon must be a bitmap. I tried GIFs and JPGs, but JPGs say,
"Bitmap image is invalid." and GIFs aren't even recognized.
3. Each icon must be greyscaled, or equivalent. Notice the blue on
black-- that's because the OLED has no greying at all. It's either
lit or it isn't. I'm pretty sure some nifty Photoshop/Paint/Gimp
techniques could be used to make the illusion of shading, but I wasn't
able to achieve this.
I hope this has helped you. I'm pretty sure there would also be a way
to hook into the Chkol.exe and make it dynamically display a message.
P.S.
To kill the Direct Messenger display (and all running Direct Console software, including Chkol.exe, D3DCheck.exe, and LCMP.exe),
you can run the KWin.exe application, located in, "\Program
Files\ASUS\ASUS Direct Console." I added a shortcut to this in my Startup folder, as I don't particularly like the ASUS logo being shown 24/7.
Share this information with whomever you want, but, please, if you
find a way to dynamically update the OLED, let me know. I love
tweaking stuff, but I haven't the willpower to sit down and reverse
the Chkol.exe software.
i keep becoming
caught
on words i know not,
phrases i've said
yet give no hint towards their meanings, truth.
i say such things as,
"i wish the world would stop
turning, so i may.."
and others, too, i say:
"i realize what words
are worth, though eyes
lead more to be known."
i catch myself
being caught on them,
as though what i've said
already is not enough,
and i am caught,
again,
in turn of phrase/of
lung'd wind, and i
hold out their clarity,
though they be but brief,
as thoughts,
clouded-climbing, climb
and fall, as though an
emperor being tossed
to pit through air
of all.
and what a memory i have, this
confused grin, all but wordings in
a solid stance, a state i knew
but follow not, as though my head,
in slump,
went through the turnings of the mind,
forced to be, eternally, in lack of 'wind.
i wish
i were normal,
though i know
i am anything but.
i wish
i were able to sustain a thought for longer
than the words take to escape.
i wish i were not afraid,
and held out my hand,
rather than keep it close,
and turned, palm-down,
as i may help others--
no, that i do not wish,
as they always need help,
and, by being this way,
i, and they, both benefit.
i wrestle with my fingers
to type a single sentence,
and i wonder how crazy i am.
i feel half-made, half-wandered,
likening myself to some cloud,
whose grey-belly'd drag of sky
leads, eventually, toward
drenchings of those fortunate few
beneath.
there was a chore i once completed,
i believe it was taking out the trash,
and that one was, to me, a make up of
all priors, incomplete; how selfish
the childish mind, when thinking
only of the actions, mine, and with no real resemblance
to a child, daughter, son, of one whose
wishes were as simple as
to push a mop or vacuum.
knowledge is but knowing,
holding on to what is you,
and giving back some piece,
autonomous as that may be.
[{()}]see the eye for what it's worth:
great craftsmanship,
and little else;
or, better, hold the body
in breeze, and know,
through motions, movements,
breathes the world,
this, and these.
brian schweitzer is brilliant, and his foresight worth noting.
i don't think sunrises exist, though. i think they're just a propaganda, giving everyone an excuse to rise early. but i say fuck that, yo. i'm not rising early for that, just to see some myth. i'm not. i'm just not going to. stop poking me. i said i'm not. don't you dare. i'll-- alright, i'll wake up early.
your paradise is now. you know nothing other than your situation, and the situations of those allowing you to know them, whether through their shortcomings, or their boastings. your ability is based solely on who you can become, not who you are. i never believed the world was anything more than this ship, which we ride, and allow ourselves to traverse the galaxy with. i now think we are so unimpressionable that we are implanted with thoughts derived from those around us, and, as such, are some amalgamation of those we've seen and been around, and, therefore, are only ourselves when taken from those, or walking from those, and giving ourselves a chance to accept the light which abounds the entire world. just as a plant takes a millennium to evolve to accept shade and shadow as its only source of light, we are evolving to accept only shade and shadow in prominence, and to do away with, unless artfully done, our light's source.
A man who respects a good pen deserves said pen.
i want to run, awake to a smile and closed eyes.
My mind thinks in spurts.
I wish it wouldn't, but if it didn't
it wouldn't be the same;
I wish it wouldn't, but if it didn't
I wouldn't know your name.
My mind thinks in spurts,
catches on a word, I wish it wouldn't,
but if it didn't, I wouldn't be the same;
I wish it wouldn't, but you know
I wouldn't be here with you again.
My mind doesn't work
uh-- in the magical sense that
every other may; they
may see the roundabout, know there's
a turn, but I stop in the middle and
admire the passers' yearn for an outlet, anywhere,
anywhere to know the world is ahead and
I'm lost again, but that's fine, yeah,
that's just fine.
And I want you to know
I never knew your name
until you told me; I
never knew you existed
until the day I woke up,
rolled over,
and you weren't there, beside.
I wish I
never grew up, I
wish the hands were
small enough to not wrap; I
wish the soul couldn't surmise; I
will see when I no longer
think of what keeps me here, hunched
over a keyboard, waiting for
some word to strike so I never need
wait for it again.
Your mom is the one who is supposed to push you, to grab your attention when you're so focused on something else, not so she can have your attention, but so you can relieve yourself. It's not her you're upset with, it's yourself, because you know why she's doing what she's doing, and know that she loves you.
Kindly forward this along.
I will never be famous. And that freedom affords me much.
static catches
a snag somewhere
the same words said
just seem to take
so many times to be said
but all that's okay now
since you're where you are and
you're so far from being here;
knock, knock, and the door
swings shut/i
lied a lot, said some things
i wish i could/i can never take back
i fault myself for that
i fault myself for not being
more of a friend before
but now that's okay now
since you're so done with me
that nothing nothing no one can
tell you how i ever felt
but me/
you can listen to these
and see i'm sincere
but without telling you
all you meant to me
these are just empty prophecies
of what may have been
but what may have been
may one day be all we'll ever have;
i lost you once
and never lost you again
because you never came back;
i had you once
and never had you again
because you never came back;
i held out a hand
rotten to the core
and don't blame you
can only blame myself for
you not taking what i offered
but know
know these words mean nothing
with their catches, stum'bl'ings,
raking the truth
so littered by our memories
and all that was never said
or said too much again.
once upon a time
i fell a rhyme
with swift hands
not understanding
what may have been
but that's all, that's all we got/
what might have been/
what could be/what should be/
they don't matter now,
but somehow, somehow
i'll let you know one day
somehow, somehow
i'll let you know one day.
there lived a boy
caught up in the rap
of an everchanging system
lost in the lies and caught up
in the rap of the darlings dangling
with nothing but cheese to the face
and no maze but what's screened
preserved and monitored;
there this boy found
a girl, a princess, She,
who never needed introduction
but the greetings of her subject's knees/
a clapping of the softest kind/
and this girl, She, this princess,
kept her distance from the boy, Him,
likening Him to some others round the bouts,
but he knew better and felt She would, too,
with a little time and tender kisses
of the hand, a gentle gesture of a twisted man/
she laughed, they played, she, this Princess, they
flashed faces from between garbled soliloquies
forced for not a second spent wasting typings
was too much by the ones around, and
so, too, they, She, with Him, gave theirs, but
through these they sought repentance,
acceptance, a game mentality
much the peak-a-boo with little smiles and
audio files tossed around without a knowledge of
the contents, just the tone and
what it meant to one side/the other
being left to decipher the outcome/
well, they, these two, Him with his She,
and She with her Him, played games until the time came when all was silent, for one had found a meaning more than what was meant, and, though no words were given straight from the mouth of other, took them as being hallow's claim, and, through them,
you learn more from a laugh, a bubble
[than a cry, a chuckle, a sadness, an anger][ing]
we
are all
-confused, we
these travellers of Her.
how close the tip to fabric, touch
these beating veins know nothing more
than your face, as tide knows but shore.
the brain, as all, is
so much more simple
in its complexity
than we give it for.
kalkulations given
give a different sense
when held in hand with
wind and 'rations of.
--------'`----'`-------`-``--`-`-
`-`-`-`-----`'--'`--`'`-```-''`--'`
======================
;[];[=-0
I once slipped on these words, but I think I'll let the words speak for themselves now:
I never gave a fuck unless I was sure someone else would.
Maybe that was my problem, I thought you did, too.
I never thought of you in the way a lover may; I only thought, waited, wanted you to be who I didn't think you were, who I saw you could be, so I could walk away with no regrets, with no remorse, but that never happened, except with little things, and the little things always weigh the most. I wish the world was flat, but You're Too Damn Even, and opposites are needed.
Once,
upon a grey moon,
I stared at this man, a
man I wronged several minutes before,
but never gave a thought to succumbing to
this thought of regeneration, a thought of
handing over my pride to be His, and
I feel there's a rush, now, a rush I never
felt before except when I knew
a mighty hand had fall'n 'pon me and
this Man, He, He needs me now as He
needed me then, and
now I'm ready to let Him know I
am sorry, I
am sorry.
have you ever been so happy you
smile and blind the sky
hold high your head and wished the world
would fall down so you can
rise
everytime i smile i think of YOU
and her, and her, and her, and her,
and her, and her, and her, and her, and her/oh, her
i never really believed
it was as easy as it seems
and maybe you'll see why
when you hold with eyes
these words, so
cold in motion only by
your eyes,
your moving by
and only so
fast/so quick as
you intend them to be
without need
of scheme or
perplexity from me.
do you ever 'magine
those private times
one day would be
recorded,
held sway
in lack of
sightings
/ah,
those cherished moments
i always wished were known.
nice experience,
but i'd like to have my own some day.
imagine a touchscreen-based system
such as a touchstream
where fueled typings become
a way in which to feel
the words
-- much as blind,
however, completely 'vined.
.. ah,
the prickled few
of finger,
held to view in rise
of spires, whole-handed.
but who holds not
when r'/'yping gives
most note, though
screen with perceivable
impulses
reaches both ocular
and tactile
combat'
of stream.
i'm sorry, Sir, for the way in which i acted, and for my policies. you know not what worth you are to me in thoughts of what worried wrongs i have committed toward your person, and your person's children, She. i abide by false-brought notions, and am deeply saddened by events which followed such decision as was made toward you by me. your reaction, wholly warranted, is in no way lost in its effort to rid me of such tidings.
bless you,
and may you see through these to see how wretched i am for having wronged you.
with deepest sincerity,
christopher charles staines.
My mind thinks in spurts.
I wish it wouldn't, but if it didn't
it wouldn't be the same;
I wish it wouldn't, but if it didn't
I wouldn't know your name.
My mind thinks in spurts,
catches on a word, I wish it wouldn't,
but if it didn't, I wouldn't be the same;
I wish it wouldn't, but you know
I wouldn't be here with you again.
My mind doesn't work
uh-- in the magical sense that
every other may; they
may see the roundabout, know there's
a turn, but I stop in the middle and
admire the passers' yearn for an outlet, anywhere,
anywhere to know the world is ahead and
I'm lost again, but that's fine, yeah,
that's just fine.
And I want you to know
I never knew your name
until you told me; I
never knew you existed
until the day I woke up,
rolled over,
and you weren't there, beside.
Those above us, only through politics, are not who we want. We want competence. We want the ability to be heard, seen, read, and talked about without the worry or fear or shelter of feeling as though our Country, this Great Land, is not seen as being as Spiritual and Holy a place as WE believe it to be; as we KNOW it to be. I fear for those who will grow, who will age in a world unknowing of the ever-sought peace, and that this aggressive institution, this, "terror of war," will be their livelihood, just as our parents' was the Cold War, Vietnam, and just as the Great Wars were their parents', and their parents' was the Civil. Can we know peace, can we not know war? What is given through this war that we are not striving, through peace, toward? Knowledge knows only limitations, and Life knows of no boundaries. What are we to say that we are both allowing for and knowing/aware of what is being done in Our name, America, United of States?
i am a terarist. i am a n/o/et. i believe we have
come too far in history
to be anything other than
peaceful;
reserved;
allowing for the
alternations of other nations, the
availability of respectability.
we are who we are
because we've come here,
we've lasted as long as we have;
and what are we if fighting for
nothing; more than peace, we need
brotherhood, sisterhood, a
humanity.
i would enjoy being the clean-up guy for all of those secret agencies, gov't or not, who always seem to walk away from a bloody or major disaster-like mess during the end to a movie. i'd be paid the big bucks to keep quiet (or threatened with death, which is fine, because i'm secretive), i'd probably have access to such cool things as inter-dimensional transportation, or that highly potent chronic. yeah. inter-dimensional chronic. right the-fuck on. the word is a series of grunts, of movements made, un/seen, allowing for the travel of one's own being to those around, whether in single dartings or spread-like patterns.
Every single person who walks this Earth should watch Paul Mooney's appearance at the Laugh Factory, entitled Know Your History: Jesus Is Black and So Was Cleopatra.
Mooney's Grandmother (Mooney mentioning religion): A new broom may sweep a floor, but an old broom knows what dirt is.
IMDb
Amazon.com
Blockbuster.com
Netflix.com
After deciding to use STP MP3 Player (a small, resource-friendly MP3 player that resides in the system tray) instead of iTunes or WMP or WinAmp, I found my Logitech MediaPlay mouse's SetPoint software was not properly controlling the new software choice. I decided to take action.
1. in STP's Settings->Advanced... window, under General in the top left, select, "Emulate WinAmp," at the bottom of the list.
2. where you installed SetPoint, find, "players.ini," and add the following to the bottom of the Players:
STP=cmd,STP.exe,Winamp v1.x,xxx,xxx,40045,40046,40047,40044,40048,0,1,STP
Links used:
a. http://digitalelement.byethost22.com/stp/download.html - STP 10603 Final, or the 4.5a unofficial update if you're curious.
b. http://www.mstarmetro.net/~rlowens/uberOptions/ - uberOptions for SetPoint; adds the ability to change any button on your Logitech trackball/mouse/keyboard (not required for this, just a useful option).
c. ftp://ftp.logitech.com/pub/techsupport/mouse/setpoint315_v450.exe - logitech setpoint 3.15
d. http://www.google.com/ - without Google, i would have been lost. thanks, Google.
i have a problem with words.
us, we use them, we throw them
away, hold onto what they meant
but keep going as though they
were never said; or maybe we
hold on to the thought and watch
as it slowly falls from view, a
sort of leaf and we're caught in canopy
the lighthearted reality of not saying much is that, when you do say something at all, you're generally expected to be profound, or to resonate a sense of worth within your words, when you may very well just want to be funny.
there is this tree,
towering, living
to be as shaded
reservoir of wind,
the subtle/nestled
shadow's kin,
a warmth inverted,
deepened to the nerve
and thru, toward
skin's
other layer, and
this tree,
holding,
lowering
itself
to me, holds
me up
and lets me
lie here,
a transparent,
meshed follower
of what
wind
may
grow.
when walking,
carpet/
rice/
pebbles/trees/roots/
leaves/limbs/body/
grasses/mud/ground/
dirt/beetles/ants/worms/
are all, directly,
from you treated.
"I didn't want to be 77." - Grandma
i try to sabotage
everything
so you,
perhaps,
may see
all i want
is you
to be with me.
blades of the fan
like lights, dashes
on a highway, speed
by on this edge-tipped
cd, "plea for peace:
take action," and
slightly over
the insurance,
all-state, card
red-striped, white.
i'm here
you're there
it's not distance,
just a stare--
you see?
you see?
not the step kind,
but i
might as well
to see
you
're there and i'm
here.
there is little difference between an elected politician and an election politician, save a sense of urgency.
The triumph of a writer is to look back and see the world as changed, not because of them, but because of what they've done.
"I have to get up
and move around. If I sit, I'll
get up and go Psshhoo."
Grandma gets up,
standing,
wobbles
in her small frame
and catches herself
on the frame of the door,
walks toward the counter,
grabbing
chairs, one
at a time along her way,
to see the screendoor,
the damage done, and
I feel she fell
some time earlier,
is recovering,
and she does not want
to give in or give up,
even if it means she's
really giving herself
a chance, though
she knows if she does,
she seems weak,
even if she is
the truly
strongest woman
I've ever met
and she doesn't
even know she is
yet
I cannot tell her
for she'll just
swear and sit and say,
"No, no, no-- Honestly,
no."
such sweet apron of the sky,
these clouds, wand'ring by,
she sits
in a blue-mid, red-tipped,
"pansies," on the chest shirt,
half-crying, half-CRYing
over the Mother, her daughter,
being so paternal, a knack
for the dramatic, and seeing
my confusion, a light introduction
of when she was the mother, her
Mother the child, grown, she
smiles, recalling the freedom, hers.
the voice of a young wind-piercer hints at seconds passing;
as though unheard, they find way from chin/neck to let known their being,
and they are, in all ways, known now.
his demeanor was of a man wrought with a madness; a madness only surpressed by the peace of simple things, such as the management of seconds, and not moments.
there is a world in front of you; there is an adventure around you; there is a world a part from you; and you just sit there, staring, reading, moving your eyes as though they were your flailing arms, but all you ever hear is the sound of cackling songwrites and bitchy clickings of this board, this 6x18.
and he, this
naive fool
waits for the perfect time
to tell her but nothing ever happens
enough to bring her 'round;
and she, this
waiter, too,
holds on to what may
for hope it will change
when they find the right moment
to wander together in wonder of
the days left before them and the suns
and daughters yet to be made.
Labels: jimmy eat world
i wake and sit with these dreams, of day, of us
because i cannot fathom you at night
when i'm too alone to see the world in a darkened room
without your light to drag me
into fits of you again;
i wake and sit with these dreams, of day, and of us
and when we talk, they're shattered
by your words of/to others and i'm just dumb
in front of your life, because i will always hide
behind you.
i wait
i sit
i wait and i sit with these intentions of a glory-filled
day with you to lead into a lifetime, the second life,
and you expect me to bring these thoughts to fruition
when you're already decided on another and
others wait for their turn? why should i?
why should i be as they are and just give you
time until you're done with the other numbers and mine's been called?
as one crawls the sliver-white screen,
dressed in brown-tan-light best, their fingers/hands/
legs attach in point and follow lengthened nose,
a nostr-less wonder of hair-thin origin,
diddling way o'er rock brought-home to
human-hand painted shells,
one of which boasts, proudly,
to be of hulk, and other of cookie monster.
when i woke up this morning, i didn't entirely expect to bother with this, but, now, i believe i may
i think about you daily, Baby,
and i'm sorry for having called you, "Baby."
shed their lightings upon a brand new, same-ol' day
pulsing, pacing, moving, she
fellandrose with unsighted slitherings
toward tallest breach of air, of sea,
she, this siren, maiden, me
made false claims and held in arm,
wrapped quite diligently.
Police officers, investigating a murder,
are in a police department's laboratory,
discussing the contents and origin of bird
shit, in a case involving a crooked cop
and a birdlike boy; the officers leave
after a captain is called, by his mother,
to pick up lettuce; as the officers are
leaving, an inmate, after handing the note
from the mother, to the captain, picks up
several rolled joints, dropping one in front
of another officer, who turns the quite-startled, and defeated, inmate around, handing said joint back to him.
Greatest Pause in Cinematic History
; from Brewster McCloud
as the little birds whisper prayings
for those who hear not the words
the more you smile, the more i realize
you're just grinding your teeth
| Bush Moves Toward Martial Law |  |  |
| Written by Frank Morales | |
| Thursday, 26 October 2006 | |
 In a stealth maneuver, President Bush has signed into law a provision which, according to Senator Patrick Leahy (D-Vermont), will actually encourage the President to declare federal martial law (1). It does so by revising the Insurrection Act, a set of laws that limits the President's ability to deploy troops within the United States. The Insurrection Act (10 U.S.C.331 -335) has historically, along with the Posse Comitatus Act (18 U.S.C.1385), helped to enforce strict prohibitions on military involvement in domestic law enforcement. With one cloaked swipe of his pen, Bush is seeking to undo those prohibitions. Public Law 109-364, or the "John Warner Defense Authorization Act of 2007" (H.R.5122) (2), which was signed by the commander in chief on October 17th, 2006, in a private Oval Office ceremony, allows the President to declare a "public emergency" and station troops anywhere in America and take control of state-based National Guard units without the consent of the governor or local authorities, in order to "suppress public disorder." Source: (2) http://www.govtrack.us/congress/bill.xpd?bill+h109-5122 Photo source: http://sandiego.indymedia.org/images/2005/08/110478.jpg |
i just want to take one breath
without thinking yours would be much sweeter to taste
than the air around me now;
no offence to the leaves or trees,
but you, the way you breathe,
means everything and all i need
is to hear you speak, to know
your cheeks grow round, your
lips move, and you exist
if in but a simple word
worth more than any kiss.
such sweet apron of the sky,
these clouds, wand'ring by,
unaccustomed to the crawling
infants' eyes,
as they who
rather wonder than to wander
, afraid of such heights and such hi's.
current rentals:
click
oldboy + "10-ways of fucked up"
returner + crazyweird, man
the fog
to-view:
everything is illuminated
thank you for smoking
united states of leland
just bought:
gojira - 2-disc box - top-5 favorite movie
the princess and the warrior - top-5 favorite movie
roujin z - "haha, old man does it right!"
akira - "no way!"
le diner de cons - constant laugh
seen:
jet li's fearless + !
x-men iii ~ !
Music is my muse, and the words my lovers. What else does one need? Perhaps food, warmth, shelter? If you know the music and love the words, you will need none of those three, for you will find they come along much easier than muses and lovers. The world is full of food, full of warmth, full of shelter, full of war, and full of peace. The trick is to find, or let find you, the happiness and love for which you should live your every-single-day in sweet embrace of destiny, both breathed and mediated.
i have a problem with words.
us, we use them, we throw them
away, hold onto what they meant
but keep going as though they
were never said; or maybe we
hold on to the thought and watch
as it slowly falls from view, a
sort of leaf and we're caught in canopy
, out of touch with the effects
of a collision between dug/filled ground and new.
i know you're reading this
, or you wouldn't be , but ,
i know you are, so , i'll assume
what i will and shrug off the rest ;
in a wind, you
told me all you
ever said in
one breath, so
deep-- i
never knew
you would
want the words
returned
, well,
how lucky
the sky
spans us all
and
all i need be
is transparent
for you to see
through to
where i am not,
nor you,
but
still
your eyes are
and, there, they
live, they
experience
the curvature
of a world
stood on
and slept in,
walked and
wandering,
waiting for
the visitors,
they, who are
lively, stationed,
to feel
to feel
they are all
in this,
She,
together, and
ignorance
is bliss
only if
you know not
ignorance exists--
walk the turning world
and know you'll never
be where you are now
again
unless you
circumnavigate
this crystal-clear cylinder,
perfectly/
slightly/
rounded, bulged and
so stuck in gravity
to find the worry
of falling
is just if you go
too far from where you belong, for
if you risk the raise of
the risk, you'll
surely find a notion squandered
by crazy calamities,
but if you
are where
you belong,
and you'll know,
you'll know if you're
where you
need to be, you'll
surely be safe, for
you wouldn't be
where you belong
otherwise--
and
fear nothing, for
you are where you are for
the sake of not being
anywhere
anywhere else, but
but
hold on, and you'll never go.
every cover story
of the Princess
stirs about your face
to show me/remind
the mind you're alive
despite my no longer
remembering your
heart beats.
every new secret
found lends
a thought to
what you're into/what's
going on with you now
and what
happened with you then.
k
i'll try to start one
without having a
reason to. i often
falter/fail to finalize
arrangements/i'm
always too lacking
in that department/i'd
rather keep everything open,
keep everything going/i
don't care/i care/i don't/i
wish this was always so easy
to say i quit, i'm done, i'm gone,
i'll leave you now and pray you
keep your distance-- i am
rabid after all, and you
wouldn't want to
scratch the back of a mongrel,
he might fight back and
trap you 'gainst some near-found ropes
so likened to fear.
i promised a long time ago that this site would not be used as some sort of entry-system for a personal log. i would keep this site short, with only writings/scribbles and useful information. over the past few weeks, i've sort of divided time between doing just that, and allowing myself to deviate from doing so.
okay.
i have grey hairs. i'm 23, and i have grey hairs. i'm stressed, i'm tired, i'm constantly worried, and i'm a shaking little animal in a corner, whose only outlet is through allowing everything to proceed, because i'm too wrapped up in my own torment to stop and realize that this is just a life, not some sacred mission. but it is, and i'll continue to be who i am. for that, i'm sorry. i'll never be a happy person, unless i am, and i'll never be fully satisfied, until i am. that's how it/this/life/breathing/acceptance goes.
i'm fucking weak.
and i'm sorry for wasting your time with my personal life. this site will go back to its regularly scheduled poetry.
alright. i'm done being down on myself. kilimanjaro
i, chris, am doing what i can, and am not going to be for much longer. i time things horribly, but i'm looking to start over, from scratch, so i can stop feeling this way. i'll never be completely confident or trusting, but if i were close to someone, i figure i might be.
no. i won't be. and that's fine, because, maybe, i'm just not ready for someone. maybe i need to continue being all by myself, because i seem to do quite fine on my own, even if i do go crazy/insane, but at least no one else is dragged into the mess, and at least then they can go about their lives, and not have to add me in in the margins. no.
no, i think i'll just go and find something to do, and, having started a new job, that's pretty easy: just think about work, grow monotonous, and live as though my life were based on a schedule.
i'm done being 23 with no reason for being, except for myself, and for family, and, now, for work. i'm obviously not, but, i'll try.
i like reading what i shouldn't and interpreting it how i do, because, at least then, i get to read something from you, because, otherwise, i would rarely be able to.
the way these hairs lean so,
a wave of light upon the soil/
spread whisps, a'winding toward the 'lease of skin/
some aforementioned spirit, resting, dead within/from/
and though they be dying, these, so warm do they release
as falling plots their keepers, likened to the pots
and all is 'gotten, for thei' journey to soon be so.
so, there's this song. not any ordinary song, but average, nonetheless. i don't know. i hear it every day at work, and i never remember the words, nor do i listen to them. they're just background noise to thoughts i can't really get over. every time they start up, i think, "that damn song; fuck; fuck; fuck. why that song? i can't stand it." and then, later, another one plays, and i bob the head a bit, 'cuz the beat is so rhythmic, so carefree. as always, though, this third song plays, and i'm stuck thinking again. i hate that. that's, i think, what hurts the most; knowing i always think and knowing it never does any good, because i keep it inside, and i don't really let anything out, until i'm tired or angry, and then i open up and lash out or close up and keep away from all i could never take.
blahdeblahblah. the commercials at work are overbearing. from the grease medley that all the girls come in and dance to, to the shins song, "new slang," from garden state, and fiona apple's from the last kiss. the only outlet i have is one playing of blur's, "song 2." that's all i have, all day. grease, shins, fiona apple, and a single track i actually listen to. oh, and rv's random preview, which i always laugh along to, and the wild's. so, i guess it's not that bad, but i don't want to tune out those three, the grease/shins/fiona songs, because i know they're playing for a reason, and if that reason is obvious or hangs around, then i'll eventually know why it is.
current rentals:
garden state + !
zatoichi + !
danny deckchair + !
the usual suspects
i'll sleep when i'm dead
six strong guys
others (to-view, but too lazy):
jet li's fearless
howl's moving castle
ushpizin
the weather man
water
seen:
the machinist + !
the city of lost children + !
grandma's boy + !
grilled + !
spriggan +
the warrior + !
the princess and the warrior + !!!
puddle cruiser + !
the 40 year old virgin + !
shit. i'm sorry these take so long. i like hording things. especially writings and words. you're probably not reading this, or one of you is, and you're thinking, "what's he doing?" i'm setting you up to read. i like that.
i like the whole, "this won't be good." i revel in it, for i do the same. it's how you can come away satisfied, no matter what; you either feel as though you've pre-scripted life, which is somewhat of a rush/a sense of control, or you feel surprised, shocked by what's transpired/what's gone from, "this won't," to, "oh." hah. k.
watched a youtube of leonard cohen. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RLq7Aqd_H7g. he's a good writer.
you should check ferlinghetti, william carlos williams, or john donne, as well.
so. life is all in the timing, and the timing is what life is, so, doesn't that mean that you can make whatever you want into whatever you want, because if what you want is what you want, then isn't what you want what you want? just be careful, because you may get what you're wanting, and realize it was only what you wanted, and not what you want.
if i'm just words, then let them sew themselves within your thoughts, so some part of me is lasting, and not just a disease with an easy cure.
have you ever just sat there and thought, "what the hell is that? what's keeping me here? what's anchoring me right now and making me be where i am? what keeps me on the ground? what keeps me where i am? should i leave? but what would make me leave, then, if not what is keeping me here? i'm here. blah."
what keeps you ever-here?
what is removed is as important as what is kept, and you'll love what you remove far quicker than what you keep, because you only love what isn't there, for what is there is far stronger than love, it's experiencing, and you can't beat that with just a thought, no matter what, unless you can.
i practiced wordings, words,
similarities, symmetry, worldly
clues to the way i've come to
understand things, with
the roar of thunder and
the twing of a chime in wind, but
all of that is meaningless
without you to read, so,
i thank you, and
you mean everything to me;
for, without you, i would, surely,
envy everyone else
who may live so free
as without boundary
or
occasion to be trained
for you, who read, who
see knowledge in these words
i know not the meaning of.
thank you,
thank you,
thank all,
thank you.
given life,
he chose walk
and
, wandering,
he fell, and
lest he rest
, he put foot forward,
wishing ground
lay there,
to be
stalked in drunken twist
of hips and ankles,
thighs,
to bend and 'stend of knee
in dance, in worship
of the land's many niches
yet to be filled.
what world is this
when life, lived,
told, is given a reason
and this reason, known,
holds but a clue
as to what this reason, known,
may be, but-- to guess-- to guess--
to guess is to give in, and to
forget, to lose the reason,
to long for what
may be
is what may be's
only way of being.
may you hoop around these
and dribble your thoughts
to know they are but all laughter.
Same old same sorry. And a hummingbird cries to be let out, and rides a broom to the opening of the garage before flying to the tallest tree at a distance they can travel while under such stress.. and that funny string of dust/of cobwebs from their tail.
within hands of sedimentary, he
rises oiled own, to know the
spatial widths of claspings, dormant
but in settled raise and movement
swayed but by shakings, rakings
of the plasma, floor beneath such
dwellers, ceiling-crawlers, brought
to kindled flame, not molten, sought
to be but tamed and holden.
say the words before the beat
ing of your heart s-t-arts y'
mind and you leave words
to caution and not a pas
sion of the jester's soul.
where the panting fan
breathes, cool, on skin
as though friend, canine,
were as large as entirety
How her eyes, the deepest olive, marbled, and pitted-black, became ripened over the days, making for nothing more than holes, pumped full of fluids I've yet to taste, rotting, breaking from that beautiful green to hardened brown, and, oh, how her 'lids, once purposed, now hang, as though caught between falling and waking. How I loved her, for a day, and I still do not know if the Moon's come to signal the end.
when the silence of the mouth
leads to shoutings of a mind
so lost in thought to be
forgotten on the wings
of they who fly
of they who show
a way many know
a way many know
but walk through
without giving a second
to stop and see
they are the series
they are the circle
brought for to be used
; likened to the sea,
we are but ducks,
stuck on surface, dipping
in for food and sustenance
but falling 'neath the waves
when we've had our fill
and want too much;
until we learn to trust
in the god of abraham
and give up what we got
we will not see
the rapids ahead
and the shallows beneath
until we're too deep to be
any type of free
from the 'tow of so many muddy bottoms.
all of life
is a charade
a fancy game
we only play
when the fields
needn't be cared for
or the wind needn't
find way through your lips
to mine; and how sweet
those times when we would
sit there, and find ourselves
waiting for the next great thing
just to go back to the old;
i love you,
i love you,
i do;
and you are sun's
radiance,
encompassed in
the 'guise of
gravity
, falling,
free.
a stream
from spout
of wall,
falling all
to pool
'neath/
'bove the
cement
seat
where all sit, and
in the 'flections, see
i a one
how open her eyes,
so green
in the clear
of stream/ and
we, in instance,
kiss
as she stays
still for
my reachings in and
we elope 'fore we keep
eyes from anywhere
else.
I believe, wholeheartedly, the writer is but a makeshift way to live in some way not yet realized, but the words know, and they tell you where your mind may go, without so much as words being said, but known to/read, and through these lines I hope you see I'm here, I'm writing this and you're taking time to change your world for me, if for a second, and I thank you, I thank you, I thank you for all you've done, as you've done everything hoped for, and nothing, nothing, nothing is as good as everything so long as nothing is seen to be and something's left for you to prosper in me, and no, yes, maybe you'll hold these, some words and ways, repeated, felt, but not released, except in form, as nothing, every/some and more follow some malignant path not seen, but all's well and you're now free, if for a moment, from the likes of me.
quickening now,
the sidebar squints
to read all that's being said;
the careless blocks,
placed ever so,
blank but what's to be read.
In a time of need, one brings about a sense of change; from a split-sided conversation of self, a looking at things as though they are, to the notification of the mind toward the nuances of everyday experiences brought about by the turbulence of thought, bringing from a spiral-globe to radiation, spread through structure, through light and air and all of one's skin, toward a sense of self, so adorned by worldly passings, as to be fully engraved, yet unmarked, if one merely wishes to turn and shed the writ of birthed and born mentalities.
i always thought
i'd wrestle alligators,
lock a crocodile between
the ground and these two
massive arms-- i always
thought i'd be like Steve,
that He was in all of Us
for we can just
view and see
the only way to be
is fearless.
and i think that's the beauty of a mass entity;
being able to show, through several means,
the way in which another has affected us so,
and how all of us, we, are in debt to a man,
a person who, from all societal views, is a master
among mere mortals.
Opened lips
searching for
a meaning in
this light, and though
they find a purpose, they
release a breath to breeze
and search for more.
Who holds the secret
of this life, when all
we see is what we're in
and nothing else really shows
until we stop and see
all that's slow/all that's sped
from these eyes, these--
Who holds the secret
to how to live this way
when we're not even sure where
we are-- are we even here,
or are we somewhere else entirely?
are we already in-know of this place
or are we so far away to fold
ourselves over and hope we're
halfway close-- halfway close--
halfway to a view of entirety?
Keep all you've done
and hold it close to
those you hold closer than
the air about you
and hold it close to
all you've been and where you've
yet to be, for you
will know one day
you take that with you
in a spirit, a
means by which you
are known from
here, are given
from this, life, to
Thee, He, She, They
who are yet to be, and
though you see
only what it's been, you'll
know soon how
much they are
when opened to the air and let
sift through sky--
how
beautiful the light
when caught within a sight
of buoyed 'testines
clattered 'mongst the candle
and all that's seen is
matter, and nothing ever does.
shit's been lacking recently. need a new notebook.
and a random link.
taking
the same
road
again
& again;
the one
where
she slid,
i came
& she needed
help
if just
for the
night;
and where
she
needed me
more
but all i gave
was poor advice
Despite all of my offerings
of sufferings
i hope you
just might
take me back
might just take me back again.
crossed concrete beams hov' above
spiderweb on pink-bloom tree
angled toward a street
she stares
at the LCD
as i stare
at our ceiling
and i'd rather
be walking
there, where
the fan
would not
allow
me to.
Check http://iraqforsale.org/. Making a quick buck in Iraq without proper safety for your workers? "Yeah, sure, what's the big deal?"
http://iraqforsale.org/house.php - How your Representatives voted.
http://iraqforsale.org/senate.php - How your Senators voted.
Enter:
Him, the lone surveyor,
His hands tightly clasping
an object of no significant
value.
Him:
Why do my hands
wrap so around this,
as though, through holding
this, I may somehow grasp
and grab and have and melt into
its stillness, its calm? I cannot.
This object, this, in hands,
I know not its worth, outside
the monetary (momentary) gain from which
I have given another, and,
yet, I know its worth will, in me,
as I now hold this, steady,
with no means but letting go--
Perhaps, if I allow it to, it will
fall, or perhaps it will stay,
if I am falling.
Enter:
They, the jester's mimic, aping
in their motion, holding nothing,
that the air about them stills
without a movement, but their feet,
closely wrapped and tight, as their
body's garments cling and appear to be.
They:
What is this? What is your foolish
bout with words, with those you speak
but know not their weight?
Him:
You know not either, you.
They:
True, though I know you.
Him:
And? Many know me; many hold my
thoughts within their own.
They:
Yes. Maybe. No. You are to them
as they to you, and you
know them not, as well you do.
Him:
What do you want with me--
What do you want that you
have not allowed me, yet, to
keep?
They:
Nothing, though something, yes.
Maybe. No.
Him:
You do not confuse me with your
wordings, sir.
They:
And you alone.
Him:
Aye. I alone.
They:
Why? What holds you, any', from
finding or 'llowing for they you know
exist to find or 'llow you to?
Him:
I lay upon this same carpet, day and night,
knowing they exist, and, yet, I feel they
would, without my knowing, just as well.
They:
Eh. You know nothing, then.
Him:
She will find me, or allow me be
within her company, in some fashion, in
some way I know not-- some way I
'fuse to 'magine, as I fear, yes, fear,
my mind may ruin such happenings.
They:
Yes. Maybe. No. You fear you will not be
as the imagined, the dreamlike, you, or
they may not be, too. Such rubbish. Life is
real, as is reality.
Him:
Your reality is you.
They:
Nonsense. My reality, now, is you, as much
reality is me, and, this, the thing
you hold, but know not the, its, worth or weight.
Him:
You say so much, and mean so little, and
I fear, yes, fear, again, my time with you
is to an end.
They:
To an end you know not yet.
Exeunt:
Him, having lowered the object
to His side, along His thigh.
They:
Ah. Sweet night; sour day. So ripe the moon, in
no plucked a way, and so terribly rotten
the sun in still, a stay.
Exeunt:
They, with neck, bent, forward,
arms to front of belly,
drawn.
Enter:
She, hands about Her face,
in quick gestures to an unseen
horror, played though laughable.
She:
Such a brutish man! What a sort to
be out this moment, with no cage from
which to keep him, closed!
Enter:
Closely following She, Her
friend, a feathered fellow of
more stature than the tongued.
She:
Oh, there you are! Where did you go for that
time I saw you not? Always flying, you, to
where, you never let me know. Oh, but that
is yours, this place you go, where you, alone,
may be.
Hers:
Certainly.
Enter:
Far from view, Him, with little but His
eyes to see Her; staying, though in rush.
She:
And what a speech! So little's said, and more
I know than if not so! Ah, but where would I be
by you? To say the world, mine, would be
if not your little speeches, and your beak,
so long, but rarely full of not. Oh, I saw this
most lively of two today, sifting in
their seats a vision of their company
through years I, in age, know not.
So comforting, they, with no need but
worry for one, other. How brutal, time, when
no means of knowing its extent lies near,
in hand or eye, as though to
go through days were but the shifting
of the Satellite and Sun, and not the
sifting of such memories, such thoughts,
and places, and 'speriences, been!
Him (with no length of voice):
Who..? Wh?--Who is she, this helden
creature, whose voice knows not the fade of
distance? Who is she, this being, still, with
air around her, so rapidly wrapping itself,
as though she be its beginning, nigh its ending?
She:
Oh, why don't you fly to her; you know she's there,
somewhere amongst your views, your visions, eyes, if
only then, and may' not now? Do you like your following
of me? Is my life so seen by you as worth a need
of entourage, a likeness of some queen?
Hers:
Princess.
She:
Oh, you've learned my points! I cannot fault you
for your staying, though you will leave, or I,
and you will find they you seek so clearly,
if through me.
Exeunt:
Him, His eyes beneath His 'brows,
widening to full roundness of a
happy thought.
She:
Who was that man? Why stand so far,
yet hold your eyes squarely 'pon me? So
creepy, yet I feel a need of knowing who they
be.
Hers:
Aye.
She:
Yes. Maybe they were here as I, in view of
what a line, so far, horizon, may give if brought
a bit more close to eye.
Hers:
Aye.
She:
You crazy thing. The weather's growing warm;
I fear we may be stuck if not undoing of these
heavy, old clothes. Let's go home, yes?
Hers:
Aye.
Exeunt:
She and hers, Her eye, turning, slowly
thinking, taking in the spot from
which He left so soon before.
The sun reaches noon, with no sign of falling.
Enter:
Him, His hands exploring freely the
depths in pockets of pants, shaking
shoulders in a show of wrestled thoughts.
Him:
Why these thoughts? Why would I, in some
way I know not, believe in what I've never known,
merely guessed or shown in falsehood, in want? Is this
a similarity of that? Is this but want?
No. I need her. I need she, this speaker, she.
How her words, on they she saw, sifting, make
so right the world, as, she said,
hers. She, Princess, queen of they, and how
her words, her-- ah, I recall them not, though
know their memory, and she be so right,
worldly in her lengthened speech,
brought on breeze, hers, to me-- and, yet,
I feel as thief, taking these, her memory,
and placing them within some wordings,
unaccustomed to her freedom, speech.
Enter:
They, with loose shirt on,
and pants so, too.
They:
Ah, and there you are. What way did you come
this time? I did not see you from our route,
though you may have scooted by without my noticing.
They hold out their hand, waiting for drops of
rain, though no clouds are present.
They:
Amazing; no rain today, and yet you seem
so happy, as you always do when leaky
clouds wind by.
Him:
You and your patterns. Leave mine alone,
and I will not give you yours.
They:
Hah! Mine? And what is mine? I have but
one, though many more may be seen.
Him:
You are a talker, though I never tire of
your words.
They:
I would hope not. You say them, too, and
what use would be in what you use if
what you use were grown tired of?
Him:
Yes. Yes; I would say you were right.
They:
But?
Him:
Nothing. You are right, and I am but
tiring of the hour.
They:
Ah, and, here, you know it well.
Him:
Aye. So quiet here, though not, as thoughts grow loud.
They:
Hah! And what do you hear?
Him:
Do you see the clouds?
They:
Yes. Maybe. No. The sky is clear.
Him:
When not; do you?
They:
Yes. Maybe. When I look.
Him:
And beyond the clouds?
They:
Yes, even without their presence.
Him:
Aye.
They:
And?
Him:
When the air is still or slight, I see the
clouds in full might of turning worlds,
and hold my head to sky, to stars, if
not they there, then wait, for are not
they when they are and not?
They:
And?
Him:
I see this, a vision, though its method
rests in eyes of sight, not mind, alone: A spread,
a flying, wing'd one, with only dust about its
flappings, too quickened for to move, but, still,
this... butterfly, a dragonfly less-tail, wing'd, wanders
above the dust, with no friction, only reflection, a single
way to eye; though, spread, I fear others see
this, too.
They:
I do not.
Him:
Aye. And you will, now I've shown you where.
They:
Yes. Maybe. No. You see me, and yet I
do not.
Him:
But a single mirror and that problem is fixed for full.
They:
So flat a mirror, image, gleamed of all that matters-- move',
yes, and light, but nothing more. So flat.
Him:
Such a 'mage, though, and still a way of sight.
They:
Yes. But you didn't mean a view of sight alone.
Him:
Aye. I alone may see the view as more, the Butterfly
as more than movement, there, though what do I know
of more? Such vision, steal of eye, and more. So
stilled, as in thought, though there, holding
sky in capture, longing for a way of gift of giving
to a devoted one, who may hold such close a bundle,
far from grasp of mortals, they who ruin such things as
things and not as hands, as God's, but fall'n and raised
in view to be as humbling, holding so tight a cross of
soldered steel and touch of light; the heaviest
of seen, though not of sight.
They:
You know
Exeunt:
They, a glimpse of smile, held on walk from Him.
Him:
So light this air, a wonder the birds fly. And what of
this one, here, in quick dive to sit beside me now?
Enter:
Hers, followed by calls from far, though, slowly,
from angles, growing closer.
Him:
You! And what of you? So free to fly, with no means
but wing, and so jealous those bellow you seem! What
of you, then?
Hers:
Aye.
Him:
Aye. You are wise not to talk to me-- you would seem to soon fall
in trap of quicksanding conversation.
Hers:
Up.
Him:
Aye. Yes, "up." Do you mean, "shut," or, "look"? ..Neither?
Enter:
Her, with arms towards hers, though dropping
loosely, to side, when within reach.
She:
There! I've thought you found another!
Hers:
Aye.
She:
You wise, wing'd one! What mean you for scaring me? Have
I not been truly faithful in my servitude, oh king? Or
were you merely venturing to where you felt a comfort,
breeze? ..Did the winds lead you here?
Hers:
Aye.
She:
You will be the death or life of me; I have not 'cided yet.
Hers spreads wings, flying in sudden spirit and on the arm of Him.
She:
And who's this you've found to 'place me? Have you
been in secret with them? Such games I knew you did not
play!
Hers:
Aye.
She:
Well, then, since remaining tight-beaked is he, perhaps
you will tell me of his follies in your sight?
He stares, much more in loss than gain of
words or fair tidings.
She:
Well! You both seem near the same, yet one have lips and mouth
yet to speak, while other a vocabulary much less than those,
words, but preceding these. Oh, and so another reason for the
sun to stay and bake my skin, so not in need of such naturalities.
Him (having found breath for words in thought and swallowings):
He merely flew upon this, your perch of proximity, slightly 'fore
you stood there, too; and I knew not his reason, nor
his comings from, though now, I gather, you, from calls so
made to find you here; and he made way from far, and
I feel he, from there, now found restings here. But, for a
reason I know not, he took from here to this, my arm,
and now I've found myself and him in sharp, tight hold,
and I fear, if broken, my, not his, blood may spill.
She:
Nonsense. What use have you to bleed for him? He has not given to you
but perch, a means of being still, and I, much less you, may
bleed, though not physically, if he does not leave, or break hold, of you.
Him:
He is yours; call him, lure him as you will.
She:
Here. Come. I've got treats in a dish in our home, if
you do come, or, if not, none.
Hers spreads wings, stretching 'fore he rests, still
on His arm.
She:
Well. This is not good, and I know not another way.
Him:
Perhaps he has tired of the flight, and pulls himself in
slacked acceptance of his place.
She:
You may be right.
She walks toward Him, standing beside Him, with Her
arm stretched to match His own.
She:
Here, lazy, I've come to you.
Hers turns to Her, placing first foot on Hers, then, from Him,
other.
Him:
Aye. There you are. Are you happy? Your friend has returned,
and you are no longer looking, calling, finding him.
Hers:
Aye.
She:
Yes. I was so frantic; I believed he had left, but, here, he is, and
with me now, and I with him. I saw this couple on my callings
here, who looked to me, both so calmly, with a smile, and, for a second,
more, I shared their face, their laugh of mine-made, and knew,
somehow, I'd find him, here, or somewhere, here. They were so
cute, they, these two, with heads, so bowed by no need of being high;
both turned, in perfect unison, a unity united by an unseen,
though heavy, weight of age, and I, though I knew not their
names or fate, felt as though I knew them for far longer than
myself, and hold them, still, though they move, within my
thoughts. So peaceful, they, these two.
Him:
Aw, and such a sight as they would be so great a memory.
She:
Much more a model be.
Him:
You, in set of Sun, seem as though a life in light is lived,
held as though a Sun in you is made, with eyes and smile,
and, excuse my speech, you seem as happiness, if beyond,
and you are, the misery of having lost your friend, this, he.
She:
And you are excused, though I do not know why you would
ask or need to be.
Him:
I... You see the lightest lights in Heaven's veil; those they
call, "stars," though I see them more as unfall'n hail?
She:
I see them, yes?
Him:
There,
He raises arm, with slight-deep stabs of hers, to high,
finger straight with line of eye.
Before the bend of dome is bent back to? Beneath the shadow,
though appearing 'bove?
She:
I...
She moves closer to Him, behind Him, hers to His other side,
so She may line with His eye.
She:
I do. Yes.
He gives a breath, before latching to a breeze
He:
There, those points, these, hold such weight in mind,
this Butterfly, a stitch in time, as being quiet visitor of
night, spread toward crossing sky, with but build of
eye to know its 'sistence, though I feel it's free, inverse
of hold, as spread of me, and, from this, I find a way
of moving, though motionless.
She:
Your place is so far, and yet, with you, near; and, though you've
shown me where, I feel it's here.
He returns to breeze, and holds Her hand, free, with wing'd one
silent, spreading, resting; and She smiles in the cool of night as
whispers wind their way around Them.
The above work is protected under Australian Copyright Law and International Copyright Treaties, as well as a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
edited, on 8/22/06, from the original.
Your hands, more clubs, blunted, held out as to reach close only for need of nourishment; Your eyes, open, all of you within them, wanting only a moment's passing 'to the next; Your nose, visible, covered slightly with an aura, held for need of where to be; Your lines, arms, thick-pelted with the food, the warmth, you've not forgotten was given in sacrifice; Your hood, closed on skin of neck, of ears, lying to keep down the hair you've grown; You swallow. Another night's distance and these legs, friends in rain, may hold but as scene long-sought in memory. You take in breath, holding not but a second 'fore you lose that stench of flesh, half yours, half theirs, your wamrth of limbs. You widen lips, yet, closed, keep them, wanting scrunch of cheeks in vision, welcoming to the eye', lonely in their passings of the nose. A branch, low, hangs for you to lower yourself, accepting & rejoicing, silently, with appreciation, the scraping of its naked hands upon your scalp, your thin-coated view, unseen by eyes. You lower hood to shoulders, hoping, soon, another may grant such comfort of company; the only friend a walker has being the shake of hand, of leaves by head, knees, limbs-up, or breaths hard-breathed; so welcoming, the sound the slide of seed upon the mind, much less the covering.
Sky.
You wake, slightly prior to your stumbling 'bout, with water needed by your sleep-dried mind, and your hands, beside your thighs, hang as do weakened vines from branches, trunk', along the trees.
but i'll be around longer than the words can be spoken, and, somehow, i'll know whether you're right, and you'll know whether i'm right, and we'll go our separate ways enough to meet at the end of the world, never turning around, but comin back just the same.
His is a belly, which, upon waking, tells him what he's missing, whether through touch, through warmth, through the crisp-chill of winded blankets/sheets, or through the bacterial grunts of, "fooood.."
What you should have no knowledge of is how simple life and living are. Yeah, they are the same thing, but there are more, too. To say one is the other may seem ludicrous, but living is death is life is birth is hope is salvation is comprehension is universality is peace is struggle is suffering is famine is death is living is life. And what stands out among all of those syllables and ceremonies? Is you crazy? Comparisons are mediocre. I need definitives.
Gravity:
The bottle tipped over-- Gravity won.
The bottle stood still-- The bottle defied gravity.
The bottle tilted a bit-- Gravity struggled.
Gravity is bullshit. What goes up must come down, unless what goes up does not come down. Motion leads to motion, unless motion is stopped. You know, the laws or theories of this realm of thinking, Science, are so abhorrently wrong, that one may see such things as a religion-- you must, before you understand, believe. But, all religions are bullshit. They're as a cackle of birds: one speaks, another speaks, so assumptions are made that all seek to speak, whether they do or not. If one does not, then they are seen as, "abnormal," or a new species (that comparison is wrong-- I believe in the science of collecting information, whether on species, areas, or beliefs and occurrences, but the science of creating what are seen as , "constants," are to be kept within the realm and era from which they are observed, and not to be spread amongst different eras or situations, as how a baby would splatter its food over the kitchenware/table, just because it's easy and fun to do). I know what I'm experiencing, and I draw assumptions and ideas from this constant experience, piecing together a thought with another, and planting a knowledge, whether wrong or right, about what is. I do see things I know are wrong, such as throwing trash on the park ground, or taking a loaf of bread without paying for the loaf, but those effect me in a manner that is not hatred for the doers, or sadness for having done so, but as a means to remember what action was taken, and to perform another if said action is not to my personal liking, or to partake in the freedom of being actionless, however bland or bold such a move may be. This is a rambling; I'm not going back to gravity, as I believe gravity to be a fast way of thinking of the rotation of the Earth in a level, mentally, that may even itself along the shortcuts and diagrams drawn before, without having an experience or a seed planted to see and feel such occurrences in a manner that would be without words, but, rather, with a fluidity of thought, much like the spider, hanging from their web, though their web may eventually be run through or drenched or shook away, but that's why the spider's method is within the spider, and not of a single use.
I once believed the world was round. Now, I see the world is bending, perfectly aligned so you may not see everything at once, a sort of triangular spiral; though, I might not be entirely sure of the positioning-- are we near the opening end, the closing end, or between both, or is there no real end, but, instead, a straight-lengthed maze, hedged about with fine-clipped shapes, but, somewhere, the clippings-- the excesses-- have to be accounted for.. Nothing is so much a question as an answered statement, waiting to be neatly placed within the realm of comprehension's ? ! structure.
i want to be as miniature; amongst the dandelion's greyed flower, watching and striving to hold on as the wind-lifted florets find their way on streams unseen in air, as voices so often do.
I read a story today; more a headline, really:
Wild Bees And The Flowers They Pollinate Disappearing Together.
While a study in Britain, the word may spread
toward the cities, the streets, the neighbor's
Of the colonies, toward the parks, where the last
wild flowers spring to be bladed by
the last of the green grass let roam free, alone
with the nutrients of a soiled Earth, baked
by the Sun, more-less the hands of a chef;
so tolerant, they, these petallers, fal'n on
grass, on ground, free from such worries as
pestilence and pesticides, be it by
bite or might of spite for the na'tral; the
hold of the ship brought cries of mutiny,
the unseen immigrants, left to end where they are;
But all brings match of Bee from Park, Tag,
a game of Care, of Worry-Not, but I do.
such candy'd liquor, this, a band
about the view of new-laid sand,
dust but wayed on line, a level seen,
though lost, with wanderings.
as much as i try to,
i fail to leave you;
hope the world
would just let us be--
let us be comfortable,
without all the wounds
left healing, while we
focus on other things--
things we never say we need,
but always fall back on
when there's nothing else to do.
i tried erasing you
from my memory;
so fragile the thought
of giving in and letting go,
but i never found the strength;
i always failed when i never tried hard enough.
there's a light i look to
when the clouds are clearly grey and nothing can reach us from above;
there's a lightness of the air i never
look toward, but always find when there's time enough
to stand and wait for
the thoughts of pressure to fall away, sideways,
letting the skin open and air the aggression of this body
now calm, for the world doesn't need another madman;
just another romantic, graced by all of the life left to be.
i sit and walk by
all that we had,
i look to repeat them,
but know there's better to be done;
yet, i follow
all their courses,
break my head on the sounds, not said,
but wished away too often to
stay, except when you come back
and tell me everything i never needed to hear.
i felt you from afar and knew this would be all i'd be able to say to you,
even though so much more need be said without words, alone.
i, fragile, feel you breaking me,
and you, light, lift me higher;
and i know love when you whirl 'round my impure skin.
take a look at the worlds from far, looking
back on you,
though you know not from where, but know they are,
somehow,
loving you without a need of being brought back for more;
and we don't know why.
i've sat more than any man should want to, but there's a dimension to the sitting that adds a sense of calm, of unknown-until-you-know elapsings of time. i enjoy philosophy, the addition and realignment of thoughts and the dissection of what is held to be infallible. What a clam, life. To see the shell as being all there is, without the want of crushing it open or awaiting its opening, that is what I fear. That, and love. Both are such strange attractions as to be completely opposite, while wholly the same; they are the perusal of intricacies and delicacies from which all understandings are easily seen or reached to. I saw a man, riding his bike, down the middle of a car-lined street, in a neighborhood just off campus, where the houses rarely top one story, and her trees rarely stand above the halfway point of a pine. He smiled, greeted, and gave a thumb to me, upward. I understood, as he had allowed me the ability to, and I thanked him with a likened smile and a greeting's back. Love and life are the same in that regard. When living, you love; when loving, you live. I never saw myself in the mirror much, but when I do now, I smile, as, a stranger's smile has been given to me, and mine to them. Pass it on.
Of all I've written, this is the most present and pressing, still.
Perhaps, though known
through only the most
educated of guesses, an
instance much close to
one at hand lies within
the thousands, years,
previously held in sway
for climate's progression
from solidity, ice,
toward tropics, 'canoes;
the always-there, yet
covered world we know
exists now, but know,
in some fashion, existed
prior to our arrival/
spark of move toward
current-- yet, to say
such things came easily
is to put aside difficulties
stretching the spread of
continents, of lands, unseen,
yet traversed, conquered,
given an image, human
in nature-- the deepest
core from which a
'ruption of emotion comes
for mother, land, father,
thought, and all which may
come from search, despite
the calamity-- such
calm from search, from
purpose, not found, or
given to-- such
calm from knowing
all as is is as only is
and not as could,
perhaps may,
be soon or later, still.
All beings seek for happiness; so let your compassion extend itself to all.
~ Mahavamsa
Pasted from http://muttscomics.com/index.asp
I will never be famous. And that freedom affords me much.
Nothing such as death brings about a universal sense of urgency in thought and diligence, save birth.
And now, to seem as though all is but autonomous,
A shaking shook to be left shaking still, with no means
But empathy, but sympathy for self and no other, though
Other exists and holds a high head in need of resting,
But no hands or shoulders reach/slide to be there;
And all is magnetic, pulled to be away from they you know
Would rather be attached, though so forced you are to leave
Despite your wonderings of contrary beliefs held in hopes of more.
For days of weeks, we sought to be as speakers,
Though our words, most yours, are now unheard
And all is owed to mem'ry, an accidental cause.
A laugh, a question known but answered not,
For who needs such trivial'ities if words be second;
First our legislature'd hearts, signed to service,
Though so knotted in the legalities of parchments,
As to not be held in hearing, but 'stead in subtleties,
A way of coward, I, who knew not your desires;
Desires but by an unfilling, flinched in hesitance,
Though they, through knowledge, now, be, too, mine.
And, through them, these, you will most see who this,
Yours, is, reluctantly, in speech, alone, as now is known.
such
vertical seas,
wave trees,
oceans of
light behind,
to bend toward
deepest seam.
Wind speaks,
in ways as horn of car, screech of wailer,
brush of breeze/a light touch upon the cheek or knees,
the symphony/dotted through beak of bird,
the pattern of a dragon's flight, the
hum of bee, the wave of hand, the
rise of breast, of stomach, full,
a diaphragm, a mouth, eyes
let shut;
Wind speaks,
if you care to listen/
take care to wait/to
wade within
Wind's 'lightened lake;
Wind holds
your breath,
a give of take, and
, still, watches,
silent, sought,
for your return to Wind,
your leaving but a voyage,
short, yet lengthened, shook
to core, as though in
plummet, you held
to what you know must go
and, return/a prodigal/more.
And in your sight, all else becomes but sin;
A washing of the mind to wax your image in
A mind, a mind, a hole but known to see
All else becomes but darkness, blighted, the
Worst is yet as come they may, find me, here,
A drawing of the blood in cheek as through fear,
But hold not your wand, your lock, your complexity,
Before your ire; I know nothing less than words to me;
Feeling, the regret, a hold they have upon the skin,
A shake of life, from hair of neck by sores to cl'n.
How low the deep-sought soul, waxing your grace
To be as cook, so bold to know nothing, less your taste.
And, yet, I do not wish you these words as they are,
As they be but mirrors let bubble to, as in wave from far.
I believe we are the only animal who may hold their ass at the pit of their being, or at the midway of their person, or as their highest part.
I think it best to hold an eye mostly closed, if not partially open, with the other wide, so you may, if through physical means alone, be observing the world through more than a single means.
Smile, you are only owed happiness.
dropped the pen
, kicked the phonecord
and didn't give two thoughts.
place the moment
within a myriad
of sectors--
one,
the current,
and another,
rhetorical future/in a past sense.
i will not place my wallet near my pen, in fear it may compromise a character trait.
Though you may be beside her, your
hands upon her, your parts--dashed--
inside her, I remain in thoughts, as
though a cherub, scrunched, placed
to be as watchful eye of scrutiny, and
while you hold hand, remember, see,
I will be within her far longer than thee.
The gentle-man, beside his car,
more in front than rear/more
to the engine/motor than to
the doors, but, he was painting,
a much-stroked blue, beneath
the sun, and, though he knew
, from mind, ten ways 'bout which
to onward-go, he paused, in
reflection, brought to cause of
calendar's wake, a memory/a
fantasy of finger, lifted, raised,
pointed at from drape of He,
and, in this white-covered-brown
tunic, He began to, through canvas
, lift from page, from thinnest
material to a tower, slabbed,
drenched in day's workings and
the material, the hands of blue-
worker, David, a well-spoken
, gentle-man, whose times
were before him from his
'versaries, 3 or 4 prior-made,
being worked on from mind's
softest point, a sharpening
let be blunt to they who may
see but colors without the depth
, the plurals of a wading scene.
Non-violence leads to the highest ethics, which is the goal of all evolution. Until we stop harming all other living beings, we are still savages.
~ Thomas A. Edison
Pasted from http://muttscomics.com/index.asp
i never say what i feel. that is best, as, often, i feel a multitude of ways, and no one cares to know each, individually.
just go. go about your day, your life, your world. go. do not stay in any thought of feelings for long, as they have a nasty way of latching on and not leaving when having overstayed their welcome.
pixels, drowned-orange/shadowed-bright, stab through
bars/through slick-sloped crests of curvatures
, these mappings 'cross their points, broad
to be but surveyors' tools, haphazardous through
most, simplest rules
pixels, drowned-orange white, stab through line'd slantings of the blinds, stars let drip in spark'ling majesties
through thick-lined, white/shadowed wall cut thin, constellations pierce, breaking bold-dark/orange to mimic dome, though room and droppers, fall'n, know more than eye can meet through generalities and gaze.
longing is best described
as true swaying of the heart
in want/in hope/in sight
of a returning rock for/to fill
the space swung in.
as much as i
love you, i
know not
your view
and,
though i
can/may find
way amongst
the brambles/branches,
i
cannot go beyond
what i know not
yet/
you.
you may
belittle your words
by misinterpreting
what you've said,
rearranging/insulting
them by
fooling
yourself
into holding them
at a distance
that is any further than
in
Held still, eyes shift from passage/from word to the lure of soft hum, and, darting, they shift from 'bove to 'low our bench, tracking eyes as tag and, thinking I no need to keep focused, pops between the planks/the boards and holds, to wait eyes return to book/to hands and, satisfied, they raise to be seen again, a turning of the game, as, now, I, hidden, hold from look, from shift, to see move of next and, they, displeased, lean in hov' to me and, lightning-knock into, persuading me, a turn toward they and, in play, happy, they return to game 'neath bench/from sight/to watch response, to measure moves as made or held.
so, you're there
, i'm here
& there's too much
between us to
leave it at that--
won't you come & hold
this, a heart, beaten
to be tender/still,
as nothing lasts as long
as laughter between the
veins, & nothing
feels as does the unbothered
unminded
breath/a
breeze,
made &
loved, to
be
there is a she
for me.
i know not where;
i know not her location/
though her presence,
her laughter/liquid breathings
form on me a chill,
a warmth of breeze/of budding
pores brought lively--
and, though she is not here,
i know she is.
she exists..
or, if not now,
as she is in mind,
she will be, in time,
much more, much more
than finite words/definites
/much more
than thought of as now by me.
are you her? this
she whose lesson,
pressure,
rises me
to fluidity of thought
as though image,
burnt through dreams?
washing the face and
taken into account
is what diana's said:
clean, rinse, moisturize.
on-top of that rests
the idea of earth,
barren/dry/sunken
and unavailable to life;
moisten the land, though,
and you have soil/
life/roots to grow
more.
how destitute, fallen, timbered,
shook the trees by wind in water's company,
but how rich the health/a wealth of
the most natural green
when licked, wet, regrown & free
From: Brian
Date: Jun 20, 2006 6:34 PM
Subject: ***Read it. Pass it on.***
Body: What would you do? You make the choice! Don't look for a punch line; There isn't one! Read it anyway. My question to all of you is: Would you have made the same choice?
At a fundraising dinner for a school that serves learning disabled children,the father of o ne of the students delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended. After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he offered a question:
"When not interfered with by outside influences, everything nature does is done with perfection. Yet my son, Shay, cannot learn things as other children do. He cannot understand things as other children do. Where is the n atural order of things in my son?"
The audience w as stilled by the query.
The father continued. "I believe,th at when a child like Shay, physically and mentally handicapped comes into the world, an opportunity to realize true human nature presents itself, and it comes, in the way other people treat that child."Then he told the following story:
Shay and his father had walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were playing baseball. Shay asked,"Do you think they'll let me play?" Shay's father knew that most of the boys would not want someone like Shay on their team, but the father also understood that if his son were allowed to play, it would give him a much-needed sense of belonging and some confidence to be accepted by others in spite of his handicaps.
Shay's father approached one of the boys on the field and asked if Shay could play, not expecting much. The boy looked around for guidance and said, "We're losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put him in to bat in the ninth inning."
Shay struggled over to the team's bench put on a team shirt with a broad smile and his Father had a small tear in his eye and warmth in his heart. The boys saw the father's joy at his son being accepted. In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shay's team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. In the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on a glove and played in the right field. Even though no hits came his way, he was obviously ecstatic just to be in the game and on the field, grinning from ear to ear as his father waved to him from the stands. In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shay's team scored again. Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base and Shay was scheduled to be next at bat.
At this juncture, do they let Shay bat and give away their chance to win the game? Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat. Everyone knew that a hit was all but impossible 'cause Shay didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, much less connect with the ball.
However, as Shay stepped up to the plate, the pitcher, recognizing the other team putting winning aside for this moment in Shay's life, moved in a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least be able to make contact. The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and misse d. The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly towards Shay. As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and hit a slow ground ball right back to the pitcher.
The game would now be over, but the pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could have easily thrown the ball to the first baseman. Shay would have been out and that would have been the end of the game.
Instead, the pitcher threw the ball right over t he head of the first baseman, out of reach of all team mates. Everyone from the stands and both teams started yelling, "Shay, run to first! Run to first!" Never in his life had Shay ever ran that far but made it to first base. He scampered down the baseline, wide-eyed and startled.
Everyone yelled, "Run to second, run to second!"
Catching his breath, Shay awkwardly ran towards second, gleaming and struggling to make it to second base. By the time Shay rounded towards second base, the right fielder had the ball, the smallest guy on their team, who had a chance to be the hero for his team for the first time. He could have thrown the ball to the second-baseman for the tag, but he understood the pitcher's i ntentions and he too intentional ly threw the ball high and far over the third-baseman's head. Shay ran toward third base deliriously as the runners ahead of him circled the bases toward home.
All were screaming, "Shay, Shay, Shay, all the Way Shay"
Shay reached third base, the opposing shortstop ran to help him and turned him in the direction of third base, and shouted, "Run to third! Shay, run to third" As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams and those watching were on their feet were screaming, "Shay, run home! Shay ran to home, stepped on the plate, and was cheered as the hero who hit the "grand slam" and won the game for his team.
That day, said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, the boys from both teams helped bring a piece of true love and humanity into this world.
Shay didn't make it to another summer and died that winte r, having never forgotten being the hero and making his Father so happy and coming home and seeing his Mother tearfully embrace her little hero of the day!
AND, NOW A LITTLE FOOTNOTE TO THIS STORY: We all send thousands of jokes through the e-mai l without a second thought, but when it comes to sending messages about life choices, people think twice about sharing. The crude, vulgar, and often obscene pass freely through cyberspace, but public discussion about decency is too often suppressed in our schools and workplaces.
If you're thinking about forwarding this message,chances are that you're probably sorting out the people on your address list that aren't the "appropriate" ones to receive this type of message. Well, the person who sent you this believes that we all can make a difference. We all have thousands of opportunities every single day to help realize the "natural order of things." So many seemingly trivial interactions between two people present us with a choice: Do we pass along a little spark of love and humanity or do we pass up that opportunity to brighten the day of those with us the least able, and leave the world a little bit colder in the process?
A wise man once said every society is judged by how it treats it's least fortunate amongst them.
Went to the Park
on Monday afternoon
, saw the worms dripping
with the pools in spread
o'er the gravel, a
sort of natural barrier
not much of a savior
for the stragglers
, stuck like dried-up veins
in stretch of black-leaked-grey.
there is a light around every shadow
even if you do not see one,
there is one somewhere beyond your view
in plain sight
though maybe not by you
all of poetry can be written on a single line.
how two beakers, distinct,
one
fluid-brought for sound, as in
flowing whistle, while
other
stutter-steps in voice, vocals
as fidgeting as the quick-swift heart--
how they, in unison,
one
before other,
practice/perfect/teach
to be as lovers
in the song,
they, these,
one and other
yet feet,
still to be forgotten,
land as though soldiers,
having marched
for daily ends, tired
but willing, sacrificial
for the means of heads
not needing to be in worry of
their placement, actions,
retirements.
in a littoral sense,
her bottom-thighs,
riding the warmth
of dress, cotton,
press to cup snug
the linear edge
dropped o'er by
legs
literally shaking, she
swift-caught her heel
to be in place upon
the floor, beneath
bench as though
she knew not
where to sit,
yet sat
f'r sure.
anyone else find it funny how the, "hurricanes," and, "heat," won their respective championships, over the, "oilers," and the, "mavericks"?
To I, sought is she
, who be, by any single wording
, less like herself than likely me
in fumbled search o'r open sea
, as lit by fullest Moon, a ray of 'flect'on/'re
arched/tight in swim of current, the
beauty more her smile than any vanity.
What is sexy?/alluring?
/intriguing?/desired?
From what thought/what obsession
/what force/what goal/what
does the want of traits come?
To some, meek
is refreshing/susceptible
/allowing of a passings-by
/an inquisition/of a try.
To others, curvatures
, full and trim/a firmness
hollered at to be lusted in.
To few, though many
they be, a discontent/a
master/slave pursued as the.
To you, perhaps, a professional
/pundit, brought to thought
or clarity by means, monetary?
To I, sought is she
, who be, by any single wording
, less like herself than likely me
in fumbled search o'r open sea
, as lit by Moon, a ray of 'flect'on/'re
. In scrape of shine, flick'ring, she
sells short her wait, but more her beauty.
What is sexy?/alluring?
/intriguing?/desired?
From what thought/what obsession
/what force/what goal/what
does the want of traits come?
To some, meek
is refreshing/susceptible
/allowing of a passings-by
/an inquisition/of a try.
To others, curvatures
, full and trim/a firmness
is lusted for or hollered at.
To few, though many
they be, a discontent/a
master/slave is pursued.
To you, perhaps, a professional
/pundit, brought to thought
or clarity by monetary means?
To I, sought is she
, who by any single wording be
less like herself than likely me
in fumbled search of open sea
as lit by Moon in ray of 'flectioning
, cast by Sun for troll of re'
, a turn took light by want of need
. And, still, they, who might rightly be
, lend ear or eye to word, unknowing
they be she.
Would you rather be a comet
Traveling at tremendous speeds,
crashing/flashing/scooting by,
shedding/leaving/always coming
back
or would you be content to spin
in stabled motions, affectionately
scouting and rounding by
as though a planet, sitting,
in wait of bumps and bruises
as though waves skirted like
a ship on cruise in find of
the most fantastic voyage
or
would you prefer to be sharpened to,
relinquishing cast for deepest view,
sliding spartan in dance with they you
cannot get away from
yet
or would you wish to be the clearest
marking of the sea, a buoy, weighted,
rushing by in twirl of others' worlds,
broke to breaking and breaking, still,
lifting to be portal, fixed, burnt of smile
or would you
be opened to purpose
of being here, a
slight sting of pain to be
washed away/let slip,
looked on as though
there's more to know
than to be seen,
as though
wind breaks not
o'er skin/through hairs/
on back/in breath/loaded,
heavy with the cause of
the lifting sea what-breed/be,
locked for amusement,
spiraled,
twinge of euk's as prok's
know more, but, still,
we wonder
what the reason is
and find only calm in
tiring-- well,
here's to the
rush of exciting claims,
here's to the
rise without know of fail
and here's
to the worst and the frail/
here's to the strong and the meek/
here's to the reality,
welcome,
you're welcomed here.
'affectionate' from the weakerthans' "affectionate embrace", 'spartan' from val kilmer's "spartan", 'euks as proks' from isaac asimov's "the secret of the universe", 'to be washed away' from oasis' "champagne supernova" and "wonderwall".
No matter your perception, you are within what is all-encompassing, what is beyond sight and sound and your touch, and only known through cognition, though the others help tremendously.
okay. i'm not the biggest firefox fan out there, or i'd be writing extensions with the best of them, but i am an avid user.
having used ie originally, then switching to netscape and, eventually, sticking with opera for a while, i dove right onto the bandwagon for firefox and started messing with it. the setup i use isn't the best i've seen, as there are some people who make the browser their entire desktop, sans the start menu and taskbar. but, i figured i'd show you what i surf with everyday (when not using the latest opera 9 build).
my firefox config:
thanks go to mr tech for the badass local install extension.
fall asleep for 2 hours, wake up, and stay awake another 4. should i go back to sleep, or take another nap in 6, or just lay on my back until the ceiling resembles stars, the mini-mountains, shadowed, showing some mark of a stabled/stationary existence, but i know, with a pinch/apush/aslightbrushing, they will fall/willcrumble, as all do, eventually.. and where do they go, these fallen remnants of a ceiling, of what is oft-seen by night, now hidden within the sheets/the carpet/behind the desk? and what of them now? what of them then? what if the vaccuum picks them and places them, distanced, from their origination?.. though, the ceiling is hardly their origin. no, they were before the ceiling/the mold from which they hung in right fashion, though they belonged elsewhere.. perhaps the plaster next were used in mold of bust, of carvings, gone through with care by wretched artist, fumbling to be known/recognized/understood as other than a simple chipper of a mound? the tv calls, and i, weak/a weektomydebts, i look down from these words, in shame, and pray, though rarely i do, pray they be a remembrance of these noble stalactites, fashioned to be 'bove, as, in art or placement, they, through careful hands or swift swipings of a brush so used, they, in fall or stance, so known as more, as though they majesty's fractal musings, left/or placed/or 'signed to be, are beauty, they, those/these landers from unknown, stars, but shining shadow 'pon their selves, as do most in wait of notice, though so purposed they may be
i'll put it in a note
"don't forget me"
squi/rumbles the
unfed, unthought of gut,
though a bit bellow belly
and more to the rear..
clamped, wishy-washy/tight,
the shoulder-high head to side,tilted,
a slant to see as eyes take,
transfer/transform/transmognify
the too-distant touchings
from a universe outside the skin,
the ah-waving hairs of tip
and, lost, i follow, back
inside to wait for chance,
a happy stance i may not know
without.
veins, twisting, tighten, brought fluid with the thought of something more, something outside, yet i am there, on the outside, seeing/feeling/touching/knowing/breathing/intaking all and yet i know nothing of them, except the weather/the calm/the rush of wind on palm from fingers, tracing thought in rabid raze of thinkers' pace and though i sink farther, i rise, i rain as cloud upon these keys, to know where storm may lead, and though i feel a sense of calm, this rage, this flash, lingers on
to where, i know not, yet go, a hollow vessel, filling, leaking, holding close the image/clear, a brightened path brought close by taken steps/stairs/stares at blank, and dark, at shadow/red of veins
to chris maine: read the first two lines and the last two.
and it snows
as threads
snipped, short,
wasting
to be piled/spread.
as does smile.
as do tears.
The covering yawn of air, full-held to be escaped, to be fading from the voice'd roar, in rush of crowd, of millions, bowl'd to be as risers of the fallen, to be as harvests, loosened [rocked, rounded in the loosened soil], let sit, climbed-over, rolled in upward glance-foot/swift lifting of the core to see the fields, laid strewn/laid, stained in corpses, light held off in festive linings of the shadow-flashes, dots as stars, inversed to held as swarm, wing'ing 'llipsed as toward goal, in twist of glances, spun, o'er heads, and distance, covering, as does solstice, 'splosion, Sun, a whistle, pitched too high from ears of skin, though all lies through as lies in, and, cross stones, stuck, though ever-loose, hands reach, to be left at fevered swipe'ings in movements, gestives in their nature, given as clappings for the strain
and you make known your presence, your
chatter 'long these walls, up to challenge,
though weakened with your language, your
hiding in the breath, on skin, through eyes,
you give to be taken in and, still, you speak,
you wash/click as through the brushings,
strokes, and, known, you 'llow your sense
to be, a cradle of the mound, fresh-baked
to be a staple, stable, bustling make,
and, through these searchings, strikes,
you begin to break, as though in play,
in laughter, 'cycled, way, you hover 'bout
to be as hand of teacher's may, fal'n to
as festive hands may, from clap/from cheer,
though soft, to, unhindered, know, from
still as know from stalled, in as know from far,
yet, still, in stall, you give a know of all
i'm working with these words, and they belong to you,
and, when i stop, you need more, and my reluctance is but waiting
to take over, though, within me, still, i know you need/will have/deserve/will leave without more and more, and, despite, my not having/rotten thoughts, i tery, i give, as though taking from, a d feel you will find me false, though they are your words, and i am not a writer, but a fraid to go beyond the wallings of this head, and i know these tappings are without speed, with swift fingers/tipped/giving lead of me, and i hope you free them to, from thoughts, garbled/jarbled, to strike in means much longer resonating than these
and you pour,
leaking your words
down pipes,
from high, and they
trickle/find a way
to stalk the ground,
as though your prey,
and in push-soft graze
of breeze, your fingers
slip to tip of these,
and throat grows wet, in need
of dry, of speak, of world,
of breath, of thy bleed'
i have nothing but words
and the breath about me
and the slow-caress of a wrap of wind from palms to brow, to nostrils,
reluctant to divert the path to me, when so much needs more
than i let slip by
but this, these, those
grow on and inspire me, as does the Sun, as do her Shadows, The Land,
both l'quid and moving,
so tectonics are inside and show the overlappings well deserved are
but shifts, so needed to allow the revolutions to persist
and the droppings, buckets poured, smell of ringings, washings, more, to these ears, unfollied in their search for you
plip
upon the screen,
the window, bare but dotted, sprayed,
lays, in hurried fashion, another
to be dried by sun,
though its mission, sentence,
rings true
thank you.
she smiled.
he felt her lips widen, stretch,
part as those nostrils flared
for her to breathe.
he sighed/he took her inside,
her breath, and held
to fall the chest
and release to her
his lungs.
she turned her head,
chin toward him, eyes
down to see him,
from her side, and
she showed her tongue/her throat,
open-to-welcome him, and
he smiled.
Porcelain royalty,
Iron-haired maiden,
Sloped to see those
in front/beside/by her tips'o'toes
and all in smile, widing grin
through which happy air follows in
beauty, you,
smile on softest neck
adorned in strands of gold
lay fair from crown, a princess, wears
Katie was always my anti-hero. My protagonist, as I was the antagonist. She would harass me, I her, and all around would know and feel this. She pinched, I choked. She slapped, I held. I love her. She is the reason for so much of my life to be happiness.
Mom was always the anchor. Katie and I sailors, the House a ship, school a land we ferried to and from, and Mom was our anchor. We would come home from school, go our separate ways (Katie off to wherever she wanted, usually a friend's, while I stayed and talked with Tina, rather often, or went to the computer.), we would wait for Mom, and have dinner, watch TV, and go to sleep. Mom obtained for us a life we would not have seen had she not given to us what she did: Knowledge, foresight, responsibility, morals, all of these were left to stay, boiling on our minds, only to sink in later and to stick to the bottom of our awareness. She knew. Somehow, she knew we would be upstanding citizens. Yes, potheads, artists, designers, writers. She knew. She gave those to us, not through addition, but through augmentation. She saw us acquire as we did, and handed us an open hand with enough insight to allow us to roam, freely, upon the plain.. to fill the land with thought, with buildings, trees, plants, companions. She knew. Gone, now, is who I was: The stubborn child, being hauled away, shouting, "I WILL SUE YOU!" to the daycare personnel; the obnoxious beast, whose only means of fun was harping on others; the anxious, often excitable and, yet, reluctant child, whose temper flared as would a mercury thermometer on an open flame; the shy, the terribly shy. I am still those, yet I am traveled. I am carried, onward, as though a step away and a step toward those, and myself. Mom knows a discussion about her would eventually lead to goings-on in regards to myself. She allows me to be selfish, to be self-centered, self-aware, self-unconscious. She is as an addition now, an augmentation of thought, a conscience whose identity is fully known, recognized, yet understood as being completely free of any bonds of limits placed; she may be emotional, running her eyes as her thoughts, leaking over her hands, or she may be flared, raised, intolerant of those who do not understand as she does, yet she loves them so. She is Mary, Mother, Guidance of Self from Tormented/Anger/Unruly toward Seclusion/Personal/Disciplined in bulldog's way.. not outright, but fully delved to what need be done/what we need to have done. She deserves more.
And will have so.
you wake as princess, crowned a queen, with softest smile of swan in lean, and though you know your color, clean, you glow as gold to brighten dreams,
even when she's sad, or crying, she smiles,
and her smile gives to me all the words she wants/she needs to hear, and i reword/arrange them so she can smile away those tears.
and the funny part is, i cry more than she does, and she doesn't even seem to mind at all, though i wouldn't doubt she laughs from time to time, or thinks my actions silly, as she's perfectly fine to.
and yes, i do worry.. that she may not want me in my fumbling, feminine state, but she's been with me through this so many times, i doubt she doesn't care, more than worries about my face
she allows me to fly around, keeping me tethered, so she, too, can enjoy, as she is the flyer of i, her kite
and so i won't go off and be lost, again,
but she's always there, waiting for me,
and she knows i'll always return for her.
even when she's sad, or crying, she smiles,
and her smile gives to me all the words she wants/she needs to hear, and i reword/arrange them so she can smile through those tears.
twist off this head and, with your hook, sharp-turned, dip into these cages, pulling with your bait a heart no-more a muscle, weakened, beating as a lipped fish
Within the tri-fold droplets of a sideways rain, a world, encompassed, travels as would trains-- trackings, from station/o'er the cars, to rose of wild shakings, breaking/splitting parsed as passers from/on far
we are as the branches, seeded
to length of limbs, with leaves,
and though we fall, we wilt, we see
our fellows lie or wave to be
as fallen, raised, or swaying, we
are as beacon, pulse, strength
or weak, held in arm, in love of The
There were three siblings of Mormyrid,
a fam'ly nigh you'll've seen;
Staunch in stance were they, these three,
a bubbling of a stream.
When asked what way they kiss,
one said, so slight,
as fear they'd might, but miss,
if wait holds long a night, good-kiss,
while others, wanting, cite
a stranger, swift in-tight to this;
yet one of two, who say they'd choose,
holds to host, as well past due,
shifting frame to window, scene
opened in a view by dream;
while third in last holds fast their heart,
having beat-drawn flight kept in spark
known in lip-sealed secret, ne'r from to-part
There were three siblings of Mormyrid,
a fam'ly ne'r you' seen,
Staunch in stance were they, these three,
a bubbling of a stream.
When asked what way they kiss,
one said, so slight,
as fear they'd miss, but might,
if wait draws long, a kiss goodnight;
while others 'cite
a wanting: stranger, swift but tight;
yet one says they'd choose,
a host, in-come
as well past due,
pointing to the window, open'd,
glassy, a scene as seen alone, by view;
while third, in last, holds fast their heart,
by having beat-drawn flight kept spark
as lipped & sealed a lover's secret
originals of the Mormyrid. they don't keep their tenses.
There were three siblings of Mormyrid,
a fam'ly nigh you'l've seen.
Stance was staunch in they, these electric three,
from bubbling in a stream.
When asked what way they'd kiss,
one said, of slight, they'd likely miss,
in fear of sight or grow' of cyst,
as loosened draws a tight to this.
Other, wanting, 'scribed of stranger,
swift in task, a pose of danger,
drawing scene, a dream, of window, hanger,
hastened to by call of anchor.
Third held highest heart, their fasting beat,
drawn of flight, a spark in keep,
to be, lips know, as strong, but meek,
for wait is worth more than who may seek.
"yes. what is time? what is time, but a fubbling of the mind, a celebration of the world, a droughting of the one for respect and acknowledgement of the other?"
"yes. and, yet, time supplies you means of knowing time exists, as with all of these, and more, as yet found-not or willed, as-so-yet, to-be."
"You know the hesitation with courting a queen?"
"No, I think I don't."
"One must be willing to consider one's self a king, before consorting with a queen."
"No, I believe that is not so. The same may be said of all roles you lay on others."
"Yes, but who else would a queen deserve? Who would be the deserver a queen, if not a king alone?"
"Now that, I believe, is the question easily answered. By knowing the roles are but monikers, bestowed, but rarely followed, you may these games avail and find the root of a person, as we are discussing matters of a person here, and not an intangible."
as they climb, she finds grip of branchen'd tree as lift from ground to sky, a view unseen before, for no means were given, 'cept the wing'ed kind,
and she, she laughs, having dug high in heaven's reach of sappen'd mind, a perch long-looked from feet, 'til reached with hand and reversal's sight, reversed,
and he, he stalls, hoping scene to be but soon-f'ot memory, lang'd from place to 'motion, turned in eyes as though uncaught by skin, 'cept mind, alone
when fallen, she, in air, hangs soul to breeze, to calm calamity, swept by wind, thrown and knotted, tense
when fallen, she, in air, holds sight of he, and he, in turn from self, grants wish of she and lands before her,
cracked and bleed'
when plucked from ground, she, through rush of feet, leads him with cry to need the hand and hot-wet eye of mother, tallest, worried, worried by a scream from lungs, near dry
are we all of this, or more?;
is what we do who we are
or are we all a little more?
I drove to your house and found the lights on outside, speaking truth be told as wind laid hands upon me there, infront of window without door, as you leaned from story to say you wished me go, as you had lied, but, unwilling, I, stayed to know these labors had not been in earnest, a likely alibi to being so corrupted, buckled, shattered as the tall stars sprint across a sky in turning fashion, likened to a globe shaken but not by hands, but by twist of falling loose, a dropping spin of high, and to know you stood above me, shouting not, but looking, si'e', a watcher of my follies, a casualled passings-by
with two in warmth of/on chest, as you lay, core-driven to me as a cover, waiting 'til i give for one of others, not that i would think you that, i can't think you speak [of] me, either,. throu[gh] dos ö[f] beat[s], hold tight you, i/craze' [t/d]'o
to you, in lonely grab of air unchurned as yet be taken
pitched, perfect, i'm sorry, i never know what else to give
when i know nothing else to,
and
crumbled of a ball,
un-to stern observer, i,
split as watching animal, caged, lay
cheek to cornered marble, cold, to warm
the blister'd madness
faulted in simplicity
of all thoughts on: you
when every second brings me to knees, brought to buckle, but so true are they, these bent pillars, knowing there will be time to run later, when the world's done turning and she's stopped infront of me/to know the world isn't so alone anymore, but that we can take it, together/that the world isn't so alone anymore, but that we can run across this land, to fly without a feather/and i'm kneeling here, wondering, is the wander worth a letter, or should i stay?; by the time i make my mind, you'll surely be anywhere but around these/anywhere but around these weakened walls/anywhere but around this wasted fool/anywhere but around to be around me
above a wielded mace on shelf,
hanging, rests
a sign spell'd
'liberty'.
play, ye, mongst the
tops o' trees,
as, free, you be
from they & me.
wash in puddle,
fall of
stream, as
ruffled, clean, you be
much more than they & me.
play, as be you fair
in group of wade
or solitair', as fam'ly, flocked,
in gust & sea, you be for them
as they for me.
the contrasting sky,
its blue to white
behind the green,
as a bird, wings tight,
arrows by
to be traffic with
the fairies, grey,
as Earthly whisper rolls
amongst us & All.
and, stilled, we follow
as so prone to do.
and, yet, you know not
this poet, he,
who cannot see
but uses words
as imagery,
unseen,
as
wisdom leaves
but markings of what is,
what be.
play, ye, mongst the
tops o' trees,
as free, you be
from them & me.
wash in puddle,
fall of
stream, as
ruffled, clean, you be
much more than them & me.
play, as you be fair
in group
or solitair'
black
bird shakes,
as feathers twitch
& sway from
movements made
to clean, to
freshen' be.
of all the times
here, i be, Cardinal,
Red, shows flight
to me, and yet they
be not the only
singer carried/carrying these.
veins, indented, these
valleys, streams,
shadow-crevices
of the body,
fingers--
the knucks,
so use to
use,
but given depth,
the
warmth of nothing,
the cool breath of
stretch.
the ease of which
these eyes
fall to be but
twisted, sided,
lends itself
a serenity of
twicesight
as choice
be 'lone decision,
left,
but
right..
i hurry the poor
faucet
so my body may
drown a tad
quicker
than if
let go
at rate
so comforting.
what of eyes when
crossed, when
given choice
of sides
as if to say
both, neither,
same.
and you walk, chris, as though
someone calls you-- yet, you do not
run-- in steady crawl, you follow to
be as leader with others stampeding by
the high, nasal sweet
caress of the yellow/white
honey nest
the leaves of lengthened
limbs shiver in the
temperate breeze
a'brushing by
the grey fairies
rush as
shower'd stars,
unaffected by this
looker, onward moving
between their field
above the asphalt,
glittering
as much as i turn to take the trodden path,
the curve keeps turning me further away
and i cannot say i mind in the slightest
the ripples, life:
signs the world is here
to stay
i can forget you
exist here,
but, still,
you cross thoughts
to see i'm alright.
as i walk from touch of
sun to shadow, i
fall eyes to reality
and all is darken', still
straddling the
shadows
to know daybreak be__
see the
colorful fairies
dart from side to
out of eyes
footsteps,
falling,
a comical
dance 'mongst
the tallings
And the marsh builds mirror,
bright--
such light 'midst
the greenery,
leveled
i walked away
to find myself
waiting for
some other
day
wiggle, you,
poplar,
maple, cedar,
evergreen, princess
of court
and
bend in merriment.
as they
lay, bathe'ing,
thin-sea'd leaves play wavings 'pon the air of trees
the
peckings,
wood,
in build
of rest
between Cypress, Bald, and Gum, Sweet
all is as is,
yet is more,
yes, is less,
yet is everything,
yes, is nothing,
yet is blessed,
yes, as is.
understand
and live for/toward
those around you: Nature
and her kin.
shadow,
sleek'd brown
as black of beetle's back
what it is
what it is caused by
what it is causing
a picture is worth a thousand words,
but more can be said
about anything [nothing]
be as silent as to
hear the trees breathe
'bove the breeze' speak
for a whisper carries
loud
upon the moving ground
of atmospheres'
dancing blow
long 'cross
freedom,
round
the pine,
'mongst flame-green,
layered-
dark
poplars
By DENNIS CONRAD, Associated Press Writer Thu May 11, 8:10 PM ET
WASHINGTON - Democratic Sen. Barack Obama on Thursday ridiculed the Bush administration's defense of the
Iraq war, arguing that messages such as "Plan for Victory" can't hide the "2,400 flag-draped coffins that have arrived at the Dover Air Force Base."
ADVERTISEMENT
In a speech to EMILY's List, the Illinois senator used biting criticism in assailing the president and his handling of the war. Obama spoke in support of former Army Maj. Tammy Duckworth, a helicopter co-pilot who lost both her legs in combat in Iraq and is trying to win an open House seat.
"This idea," Obama said, "that somehow if you say the words 'plan for victory' and 'stay the course' over and over and over and over again and you put these subliminal messages behind you that say 'victory' and 'victory' and 'victory,' that somehow people are not going to notice the 2,400 flag-draped coffins that have arrived at the Dover Air Force Base."
The first-term lawmaker asked the audience: "People, have we flipped? It's time to say we notice it. It is time to say that we care, and we are not going to settle anymore."
The White House had no immediate comment about Obama's criticism.
Tracey Schmitt, a spokesperson for the
Republican National Committee, said Obama's remarks "are emblematic of a party that would rather promote pessimism and point fingers than weigh in substanitively on an issue as critical as the central front of the war on terror."
Obama, who first came to national attention when he delivered the keynote address at the 2004 Democratic National Convention, has been mentioned as a possible presidential candidate in 2008 — or perhaps a running mate.
"I don't know about you," he told his audience, referring to Bush's 2000 campaign comments on possible U.S. military involvement overseas, "but when
George Bush said he did not believe in nation building, I did not know he was talking about this nation."
EMILY's List is an organization that helps Democratic women who favor abortion rights.
a lonely passer-by cries
for the air to carry their
desparation far, to they
who are not there to be
seen, rather to be ridden,
stilled, for passing breaks
the regiments not known
by such a rogue as train'd
never,
again.
and this should be it for the lovey poetry.
She says she loves me
but I know she only says it
to keep me from sadness.
She holds his hand
and I'm thinking I'll be gone;
soon she walks a thin line,
holding him while I try
to hold her.
I thought every word
was for me
until I saw her saying them
to him. She
deserves a friend
and I
am nothing worth that.
She holds him
and I hold her
until she shrugs
and off they go.
i realize
she doesn't
consider me
unless i'm
infront of her
and while that may
distort my view
of her,
i
cannot place blame
as blame
should be placed
on my person
for having her
seem in need
of my company
she's like a creek, man.
i can keep walking her length,
hoping to find where her waters end,
always finding the depths so enticing;
or i can jump over her and walk
amongst the trees who feed from her.
but she's so rising, soon to drown them
before i can escape her banks, her shore.
yet i leave her,
she remains
the longest line i've tried to follow,
less she finds me wandering
to where i am closed.
she is the breeze,
making love in me.
this song, i wrote you,
tried to place you
within the span of a
couple minutes, but i
feel i've placed myself
against an obstacle--
you're too much
for words, for a head,
for a song,
for a breath.
we met as friends often do,
me despising you, you
dealing with issues other
than i'm accustomed to.
you handled it well, i
saw something i wanted
in you.. that
look of being
more than who you masquerade as.
years went by,
you moved on,
i did, too, but, must admit,
you still held a spot
within these thoughts
of loneliness and then
you came around again,
perhaps by accident--
i'd like to think so--
you showed
the You again
i Knew before
and i closed these eyes
to picture you
but no words
live or written could
know you, same. i tilted head
to try my hand
at placing you
within the boundaries
of the limited..
yet you raised, everytime,
to low this heart to
steady thump
as though you knew i
could never resist you, still..
i tried for you.
told you
everything..
all the words
i thought would never
see the day,
but still you went your way.
asked to move, i gave my stance
so you may know
something worthy, you.
the days spun by so hole found way
of growing deeper in me
'til, lost, i found you,
tried
closing my hands around you
only to be told
nothing could be planted/grow.
yet you kept me close,
offering a glimpse
more of you
i had never known..
wishing more, i
hoped you'd 'llow me
hold you here,
though, gone, you
knew nothing
nothing would let you stay
as you lay 'side another.
still, i
tried
as crash gave force
i knew not where to place,
yet
so easily 'pon you these
nerves find rest,
find warmth, find
shelterinskinsodamp
as to be softened, slumped.
no, it isn't okay.
not really a song. not really that good. stream.
the trees, so
still
in their bathing;
expectant, sort of
allowing
and absorbing
all that is
as the stars
fall
gently
from the clouds
everytime i want you to let me down, you
show yourself as true and, for a moment, i
believe you
Never in my life
have i seen so
beautiful the sun
as when she sets
and, known, the day is done
caught by pull of you,
many miles, behind,
push me; 'front of you,
as stumble i
but to know the world
be still before you;
i crawl, from distance,
line'd, press' on in
fall, running but, for you, as all;
as breeze, but motions,
cede your smile,
still'd lips, yours, by eye
when-'ternalized, be light as laughter,
lifting weight of waiting,
we:
tomorrow, now, & after.
right below
the left breast
lies [beats]
the beating [the lying] heart
i will not let you down
in the longer run
,but in the quick sprint
i may up-the-fuck shit
if you wish to know
this world,
ask me
and i will 'llow you know
what
this
means to me.
tree, a
trunk
filled,
tightly-tipped,
branched
to breeze amid
flames formed rear
of green,
layered
but to 'flect
the unseen yellows,
breathe'ings,
all
rolled from
hydro's friend,
oxy, gen' un-
derstood
through
happenings,
rose but to be
known by eyes,
All,
this moving
history
let errant,
ferment
to drink in
calamity
as the brilliant blasts
scream
to be seen
as
seen be
these,
branch'd leaves..
yet all
is inter-resting
[inter-resting]
A forgetful fellow never there was,
as he made sure by day's breaking,
never having woken to see but set
of sun; dawn n'er broke for this, a
f'otten sir remembered by his lack.
Not as though he were bothered as,
say, a more severe condition, still
he made light of it by means allied
with the logistics of a horticulture as
he, broke, bricks a reddened tomb.
In his swagger rests the sway of
confidence, if not a distaste for all
as is, for all should be as he, relaxed
to walk of shoulders, as they work
a more controlled means than legs.
Qw3l
Well,
I sit
and I tap
these keys
hoping
this
motion
follows me
across this body,
into you.
I've sat and watched
the wind swirl on by,
roaring in my ears
with a warning:
young man,
you are alive.
Open your mind,
open your eyes.
Break your thought
if for a moment
to picture
who I am,
your Lord
and your Savior
and your Lover
and your Father.
I am your Mother, Son,
and your Follower.
Bring to them
they who wish to learn
as they are learning now
a way unknown to me.
There is a spot
within the head,
within the chest,
where all are
as babies, caught,
wanting.
Fill their needs, My Scribe,
fill their needs
so they may know
and they may see
who I am:
your Lord,
your Savior,
your Mother,
your Father,
and your Son.
just as you pass,
i stop in walk
to 'llow you rush over me;
your touch,
from distance, calmed
to cool the skin
as heart, rising, rises in cage
for feel of you.
your shadow-movement,
motioned a'top and 'neath
the hands, the palms,
knucks, forearms,
cheeks, face,
body-whole.
i
inhale you,
hoping fore to know you i
may hold you inside,
filling lungs and chest
and cavity of the mind
with what radiance
you wash the skies..
i exhale,
pushing me from me to you,
from pit of lung and chest,
vitality of mind,
as, crushed, the cage collapses
so to 'llow
my wind play 'mongst yours
so you may know me same.
He reaches to her.
She shakes him off and walks away.
His head lays limp to clavicles
and he walks the other way.
She shouts something he cannot hear
from across the room, but
he's already deep within himself
again.
A draft falls, sideways, across him
and he lowers his shoulders to the floor,
knees bending so as not to break,
and his heels lift off.
Giving him his distance, she
feels she's done right by him.
Why should she behave any differently
than he has? Is he really that upset?
Why is he curling up on the floor?
He leaks insanity like a steamy pipe.
She continues walking, changing her
alignment so to walk against the wall.
Perhaps a door in this room will show itself
before she meets the tightness of a corner.
He raises his head to wipe his nose
with collar of his shirt.
She follows his movements, hoping
he's alright. She breathes.
He tucks his head between him and
the floor again, hoping she
doesn't see him. He holds his chest
with lungs, inside, so not to cry
anymore.
She moves her face but not her eyes from
him. She opens her lips, saying
silence across the room.
He collects himself, staying on the floor
in hopes she moves so he may counter
without falling prey to their bonds.
She turns her eyes, breaking from
the stagnant air and he moves,
settling to a squat. She breathes.
He gives her his breath as all
he has and she breathes in.
He waits for her to release
him from her lungs,
though he wishes stay.
She laughs.
He tilts his head, looking
to her as though she jabbed
a knife into his abdomen.
She widens her lips
and bares a bit of teeth.
He raises himself in her smile,
heels flat against the floor.
She turns her arm so palm
lays flat, outstretched
towards him.
He runs to her. She
welcomes him.
At the request of the murdered boy's parents, the crowds
walked silently and without signs of political affiliation
with respect to the family and the individuals involved,
this is the most moving display of humanity i've witnessed.
80,000 people walking, together, for one movement, for one
reason, without anything between them but camaraderie and
peace.
anger isn't the best way to cope with loss, it's just
a selfish way. what way is able to show those responsible
for a heinous act how the community and a nation feels?
killing them alone? hurting them alone? or showing them
the world they know is not behind them, but together
against them and those who condone or would repeat their
actions-- that the world is together, away from them,
both in remorse and in presence?
See http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/4936990.stm for the full story.
Photograph by NASA, digitized by Corbis Corporation © 1996
The Greatest View
No matter how many times astronauts have photographed Earth during two decades of space shuttle missions, the image in the rearview mirror has never become routine: that perfect blue marble, whorled with white, suspended against blackest space.
Pasted from <http://magma.nationalgeographic.com/ngm/space/wallpaper06.html>
See http://photojournal.jpl.nasa.gov/index.html for more.
behind the child's smile rests the tongue
of a woman. above, her eyes hide in
marble a fire's flame. that smile pulled me
to the stretch of frown and sadly i fell
back from her.. a needed pacing as she
stands so full above me.. and i
wonder/wait for her to breathe so i may
feel her breeze along these lips.
and beneath these thoughts of failure, of
never being able to walk infront of you
without crawling at your sight, i pile
memories so tightly as to suffocate the
eyes, to swell the sinuses. in this pile
rests you and me, though only one will
ever really be.
i love the mundane. the average,
everyday, routine greetings between us.
the "hii", the "herro". i love them more
because i know just about everyone
greets everyone the same. i don't have
to fear you saying the same to
someone else, because i know you do. it's
the personal, indepth conversations i can't
stop being afraid of. if i tell her this; if
she sees me as this; if we share this
moment, will she share it with someone
else? will we be the marker for this
footnote in time, or will we be but casual
letters placed neatly in a row, to be
announced out as routinely as a rolecall
with a thousand more to go?
just another monologue
i parted the seas to see you;
broke down on the way,
hoped you'd wait, but
i guess time rolls on,
even for everyone;
tried to map the route from afar,
but nothing goes as planned;
the paper's just a scribble
with no means of bringing
you closer to me.
if only we could purchase and discard
interchangeable hearts, i could speak
to you, throw out that old, broken
bone-pumper, replace it with a
brand-shiny-new, crimson ticker 'til
its time runs out; i'll be standing
while you watch the remnants
of that rusty-bubbled spare part
spill over lips to be painted with the
blackest red-- just hold on a second,
i'll switch them and you won't
have to worry about such a
catastrophe again..
until the new one bursts; i think
i may run out soon, i'm not too
satisfied with having only lived
to know your presence; i want
to know your radiance; i want
to rip from my chest this
interchangeable heart and place it
upon your doorstep, so when
you're doing your dailies, you'll
maybe stop for a second
to sweep the blood off your mat,
leaving streaks to show it was there
until the hose is turned on
to clear the concrete, the brick of
my gift to you-- how
so sincere, let me unzip this torso
and replace this weakened soul
with another i know can't stand
up to you; let me sit here,
i'll splash away the red markings
with this bucket; let me sit here,
i'll take my interchangeable heart,
discarded, with me on the way out.
"But, it's not fair. I.. I never had my chance. It's not fair!"
"You're right."
"What can we do? How do I regain my chance?"
"You can't."
"Who am I, but a humble servant of the west-blown winds. How may I challenge the aristocracy of this town? By never buying but a penny's worth of their goods, from me they've still made a killing. What smoothened texture the air holds when I reside in clouds face-leveled by their origin; perhaps all is as by day found to be, perfectly fine. What night brings more than what was left to bed when gone dreaming? None. None besides the night of storm, when deals of death lay struck or striking, or tense night of concept's mass. What madness was I speaking hence?"
"You needn't worry."
"Ciao."
and from another angle,
her brightest white
grows bare to soiled
bone, a match of
fur and structure
a faded slab of spongerock
floats, loosely between
the blackdrop of stars,
traced with edge of earth's
slightly arching shadow
listening to the cure
"just like heaven" (acoustic)
i followed steps from feet before me,
hoping nothing existed to hold my walk,
but the worst is always unseen, for
how can you know about invisibility--
i tasted you again in another tear,
trickled way from cheek to lip 'fore shoe
how perfect.
picture's purpose, driven,
drives through sight to
heart, a pitted mess rath' broke
than breaking-- cut off than
cutting-- forth, through sight,
purpose drives, letting photo'ees
hold face just one more minute, 'til
draft dries, nev' to be augmented.
ah.
how..
light the heart,
broken,
breaking,
shattered
while pumping..
how..
soft the chest,
pounded-pounding--
slipped further down to
pit, 'trapped, lined with
spike, twist, disemboweling sticks, stuck carefully
so as to prop rather than
let fall, slip,
fumble in the turf,
but
i do anyway
but in my mind, less my words, i know-- i feel the world is strangling me to actions i've known, too long, as replacements for you, my prize, my unwinnable prize.
and however much i know
of these, yours, feelings
i left upon a doorstep, left
burning but not stomped
out just yet, let them ash--
and however much i know
of these, i cannot say
with certainty you will
one day, upon a time,
long for me as i long
for you-- i know you
never will, yet how
beautiful the flame
upon your step,
brilliant blue, as
blue as bent sky
shrunk to see
in palm--
thinned to fragile tip,
rays of sun, anchored,
stretched to spread
weight of air to rise, to
spike in chance of
'scape-- breaking
yet what use is a light
in day's time, keep
such things for
need at night.
should i throw some dirt
upon this, my puppy-
brown coat, perhaps
draw you in to see i
need your help here,
i need someone to
hold on to when i
slip into those drag-
downs, tallied up to
push me down when
i try, i rise, i fall again
but i'll push harder now
maybe i'll become a
man, a responsibility's--
will you let me know
or should i guess at
some other ocassion,
not when these hands
keep lifting me from
free-falling, you raise me
to float, to peak, to
drift, caught in you
in spin in thought of
you, a line i drew
to never cross, as
we're not meant to..
real
poison'd, lobed,
faught to say it, but you know i'd never be able to love you as you need be,
love.
And there sits he, the
one with hand over and
we all know why
well, see, i
knew a posibility
existed previously to
give me a chance at you, i
just never
knew a posibility
existed that you
would reciprocate a want of
that chance
that feeling when the tips o' your nerves wiggle 'neath the skin
been drowning myself in sad songs and all i can think of is doggypaddling in circles until the storm lets up
i could recite a million different lines to tell you how i feel, but you already know which words are mine, so what's the use of rambling on when you know what's behind thoughts given rhyme
my voice would have you trembling/remembering what you were after before you knew what to go for
my eyes will break you down and make you want me to build you back
a different way
i'll be able to in another lifetime
but now i'll never have the chance
the only difference between insanity and brilliance is the world's understandings of what is said and what is known
is this
precipitated cup
half what
or
what?
it will be
filled
again!
there's me
in this blue/
black
screen!
there's me,
nose
bright & high--
and this head
lowers to
hide that
fact.
a particle of You
reaches at and taps me,
gently,
on the tip of
a nose
too uncared for
to know
it's been
touched,
except
the rays of You still linger
'til these cheeks grow blushed
in reply of You
this whole has drifted,
been knocked by the dock-less boats
and left to wander
to borrow
the waterways
while
others
others
others
find
ways to
divert me
though i
i can't tell them
to 'llow me be
there is a world behind your eyes,
the darkest place you only know
when the lights are out and you,
you are falling asleep/falling for
the only goal you know is worth the blood in vein
there is a world beneath your nerve,
in calm of inner-you/your sea, on varied wave
brought close for sail of moment, far, in wade
of tide, your finnecky friend never quite there/
never quite here.
Who will you be
when you are no more?
is life a set of moments,
believed to be the personal,
the personality,
the culture of you,
your world;
is life a set of moments,
believed not to be this,
personal, this, personality,
this world,
but, rather,
so inside
as to be all without
while in
while
You
while
All,
the Expanse,
the
calm,
the
nothing
and
everything
of You & All.
the hurry-walking crowds in rush of wind,
Moon's child,
Earth's relative,
gravity.
because later you'll know
she was always
somewhere
eyes wild
as though
you nev'
seen the
world 'fo'
but i
know this
sight, bright,
blinds me
from know'le'ge--
sense of
life, the
er'rant
en'ergy
s'rrounding
us, what
is
Life,
lived,
a
living
history
of only-known
mem'ries
what is this force,
this
gravity,
this
energy/
friction/
pulse:sustained/
journey/
revolutions,
grinding,
`moothed by
repetition/chance
of familiarity,
a
reoccurance for
a lack of knowing
anything/everything
else.
as this sun hides from eyes,
i 'vision 'fore spot brights again
to shine, to show
where light fars from.
to hold
to
prop yourself
on
distance?
distance,
the
but not the...
could
distance be
a
matter of the mind
a
tool by which to measure
a
gift of patience
is distance
merely vacancy in want of fill?
or is distance
fill in want
of vacancy?
to
have sight of she is pulls
feel there me
know somewhere toward
her
have you tried to grab
to hold
to
prop yourself
on
distance?
distance,
the
but not the--
could
distance be
a
matter of the mind
a
tool by which to measure
a
gift of patience--
is distance
merely vacancy in want of fill?
or is distance
fill in want of vacancy?
i never thought
i would know
where these words would take me,
where they would go, but
now i see it's
not about who i am
not about who i want to be
but about being
a man, being
who i ought to be--
i chased
these thoughts and
found they fall infront of you,
at your feet, they've stopped,
humbled, broken, pieced together with
a sense of urgency and you kneel for them,
holding a corner up and
feeling the coarse fabric fail to crumble,
the weight too much, a
thousand pixels tear to ride in air, in
breath you breathe-- they tremble, falter,
shatter to be brought back to reality
on the stone-bare floor,
so
cold 'cept for your eyes, marching
in stance of soldier, piecing together with
a thoughtful imagination all that could have
been said but laid down instead, and you
lay your hand, lay the corner down to
pool of paper, propped on what
was never given, but offered, before you,
in hope you'd
want to know--
every bit/every particle of
these manuscripts, like
molecules built to perfected rose,
petal:dark in blood-driven pump of heart,
i
walked along your fence today,
noticing the criss-crossed pegs
still rotting, grown over with
the soggy rains, but
in summer's bright-baking warmth, they'll
dry 'fore too long
sit by while i
anatomically attack you with the fluidity of
a chopping block, unflinching to the release
of a thousand-word-a-coward, precision-guided
anonymous deterrents placed routinely in front of me,
so autonomous as the act of breathing, see, i'm
the prodigy overgrown, too tricked by a talent
continuously lying/spraying randomly, these thoughts
weaken me to a mind of an infant, crying, unable to
wipe its own face, so why not spit it somewhere,
someplace else away from me, onto you, a
subordinate offering from the child to the rest of
the class/Damn. I forgot that part.
random as hell, but i was bored and liked anatomical/autonomous/anonymous/continuous
every mornin, every sunrise,
every day a kinda light
comes t'start bringin me outside
these eyes
to find a crisp, new
way to live this life
New grasshopper
“Hey! Get off my back!” This new wingless grasshopper species, Kingdonella, was discovered in China. The male of this group rides the females’ back for days at a time to prevent other males from mating with her. These hoppy insects can withstand extremely low temperatures and communicate by “gnashing” their teeth. Click to enlarge.
Pasted from <http://www.livescience.com/php/multimedia/imagegallery/igviewer.php?imgid=659&gid=43>
And amongst the lumber, a bee struck up a game of tag, of hide-and-go-seek beneath the bench. She tapped him, hurriedly, on the shoulder, fleeing sideways after the abrupt encounter, never allowing her eyes to cross, to turn away from his own before she scooted along and behind the bench. She monitored not the movement of his head, but his eyes, scurrying between the bench's planks before the pupils could rest upon her expectant, bzzing image. She seemed to be accompanied by quite the period, a determined spider, making its crawl up the thigh of his jeans, closely observering, before avoiding, his advances in its way.
Why am I stuck here,
revolving 'round the thought of you--
that serpent inward/hid?
Why am I convincing myself
to be in love with you
when all I feel is a twinge
a singe
of nerve
-- no butterflies,
more of a mashing
a constriction of the
'testines
as though my heart
my apple
my core
were gravity'd
to pit of me
in search
in pull, inward/guide
of you..
"I want to."
"Why would I want to?"
"Should I want to?"
"Have I wanted to?"
"Why have I wanted to?"
"Who would want to?"
"What would I want?"
"How would I want to?"
"What would I want to?"
"Still wanting to?"
"Should I have wanted to?"
"Sure wanted to."
"Sure want to."
"Sure, I'd want to."
"Who made me want to?"
"Why do I want to?"
"Want to."
"Can't."
"Should."
"Can't want to."
"Shouldn't."
"Shouldn't want to."
"Would this bowl want me to?"
"Why would this bowl want me to?"
"Why do I?"
"How do I?"
"Is this worth...?"
how quickly the clouds scurry 'bout in low-lie rush of sky,
the froth of nothing bowing forth from sight of Tamer,
Teacher, Moon.. the winking Moon, but bright as bleach'd clouds 'fore Her,
though giving more to eye than sight.. light, the
traveler's guide through wood, through mason's work,
the dry-as-new streets/signs of some outside wave
gone stagnant, stilled for cope of swell.
when thinking
of falling
star
and finding
plane
lit for descent
instead
ewok's pictures
this is Ewok. Ewok has been with us for fourteen and a half years. he was born in October, though i don't recall the exact date. his parents are Honey and Bear (and he's taken from both). i'm not very good at writing about others, as i'm inherently selfish (see current sentence). he's been the only constant in my life since coming to statesville. when mom wasn't around, or katie, he was there to fight with me and, oh, yeah, we'd bicker and wrestle and leave nothing inside. he'd throw fits, i'd throw fits, we'd try to come to some sort of compromise, one of us would always be left in pain. he loved to be scratched under the chin and on the very top of his hips. he would stay still to be scratched on his chest, though if you went to his ears, he'd bite the ever-living shit out of you and not think twice about doing it again if you persisted. he's bit everything.. shoes, arms, noses, hair, paper (he would sit and tear at a piece of paper like it was a wounded animal and he was a big, courageous lion), ankles, shins, fingers, cutting sheers, water, tires, anything that offered itself to him in a way that was not respectful. he never gave a bad memory. he would love it when i'd lay down on the carpet-- he would jaunt up in his own little swagger and start rubbing his chin and jaw against the back or top of my hair, sniffing first to make sure it wasn't already done.. he hated doing the same thing twice in a short amount of time. he hated being on the couch.. something about not wanting to be a pet, but to be a friend and a respected member of the family.
before he was neutered, he would hump anyone and anything. if you came over and he didn't know you, you'd better expect your leg to be wet by the time you left. he would be snippy (more so than he was about strangers). i wonder if he didn't like being neutered.. besides the obvious. he was a very anti-social dog to those he didn't know, constantly rearing his head and ears and staying motionless if a new creature walked by, sort of assessing the situation and preparing to run or fight. the journey's cat would pretty much abuse him, chasing him around or making him run away. damn cat.
he hated strangers. he hated if you touched him. he hated everything about everyone, unless you were respectful of him and allowed him to know you, not you to know him. he hated leashes, he hated collars. he was the houdini of dogcollars. velcro, snapped, chain-linked, anything.. he would have it off by the next time you saw him. leave in the morning, it'd be off by the time school let out. he didn't care, he wasn't going to wear that shit. he loved being completely free, but he was always in a routine.. always combing the neighborhood for his spots and making sure everyone was okay, making sure everything was going fine, or he'd let you know by barking and hollaring for hours and hours and hours. hell, even if nothing was wrong, he'd sit right infront of the garage, or to the side, and just go off for the entire night. night? try weeks, months. hell, i don't think i've seen him (prior to last year) when he wasn't barking or yipping or something. that dog loved to talk. mom said he would always whine after i left for school, but i don't know. i think he just wanted to be noticed when his friend wasn't there. he's not even gone yet. he's at home right now, 3 hours away, biting the neighbor's husband and trying to find himself in what he's become.. blind, deaf, and shaking. i want to go, i want to see him. is that wrong? he never knew what life was like without a fence or houses. he never knew life outside of our neighborhood, but he still lived as though he was master of the world.
tried taking him for a walk a couple years ago. he hated the leash, hated me trying to make him walk, but i saw he was getting bigger and bigger and that wasn't good for him. we would walk around the neighborhood, from brookmeade to the houses behind and just loop around, back to the creak and turn around. he hated it. he stopped, threw his weight in his ass and made me half-drag, half-carry his ass until he knew i wasn't giving in. it was some shit out of south park, with the dog wheesperer. we'd stop every so often, because the days were hot and he'd enjoy taking a seat under a tree or off into the higher grasses. he'd just sit, head-high, panting away with his tongue out and his eyes on me, saying, "you bastard. see what you've made me do? i'm sitting in the fucking grass, far from where i'm from, tired as a bitch, trying to get cool, while you're just standing there, acting like everything's okay. i fucking hate you, bitch. okay, let's get this over with." and he'd start walking, wanting to show me it was he who was in charge. and, somehow, i felt the leash tighten around the wrist as if it were my neck.
he did this thing with his nose and his food-dish. he'd take one nibble of the dried balls, and then rub his nose against the outside of the dish. he'd do this constantly, usually not even eating, just rubbing his nose against the outside of the dish, pushing it to the wall or to somewhere it wouldn't move, and then keep doing it. over and over. he was a little less obsessive about his water. he'd just gulp/lap that shit.
his favorite game, when he was younger and the teeth were a bit stronger, was to grab onto the end of a knotted rope and swing around on it. he'd let me drag him halfway across the living room, spinning and showing his strength. his bite was something, man. he'd rarely use it fully, though. only on the fingers. he hated fingers. don't ask. i have no idea why. if you tried giving him his eyedrops or eardrops, and you weren't prepared, he'd make sure you bled before you touched them to his person. i'd have to hold his head down just to put medicine in. he hated baths, too, but looked sooo funny when his longer-coated hair would mat down. he was so ferocious with his long hair, but so skinny and shaking under the water. it was a sight to behold. he'd start drinking the water, even with the shampoo in it. kept having to stop him.. didn't know if he'd get sick from shampoo.
he was the only one in my pathetic existence that would take the time (not like he had a choice, but he could have walked away) to sit and listen to me bitch or rant or just goof off. i think it was the attention he liked. katie and i would show him so much love, he'd never have been upset.
i don't know what katie did with him, besides play and such. they had their time, we had ours. he was kinda split between both of us, and, to tell you the truth, it didn't bother us at all. the bed pictures are from her. she always could take the most amazing pictures of him. one of the best she took was somewhat blued out, but he was so happy to pose for her. some weird, sick modelling thing.. haha, katie, don't hurt me.
yeah. and i was upset. he's gone too far, travelled too much to be thought of with anything but a smile. peace be with you, E.
the dream
of you in floor of seat,
having said you lost ... something
all in show of being level with me
as i sit infront of her,
the one you brought
in hopes to push me off ...
just a little regret/
a little action needed to reclaim me...
I am
already Yours, for
You are these eyes' focus,
she merely a distraction.
Shake your head in wave of me,
the secret call
of our sanctuary,
this floor,
our level,
we.
i fought a thousand thoughts before letting these escape/captured a thousand hearts before you found mine to take
broke a million stars down to the spin of gravity/built a million minds to a sense of natural clarity
i followed my thoughts to a place i found safe only to drag my feet and wish nothing but change
i stumbled over some ol words/the ones i never gave to you for fear they'd lead to something different/something else other than what we got now/not like this is the best there's ever been, but damn if i'd give it up for anything/anything more than you/the idea of us/that prospect of bein yours as you'd be mine/can ya 'magine that?/can ya 'vision that?/the chance of gettin you when you gettin me/not carin cuz that's the way it should be/me on you/you on me/doin it right like we ought to/make it good/make it better/make it the best/make it love like we should do/can ya picture that?/picture the eternity not as a length of time but as the moment we spend holdin' one another/givin one another that look/that stare/that constant curiousity, the questions asked and answered but asked again for who cares for answers when the enigma's so dynamic/so brilliant/god, i just wanna get to know you/the whole you/all of you/everything 'bout you/give you a chance to know me/the whole me/everything 'bout me/from my thoughts to my family/they belong t' you if you belong t' me/just tell me true and it'll happen/you n me/me n you/the us we always wanted/the two/the one/the smile you've always to-me granted
the chipper woman noises
presents her presence
in effect of
goading acknowledgement
maturity is knowledge, not of what one may do,
but of what one already does
whose eyes are wavey,
loading heavy my own
'til, fallen, i break from her
in chance some pull gives reason 'nough
for speech or sight
lost on insecure sea,
while i, the floater,
hope not ' be seen
as, soon, i may
hold
toward movement
from any spoiled
'lations
linger'd
and find way
from stance
in
darted-sway
a mental hernia is as the unwatered seed-- dry, but still thirsting for a means to grow
expand
live
follow
lead
align with any other constance
consequence
pedestrian
so mad, this time when thought leaves and instinct,
the natural,
the constant,
emerges.
the connection,
the grasp of
others' importance,
the creation
of others' importance
; a confusion
disorientation
a singe'ing of
prickling of
the nerve
for loss/
gain/
regret
of others
the more of you that is known by me,
the more i wish to know you more.
this is not fair to you,
for you need not my emotions placed upon your person.
this is not fair to me,
as the more of you i know, the more emotion i place
within my thoughts of you,
without such emotion given by you,
merely
taken by me
from you.
just
full of disappointments,
those
wishes let sit for
no reason other
than no other reason
all depending 'pon the way,
i imagine a blank canvas, saturated in
holes/the darkest holes/the craters
of eyes' comets, those
trailed-ones let freeze from melt of 'motion, that
valve-clenching pattern over nerve
you know stops, but not when,
until you know nothing else.
seek clarity of self;
'llow less of want;
forge thought as steel,
from extended heat
to smoothened cool,
for bring of sharpened length.
in today's society,
it's hard to tell the
crazies from
the normies--
you see
someone talking to themself,
and then find a wire
attached to their caller.
i would travel this Earth,
these Planets,
this System/Solar,
these Spirals,
this Galaxy--
of all Time to You i will reach
if there be no way to crawl--
may these words, these thoughts, this
bleed upon paper/a sentencing
of unruly/broken sheets sprawled while in
quiet beg of You: Queen, Angel, Princess,
Smile: Your response in silence to
a taking-breath pull of Gravity, mine: You.
the focus of your photograph leaves you shaking, breaking laugh for cry of body/of clutch of me for knöw' i'm here-- could you see me, would you stare in 'turn so shaking is seen not by me, but with you?
once, far from here, an angel knew
her way to waker's dreams--
or were they photographs?--
or were they lost in determination?--
either the way, she, in me, was held
without hands nor mind, but in suspension
'wixt lips' limits, wide in silent breathe of her,
this, the only angel willed to walk 'spite her wings,
those risen or drift-in wind cumbersome things
we are as the shadow is:
a reflection/sign/symbol of something
different
with word wound tight to thought/
lip
time is but a calendar,
a marking of what is, for
without such limits, how quickened would the
mind be?
i deserve all which forefollows me.
You've taken my thoughts,
Leaving this emptiness
to void, a shadow'd ink
But spilled and left for dry.
finnecky wind breaks past unshuttered window,
waving loudly 'gainst thoughts of you in want
of some response inward/tongue-led toward silence,
love's closest ally in defense of isolation--
what word rises, rests in swoop-drawn perch
upon mind's budding spicket stuck/imobile within
body's pearl-mounted barrier or cavern-positioned
catcher of the breeze in motion numb'd beneath shiver-leaves.
that feeling-- the
warmth/numb of skin under self--
how
nerve folds,
burning/
casting in for fear of char--
that breath/
stagnant,
waiting
for tide of motion to sooth/to part its
wake--
that silence,
boiling steady in simmer'd spot
so distant as to be unreachable yet
scarring to touch--
what
lies upon this wind in making fragrance/heat
a palpable taste of something/
of lightened air
in rub of 'neath?
bend 'fore breaking,
break 'fore bending,
leave
or speak
'fore both.
You've taken my thoughts,
amongst which you have my heart.
Eyes:strange. Grin:grimaced.
Curve:'volving toward your eyes/your grin/your motion, quieted in lax of gravity/
your 'deas, deeper-sought in memory's time--
unraveled, you
drape to floor/to feet/to
thigh/to chest/to
grin/to
eyes.
i sit here,
motion'd but moving-not,
alone
but accompany'd.
who follows
guide-
lines hoping for a path
to per-
fection-- longing!
a knowledge
not of Quiet's retreat,
but of
water-walking.
on a road some 5 miles out from greenville,
you scoot on by with my head in tow
and i can't help but smile
knowing you're going the other way/
somewhere far from me,
somewhere you oughtta be but
damn if you don't keep me wanting to
go farther from here.
i got those callouses on the palms/the type you said you'd never mind/well, now's the time and you're behind on ya promise/where's the world you were 'spose to give?/where's the life you SAID you'd live?/where's the fortune?/who's the fool?/which way to the ocean?/i'm tired of buying fuel/where is the love i felt when you first smiled?/is this place a hole?/am i climbing or still slippin'/trippin'/fallin' 'til these feet stop stallin'/refuse to leave 'cuz those wounds hurt to heal/are those words still 'live on wind where these ears can't listen or is the current ever-after already?
riding down 264 to a place i'd rather not know, but damn if it isn't the best-lookin land in all the world/the place you can fall down to and never wanna rise back from/the lil town surroundin' the grove and george slumped by the side and we're just looking for a reason to pull over/a station to hum along to/fuck the words when you got that beat/the rhythm/the electricity/that energy that makes ya wanna move/soothes ya/holds ya/calms down the fumping heart/takes ya back to the time, yeah, you know, that one time you remember so well cuz the feeling never left ya/just covered by some memories/ah, how'd you miss it when you never left it
from dusty orange to
water/island blue with
wavey-white wisps, wandering
in the suspended, Starlit sky..
beetle'd-bone white
to
smokey'd quartz..
how do you describe
the back-bone'd cloud,
the forest-picked cotton/
naked
but the bare'd-white scoops found
missing cone for stick?
how do you describe
the damn:bright sun,
that face seen/
burnt to 'lids' memory
and nights' wont?
i know
despite the years
in masking/
you are there,
if only for the asking
of your hand--
what country are you from
as i wish to find way there
and see you standing 'neath the tree
in nothing
but your casual
wear
you know that half-baked look that resembles a stoney/sleepy wanderer of the kitchen/the guy who fumbles/stumbles/grumbles/mumbles to himself before he's found the right way in/the door swings and he's left, staring into light and begging for 'it' to jump out/who calls but the skim/skinny/watered-down breast-fed bottle and he knows it's time for shopping-- whenever he has an oppurtunity and savings enough to go.
for your happiness,
to you i give this love,
this longing gone too long
for cyclic brain 'llows focus
only certain instance 'til noise
of sight breaks bond, leaving smile/
your smile/your welcome a pain,
as though the parting of lips
were torn from hinge/from split/from
round of mouth to bitten cheek/nerve/
gash unhealed, for what wound lasts through
gnaw'd persistence of must-be-said.
what a way when the wind wïnds waste of trees/leaves of 'phalt to shield of haste on painted path 'pooled and personal, the last bastion of freedom aside from field or forest or sky or sea or expanse/the last destiny we, the current, shall never see 'til day finds need of lighters' offerings, those reasons left to static rather than 'namic philosophies-- who rules the wind? whose laws abide the sea? who's serpent squanders serenity in sight of stability/the crutch of the complacent/humility's worst nemesis, idleness/the hands let wander body in place of Curiosities, true finders of the Sciences
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,
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
stumble
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.
i can't force what isn't there.
you get hernias that way.
give your breath
your stutter-lunged grasp of wind
to me.
these lips of yours play,
stuck on mine
in motion moved from limb to pool to your
eyes,
your eyes, wide-shocked with mine behind, in tow--
what glimpse of you, this, your shiver-shake of hold,
gives--
how, slow, in rise,
in
ten-folding
of these
sweats,
i wish to give
you more in return of gifts---
bitten,
lie amongst my arms and know me,
your breath
on drum
laid silently
'neath your skin:
all i've come to be,
yours,
the comforting
sigh repeated
with lungs'
quiet rise
and short'n'd push--
how your throat
calls to me
for lips' security
and i, a
weaker
guard in these,
your
eyes, your wrap, your fingers,
find no use to stay from answering.
by close of finders, i've come to find
this calm in movement internalized,
this breeze of thought lapping at lips
to widen and to loosen them, full
within your knowledge of this universe,
Ours;
a knowing of your blush through nudge slown
to mapping draws in trick of nerve,
a play on tick' to lick of pore;
and in this, our capsuled star let bake,
a drowning of one another grows in breathing, more,
with give of you
and of me take'.
the wolf, with
eyes raised:staring,
guides the gift'd
in glance of grave
as
devil of History;
breaking light in eye of forest,
mane bears but symbol
in respect to Shadow's fortune,
Fate, the Following;
yet Wolf, with
throat raised:open,
falls sense, in weight,
to pit of torso,
crowning 'lids
in cast of gold marred-faux;
gift'd, let flush go fears of Follower;
as oakened-oars on fall
Converse with trail of them in Thought;
yet Wolf, with
heart
in:claspe,
breaks the beating rhythm of
far-stationed voices, screaming,
fully catching twixt the ribs of skin;
creaking in unison, this hollowed bone,
the marker of the shredded breast
from other left 'lone, treads not
in -testines' collared coils,
'stead finding side by pearl'd tusks of crimson:yellow'd.
despite this knowledge now ingrained,
that the world will spin until it stops
not when you're afflicted or strained,
i find it hard to process her
as anything other than
a meteor:
striking fancy until breaking through my atmosphere--
how can i force her 'way when i can't reach to her?
this silly game of revolutions revolving round the subject frightens me.
can she see this pull is greater than any push i'd ever throw?
can she feel these bands of rings round my throat
grown twisted, knotted, broken yet holding my gravity hostage--
will laughter or smile bring about a change of pace,
a fall of spin to welcome her
or will she fly by/pass me by without being brought close enough
to pull her in with gentle kindness, the natural gravity?
will she falter/fall to meet me here,
or is this planet:me too dead already?
she is sun.
she is this planet's fixation/temptation/goddess/sickness
of thought.
she is smile in sky behind the glare of lengthened stare.
she is prickle of neck, of nose, of twitch and those
lousy
tremblings.
she is walker and path.
she is perfectly rounded.
she is fall to height unreachable without jumping first.
she is frantic dream unrehearsed for who could plan for marvelous misdirection?
she is rise of head to wonder why the seasons change but she remains
beyond the reach of time-- a thought unmolded but sprawling forth
in gratitude of life.
she is brightness of day and mystery of night, the angel of shadow and of sight.
she is breath, unchurned in lungs for to keep her would be a travesty.
she is pull in full, unchained armor, welcoming.
i have not written a 'good poem', one that makes sense beyond the words read or spoken. the reason for not having written a 'good poem' is not the inability to do so, but merely the inconsistency of thought toward, and the amount of time spent on, any given piece. to say i am not a 'good poet' may be thrown into the mix, though i prefer to see the situation as my being 'not willing to show the potential within'. i have not transformed into a poet, but merely slid into a poet's skin of thought. i have not given any piece the time required to fully chrome the inside as well as the out, to fix any twists of thought that may linger through 'nice words' and the like jamming up the ignition.
the space of thought allotted toward writing is basically the same amount of time taken to type or scribble the work, if not less. no single idea or string of ideas has presented themselves before me, giving me the grace of thought enough to spill them onto paper or screen. well, that's a lie. several ideas and views have struck me as being 'unfit' for writing, though will be shown when my own understanding of them is comfortable enough to do so. bah. there are times when one may ask the self, "why are you as you are?" the answer i have found that best suits this question is, "how else would you be?"
on slashdot, there's an interesting article about rollable 'paper' displays, which are currently monochrome, but will eventually be color. could you imagine, sitting out on the porch with the morning paper (about the size of an 8x11 notebook, but as thick as the cover for stability) in your hand, your other adjusting your glasses. you say a command, or think a command, or tap the screen for a command to zoom in on, or readjust/rearrange, the articles. all of your local news would be on one side, while national alerts, your favorite comics, your bookmarks, would be on another, or arranged with fingertip-accuracy (basically google's customized main page via stylus or fingertip). perhaps the display would be refractive/reflective/a camera and would tell where to go or what to zoom in on based on eye movement, facial smirks/frowns/giggles, and would adjust its programming accordingly.
perhaps this would be a contender of the mid-air display currently in development, but in a portable version that can be in a bracelet, a ring, or a watch, or your glasses.
imagine all of this, but affordable-- just costing a monthly subscription, or free (depending on if you have wireless/a net connection.. if not, perhaps a monthly/yearly cell-phone like service that would keep your paper up to date for a nominal fee, equivalent to the price of a day or two's paper news papers. of course, some could opt for once-daily updates, and be charged 30th of the price a normal subscriber would.. because imagine the cost of bandwidth for the pictures/videos/music/etc.. wait.. maybe just link this to your pc and go at it with 54a/b/c/g/i/x/y/z/am/fm/gps/whatever). how amazing.
the possibilities!
the
hopper of grass
finds
solace
in air
though knows
not where
to be going or
how long one may take
in getting there.
while
one
may see
understand
comprehend
feel
know
the motion,
an other
may know
feel
comprehend
understand
see
the object;
which
may find
both?
perhaps
one and[/or] other
may spawn
both
through showing
teaching
allowing for
reaching toward
helping
another.
Look to thought as root of tree,
planted in consideration and clarity;
in branches, infinite, your spark may grow;
when, if fumbled/faltered, you lose what is known:
shift thought from thought to purpose, to reason,
to the natural:origin, from bare to blossomed season;
bring not your gaze to root, though fond,
but wander eyes 'hind 'lids to bond
of tree to ground to foot to chest to breeze,
and perhaps you, through tracking back,
find within you what you may need.
To Kathy:
A thought is but a branch,
upsprung from root
of tree branched infinite[ly]--
[don't bother counting,
unless you
wish to]
worry not if lost on
branch you grow,
for many branches
spring from root--
just remember
to remember root
and
[return to reason.]
i am but a solar system
with two suns,
parallel
and crossing;
six planets;
thirty-one moons,
independently rotating
in unison;
one belt,
holding tight
my views and reach;
and a single thought,
revolving 'round all
until it escapes
or falls
in meteor,
perhaps
bringing shift of self
or rise
of dream
or
steps in
trek
to clarity.
so. booya. i've been a "writer" for roughly.. hm.. since middle school. fuck putting a time on that. i've progressed so far in personal understandings that to try and put them within a context of an extent of time is useless. you are the blink of an eye.
i will never seek being known.
a problem with being unknown
is the desire to show those unknowing
what you know.
how... peculiar the need for others' approval/acceptance/..sustenance.
to proclaim your work is to accept its state, or to progress from its state, or to leave its state. i prefer to revolve around the work set forth until the yearn to change something, to alter or to augment, arises. humility is the thinker's disguise.. of stupidity. why be labeled lackluster when you simply lack a sense of luster? the world will know you when you deserve to be known.
crash your fluid glance upon these words and know that, despite your role, you are nothing more than human, nothing less than what you take from what you're told.
so much is written that shall never be read; forget what you know and figure 'it' out on your own.
they sit behind me, laughing, hanging on the breath of a floating piece of paper unseen but scribbled 'pon, until a chance wind breaks the stream of subtlety into a thousand cackles casting their chains of change-of-self upon me. what waste to live within a process you did not create/you were not meant to follow.
capitalism will lead to both poverty and excess: which is worth aiming toward?
of course, in this lifetime, many see progression of wealth as one of few symbols of status worth achieving. can you honestly say you would work your entire life to be able to live? yes, if it were within the extremes of comfort and security.
i rarely discuss my dreams or aspirations. that's not a character flaw, it's a choice to ward off arrogance or the eventual naiveté which so often follows the dreamer. i look forward to being a writer/to giving others yet another view of what life may hold. i look forward to being a father, a husband, a caregiver. i look forward to being for someone else who Mom was for me. i look forward to teaching anything you wish to know until you can do so for others.
i'll never really see those aspirations come to light. that's the mindset i have to maintain in order to keep a sane outlook; in order to not fumble over goals, i shall remain unknown until the unknowing wish to know me.
i have this sinking feeling that i'll go the way of dickens, or, better yet, the way of poe.
despite all, ideas will remain so long as you strengthen them with knowledge. you may paint a picture or compose a work or scribble a prose, but without a knowledge of the circumstances or the reasoning, the onlookers/listeners/readers may merely go "ah, how beautiful!" without a need to go beyond the first impression. in that sense, you must both offer them a "why?" and withhold from them a reason. perhaps that is why so many artists base upon the common; bring them close with what is close to them, yet show them something they may not have taken in before.
i am a writer. just as you are a reader. you may be using your eyes for the first time, as i may be using my hands for the first time, but despite both, we are who we set out to be until we no longer wish to be so. follow yourself in thought and, perchance, you may find who you are.
The clouds' applause trembles air to feet of twitching;
"You Know What To Do," they mumble-grumble/strike to me.
"Yeah, yeah— You really are persuasive, y'know?
You don't have to answer that."
A conversation 'mongst the towers unseen for shelter's shelter
rages in calm, tapping showers brought and bringing
sense to edge of cliff a'bashed with ever-tidal tidings
of sweetest elements' harmonies.
Another shift of light to shadow
and lifted these thoughts grow to growth of storm beside and surrounding
with such shatter-chatter, rasp-throated moans!
Tumbling, these voices grown from sound to flicker
broke and break the gentle cycling of the rain–
the falling air left/right/straight/back in constant, uncertain lickings of the eyes
as though to show the fury is
but known/dependent on the travelled-travelling breath of all.
Beyond the chit-chat, sit-back, relax talk Mom initiates,
I fumble in thought and
forget to speak when spoken to—
They don't seem to mind, though they may be
polite in their inability to open me.
The pace-cold sweat from pit of arm
reminds the mind the world is before,
not just inside and I smile to match theirs
without knowing why except to feel as they do,
to be as unafraid of exposure as they appear
to trail word from thought so casually.
"Can't you fucking see they're waiting for us?
Can't you see the light is green,
but the van refuses to move?
Why are you just standing there? Here?
We can cross!"
I rush my legs to catch this thought—
The light flicks red against the hood of some other car
and I feel my heel trip in air but escape the oncomer—
Mom walks, some paces behind, within the traffic,
head held high and I begin to realize
I'm not the only one on this road.
I tripped
while retrieving this,
letting my thoughts,
like a calling,
stumble my way
as I
forgot the hamper was behind me.
Prior, I
shaved clean my
soul patch
and began to ponder,
"what should be written?"
The stalling of a parking lot's progress
mimicked me for a second—
the fidget of eyes—
and, within that epiphanic second, I
found solace in the ruled-blue pages
of this draft.
for all i've done, i know you wouldn't know
how many cells in this brain hold memories of
you and not of being there, not being able to
unlock these chains of in-security, obstacles i
never thought about all that much until you
brought freedom to this servant of thought
unlit and shining with reflections reflecting from
you,
you,
you,
i blame the sun for breaking one day as all;
i blame the moon for showing change can come,
go, come, go, wax, wane, wax, wane, rise, fall;
i blame the breeze for showing tranquilities are
commonplace, daily, forgotten until left or leaving;
still, i blame the trees for waving without welcoming
the birds, the squirrells, the nests unfurled and grounded
without hands around to clasp them closer to a beating
that drowns the world in
second-
silence-
second-
silence-
second-
silence-
there was an attic
limping/lifted, i crawled the stairs
to find the memories forgotten yet there
yet in this mind's eye they will never leave for i know them too well;
the roundness of the plastic,
the bucking of the horse,
the little lamb's words so comforting still
in this attic,
this compartment box opened and sprawled with heat,
in this attic laid all my dreams once given, now taken-placed from view;
is it right to forget that which was so once wanted,
so lived 'til forgotten in fore-given'ess?
these sweat'd flakes of ice fall prey to finger's tidyngs,
making art in art so clear,
pushing from place 'til image nears
and fallen these eyes become,
as relenting thought's forcings
break 'part the 'cicles,
paving way for unpump'd heart
in journey from fill'd to froze to molten start.
with these
whisper-wing'ed,
lacklust' words
i find nothing
is as safe
in breeze
as mind.
Within a thousand shining/smiling days, your rays find way to lay upon air, upon cloud-less sky of eyes in 'guise, fallen-razed along 'rizon's edge, stretched-stretching 'yond the view of you.
i have no goals,
merely
fallen logs
not yet fashioned into bridges.
Though made of holly bush a maze may be
-- with tower'd slopes on leaves haze'd green,
and darken'd nests of space laid seen
'tween the branches hunched in lean --
one may find this twisting root unsheathed
to be but gentle Atlas of 'Rachnid's silken'sea
from mind of mine to you,
Ocean, my
Mother Waving
within this sphere of light upon the surf
in broken lines shining
shining upon the shadow'd crest of edge of tide;
as flow these crashes, tumble'd, come
lightning caught in fever'd gulp of wave
as though
as though
as though breaking to be broken from the breeze of buoyed, blister'd Moon
this world
[we live in],
is but an egg
of unknown many,
as though in bushel kept with wrap of torn-open shell
countless with its offering
and turn around i would
to see your frown turn upside-down i would
in quiet rise of corners' creasing skyward-bound, i would
is but a foremoment
in thought
forgotten,
and remembered,
and forgotten;
though you,
you remain,
you..
the fan ..dt-dt-..
breaks my ..dt-dt-..
thoughts apart, ..dt-dt-..
counting You, ..dt-dt-..
innumerable, ..dt-dt..
in sight 'n' ..dt-dt-..
'motion'd heart; ..dt-dt..
these thoughts, ..dt-dt-..
falling, ..dt-dt-..
in happened stacks ..dt-dt..
are layed ..dt-dt-..
on nerves ..dt-dt-..
from toe to ..dt-dt-..
head's back..
dt-dt-..
as you be fully-made to master
sweet-lovely sea of skin;
as though you pilot Thought in
surging wave receding 'pon
these morrow pillars pearl'd;
with short rub of root'n nerve:electric,
ever-fumbling is your way from light to dust
these
manipulations of breath
placed upon the lips
and let sift through translucent kiss/
nagging peck at back of thought..
ah..
if all i had were these words,
would you still see my worth
or would you cry and cringe
as though a begging loiterer
i have become through inverse'd sins?
have the potential to be brilliant
perhaps through the physical,
perhaps through the mental,
perhaps through kindness,
or perhaps
through life.
If, perchance, one is not knowing of one's brilliance,
perchance, see one's brilliance as life
and how one joys life.
yet life is religions..
to live,
to act,
to think,
to behave,
to die,
to be
within constant questioning of the effects of your actions
upon all everything..
but do not take the weight of constant questioning
as though it is a must..
take the weight of constant questioning
as thought it is a way of expressing
of knowing your expressions
your motives, your being, yourself
do not
dwell
on the negative
forgive yourself if you are deserving
you may take these words as a reasoning for hurt or suffering
but know that they are not
they are but words
but thoughts
but meanings masked in language--
it is in you
this meaning is
flutter-find its way to ground as though these eyes were puppeteer drunk in amusement;
upon its resting, i stared,
finding leaf's path to be unseen in air yet
there in thought, in motion of eye,
as though these thoughts were but mirrored movement
empty yet over-filling resevoir 'til snap!,
these words, like leaf, lie in rest of purpose
without tale
as though a thousand words shoot through these fingers
click click click
click click click
tap tap tap
tap tap tap
tap tap tap
just go just go just go
just keep this rhythm let me see it
let me feel it
let me hold on long enough
to see your face at the end of this rope of thought
let me hold you let me
let me let me
let me find these words unsaid and lagging
parts
to give view of You,
Angel,
wing'ed bringer
of pulse'd rhythm,
bearer of Smile
beyond lips;
as i am Your fevered
gravity
You are my
Expanse,
my
Galaxy of stars
with warmth of One..
Smile, You, my Aniol, my
Suns..
nudging wrist with paw, with nose, with belly and
ears tap-wagging to blink-red of eye..
hah! how you mock these words
as though never matching of you they could be;
waddle your way 'cross top of desk
and find my thoughts still,
my motor-driven, parrot friend!
crease of lips grown loud in smile,
wing'ed light of breeze in still,
thief of thought forgiven and forgiving more;
fall to me,
laugh to me,
be with me;
may these hands be but lovers of your skin,
may these lips be but strummings of your breath,
may these words be but servants of your energy..
as though incomplete
yet
i want to stop
but
still this blinking
rages within me
rages
along the screen
dancing with these words in push of thought
yet
i want to stop
but
still this blinking curser finds my fingers to be in pause, alone,
'less full this barred curser remains
every word
every breath
every breath
lands lightly
on your ear;
oh,
for every word,
for every breath
to be placed upon
your 'lobes
in rest of lips;
oh,
for every
word,
for every breath
to fall 'long your thoughts,
to lay as in the softened grass
grown silk;
oh,
for every word,
for every
breath
to be as brushing of the skin,
your pulse's rhythm:but a mirror of our longing..
you walked along these halls,
a night in mind;
you knocked down these photographs,
hoping to replace every one with
yours and
with mine;
you left the windows open,
spilling the forgotten dreams
you shed like leaves
all along
this over-lackered hallway--
only after
i realized
i never saw your lips fain happiness--
and now is too late--
the clock's hands
cover our only window;
perhaps you could
inhale,
inhale,
exhale
the words you know
belong to me;
perhaps you could
breathe
to break this silence
and
can you
hold that knife closer,
through our hands/into
our chests and fix our falling
so a second passes
and daylight can be seen
while i am rooted
and you are the breeze
making love to me.
upon your lips;
to be as sweat
upon our kiss;
to be as more
while being this;
that is my desire..
words are but
masks of meaning
thrown off in mind,
as they are linger-shadows of thought!
taking the carving of instance,
the 'waste' of breath,
and repurposing them to continue life.
down falls, down soil, down gutter, down tunnel, down until light becomes but illusion of mind
beyond these thoughts rests something more
something lingers there, untouched and touching, living and unalive,
something lingers there, ever lingering, ever stationed in its revolutions
something lingers there, something beyond the senses, beyond the nose
beyond the crossing of the eyes,
beyond the needle, beyond the spoon, beyond the spliff, beyond the blunt,
beyond the snort,
beyond the finger,
while being behind as well
is smile
in gentle rest of light
oh, to be her shadow
her watchermate
the ridges, the cliffs, the pits of your fingerprints;
to map with mind your outline
through tongue's lashing/
hands finding
curve in wander of your world,
your skin,
your prickled hairs goosen'd
and uplifted in
their quest, their raised longing for,
their worship toward
these hands, these lips,
all, in servitude, now yours
the tips of your memories receding
from hand:into thought:into breath: from lips and:gone..
returning:they find path to cage of lung:within tongue's wall:to
hand; in grasp unclenched,
these, your seeds uprooted now,
lay dying on suture'd paper
this walk-n-wandering world
from dream
unseen
by most..
rather than..
immitations and.. moldings..
or,
perhaps,
perfection is not sought at all,
as though
perfection
were delinked and thrown from under beauty's shadow,
to be cast as faux-demon in play of aniols..
to
c
a
t
c
h her
f
a
l
ling
how reach of mind,
singe'd on thought,
reaches for lids,
for eyes,
for brow'n'cheek,
for overflowen'd reservoir untouched:for throat,
for breath,
for words,
for lung,
for air upon wide-mouth gasping
oh, to trouth in bend of eyes,
to dampen these flamen'd roots grown inward
in heat of skin
and all those ash'ed-streams
a'burn left raging
long, golding rays of Day's Father,
lay tame along your bare-blushed cheeks..
oh, to grow them red, your cheeks,
to lick with kiss left lingering,
to unfold lips long chap'd
with tongue's lashings
likened to striking-tip
of quill..
oh, how swift you lift eye from grounding,
as though through limbs this gaze is floating,
following the fall of your feet upon the carpet to
your waist of hips rounded toward the floor
and, facing cold restraint of rib with chest's knocking loudly,
this glance becomes but moment forgot-and-known in memory
having sat here,
before the unpainted canvas
in its infancy,
i now find this sprawling thought
of ripen'd ink to be as
such World.. capsized vessel
expanse unforage'd, for caught
its use grows lost on single wave
on flattened sea, off coast of World A'New--
this driven:violent invert land
of voyagers
voyeuring--
shhhkt
of gear-horn'd beast
in silent awe-glance
toward faden'd dragonbreath
spiral-searching
skyward
...
to be
as
shepher'd sheep
on trodden ground in wont
of given-grass
...
to be
as
gulliver goat
on errant way forage'd
yet un-journey'd
...
A 'vpoet' may be a 'poet' whose interaction with and observance of 'this world' is 'virtual', as though 'disconnected', while remaining fully 'connected' through 'emotion' and 'gravity'/'forces'/'life'/'the endless cycle'/'the way'/'all'/'curiousity'/'chance'/'?'/
Alternatively, a 'vpoet' may be a 'poet' whose major 'influences' or 'mediums' may include the 'internet' or other 'technologies'.
When I listened to the learn'd breeze;
When my antennae, the hairs, sway-fell against the skin;
When I was shown how miniscule is the breath, bound to land, divided by the air;
When I, laying, listened to the learned breeze on tips of grass shaded by the moon,
How soon, wayward, I became light and spiring;
Till catching break of air, I drifted off from self,
In prodigal-pulse'd sky, and with rise of breath,
Wave'd in feather'd touching of the stars.
if the night were longer
i could hold you till the end of time,
watching the fireflies flicker
while their distant cousins herd slowly
across the pond of sky above us;
if the day were longer
i could take you across the world
with every kodak moment
to guide us to our next home of the hour,
never letting loose your fingers
because you'd never let go;
if our dreams were shorter
we could live them longer,
always catching up
on every new idea for how we could be together..
if this moment were longer
we'd be left smiling as this life passed us by.
is it
sad
that i miss you
after the petals fly
and the trees fall?
is it
sad that i wish to be
the pants you slip into,
the shirt that holds you so,
the smile you show only
when you know
i'm not around?
is it
pathetic to think
when my eyes wander
they're looking for you?
is it
pitiful to know
when i lay down
i want you to be
the sheets 'round me,
the pillow i grasp,
the wind that comforts me?
while reaching toward knowledge not yet contemplated:
through contemplation on what is shall arise what is not
through contemplation on what is not shall arise what is
perhaps through thought's revolutions the possibility arises of detachment from anchor'd weight of body:
skin's perceptions, eye's perceptions, ear's perceptions--
all perceptions of the body become detached,
and so detached is Thought itself--
as multitudes of perception become wound together,
solitary perception arises,
floating as on stream of This Life;
as flows this solitary perception,
distance may chance to be
and through distance the solitary perception continues as on stream,
falling as through translucent horizon--
though the solitary perception seems beyond the barrier of This World and This Life,
the solitary perception is still Present--
it is through great dettachment and great distance
that perhaps the solitary perception resurrects
as though from nothing: perhaps anchor'd hold is given slack
or merely overlooked is the constant existence of the solitary perception--
for this, keep the distance constant, or increasing,
so as to be aware of the solitary perception
while leaving the solitary perception...
: for, once stepping from womb,
what benefit lies in dismissing womb as though nonexistent?
: though through great meditation and being [not yet known by author]
may these attachments of perception be known:
as though they water run from cloud to unpored skin to earth to existence ever-cycling...
unless 'so given is
Thought,
: Emotion,
.: a Stir within the Self,
.: a Click,
.: a Light,
.: ...
our friend and father of refine'ed gravity,
whose twisted trust and duplicity
well drown lungs in dairy-air'd visibility!
tumbling
down
air;
face,
tail,
face,
tail,
face,
tail
to smash in wade with waves unflinching
'gainst your wall of rounded cinder
--unfamiliar are these words
to the pausedbreeze of your voice
as i've never
had the chance to scream them
until downwind came,
and
now
i escape their trailing consequences
through still not telling you.
and there i was,
hand over pride to break the surf
and i just kept telling myself
"she'll forgive me sometime;
she'll close her eyes sometime
and dream of someone else."
blessed
is the blind, Night-scraping
light;
for self-amused stars,
once in cackle'd shimmer,
blur drunk with Jealousy
as glances given North
ever-more fall to Earth's domain.
i had
walked out to the car
to know the world for a few minutes.
push-laying next to old man e,
i noticed him standing at his pillow;
a look of frustration as he cocked his chin
toward every place he frequents,
looking for the biscuit i had given him
hours earlier--
he likes them
only if he has no other offer
of bacon'd treats.
in the kitchen,
his small grunt-growls ordered me
"give beggin strips."
--yeah, i did.
had to.
i look up
and see that you
silent-stand
on top of world
as stars shoot-fall..
as worlds slide
along the universe
'round your eyes--
i see their jealousy
for you are still
and they are dying--
for you are constant
and they must be changing.
i peer out
across water
of oceans from your toe-tips
and see you shining,
leading islands
in dance of midnight;
'round your eyes
they twink in merryment--
into my own eyes, now, i look
and see
you
standing
above world--
beyond edge of 'rizon's reach
and i cry
,knowing you are seeing me
as i am seeing you.
Way,
thou without name Eternal
,yet Death to many--
chest,
--yours,
pierced by hold of;
witnesses,
--yours,
drown'd in seeking of;
throat-movers,
--yours,
raised t'outer with joy of;
fingertips,
--yours,
pause-broke for respect of;
pearl-beams,
--yours,
whittle-faded in return of;
low-clerk,
--yours,
forgeing by will of;
suppose i saw you,
never meant to,
it just happened;
would you wave me,
swaying daisy,
and let me know?
suppose i met you,
never meant to,
it just happened;
could i see you,
even hold you,
not letting go?
suppose we were dreaming,
never scheming,
it just happened;
should i wake you,
or maybe watch you
for a while?
suppose i loved you,
never meant to,
it just happened;
could you love me,
maybe hold me,
till we die?
Mother Moon
wide-smiles
with nod
toward stage of Earth;
in fixed-gaze
and without stir of wind,
She washes through us
fallen creatures,
gently rocking
World to Sleep's domain...
like
whimpering pet left in rain to cleanse,
merely
open door
and stay with you shall
'til crown of time banish us
to love eternalized.
like
sunrun raindrops
through back of tiger
streak-striped
in orangeflorescence
how serene her smile in Summer's facial lightings,
where hair of shined mahogan'silk rests in bask of Daylight's father
frequenting Shore for despise of Shade and its
lower Beauty--
but though for stuttered moment pictured is her Serenity Smile,
fallen to love has she with other.
brokejaw ice like
teeth in crimson'd
drink
one glass [milk of
in halfdoze many jawgum
left choke-spat
sparingly to crystal
as though by fresh-shined
child and smiling]
in LEGO'd fever
age'ed jack o' lantern,
your ash-caged jagged grin
finds reflection: me--
awakened in
smile of throat,
cross of eye
to eye
to close
to smile again--
to
smile
to
flint
again
;
Once again it was that time of year,
To plant, to mow, to set the dogs in rear.
For a month or two we would be gone
A time too short, but for Mum too long.
"The maid," she'd say, "will care for the dogs.
I hope she doesn't feed them like hogs,
as you're so prone to do."
With that, we packed and scattered through
To the truck left running in the yard.
Before noon we were a third there.
"Oh how I hope to see it soon," I stared.
Out of my window were the grasses so well known
That each blade had a name, like Matt, Tom, or Joan.
And that sign still hung above them all;
"Welcome to Milburn Place: Closed for the Fall!"
It had been up since the early Twenties, or so Mum said,
Left there after the great man himself lay dead.
"Why do they not take it down?" I asked for the hundredth time.
"It's their choice, Hon, not yours or mine."
It was sad to see and worse to know
That Mrs. Milburn couldn't let go
Of the only one her heart would know.
Yet, every year, with loving arms, she'd welcome Mum, me, and Flow.
We'd go camping, riding, even biking off road
In nothing but our trunks, something special Grandma sewed.
Even with the adventure we'd take,
I could feel Mrs. Milburn's life begin to shake,
To tumble, out of control, until a smile creased her face
And we'd have our last summer at old Milburn Place.
spin me
and watch me fall--
top-heavy with dreams of you--
this pounding in my chest
could it be
from you?
your only gift to me
without knowing i exist--
rash, but not completely clueless
to the ways of love
and everything that comes with it..
i know
a look
can't be enough
to wrap me 'round you,
but can a thousand?--
each second
of every forever
that you go walking by,
turning slightly--
are you noticing me?
..hopes too great
to let them be right--
i'm always wrong
so nothing's new..
except
that now
it's you
that is right
without knowing
what you feel like
against me
in the darkness
of a candlelight vigil--
maybe tomorrow.
spider'd legs
smooth-tapping in consistent beat
of eyes turning\
falling by--
tap, tap, tap,
tap--
first finger figuring rhythm of own
i
peaked
last night
as
you
slept in arms grown numb but
warm;
i peaked at
your lips,
pucker'd in thought and lost in air;
i peaked
as
your lungs
rose breasts,
drew back,
rose again;
i
peeked
at your darkened thoughts
as lids played host
to
eyes
gone rambling;
i
peeked
in to see
heaven
adorned with shadowed-sheets whispering
'do not leave us
once sun returns;
do not cast us from
your hips
a mountain of us made'
the center of my universe,
but still surrounding me,
that gentle harmony
of Beauty
sings against my mind,
hinting at her existence
but still silent to my heart
until–
her eyes,
throwing their veil
of twilight
crashing into my daze,
shatter every picture of perfection
and rebuild them to fit her ways.
stuck between shelves
of history—of romance--
she stares beyond me;
I can tell by her glances
of reality, short, but there.
a thousand words an instance
each falling from her lips/her hair
as if to say
"I'm here, can't you see me?"
And I do,
with eyes wide
to try,
desperately,
to hold onto her brilliance;
the brilliance of a never-darkening eclipse,
halo'd by those rays of thoughts
that,
somehow,
leave her beauty
to be put,
unheard,
in my ink.
"A rose may wither,
a moon may slither,
a sun may fall,
and the stars may dither,
but constant are these words
that will never live up to Beauty."
take with you
every memory
of whispers, of
wishes, of
movies let run
while we focused on..
other things.
take from me
every memory
of the days we shared
out of the snow,
in each others' arms
without knowing
today would arrive.
take with you
every hand we gripped
to bring us closer
from eternity.
take with you
all i see
for it all reminds
me of you..
our time together,
morning to morning,
is too much to bear
on these
simple shoulders
of a
simple man
not worth remembering.
when the time comes
i want you to know
i never walked out
i never said goodbye
i never cried
since you passed on..
too many smiles
haunt me daily
to know that
sadness
could be
with your memory.
trembling,
i can't see tomorrow
without you before me,
without heaven with us,
without the sun to shine behind us
on our way
back
home.
they said once it passes
it passes..
leaving me here,
you there,
and loneliness abound.
i watered your
roses
tonight,
hoping you'd stem from them..
remember
when the night lasted till day woke us?
remember
when the day stood
till the moon guided us?
remember
every second past
the dawn we grew old
and finally
let the world in
on our infinity?
riding
on the rays
of yesterdays
see through the clouds
through the rain in the distance--
passed us by--
laying beside Forever
i see your eyes
seducing Infinity,
reaching out your smile
to let me hold
on to the only thing
keeping me breathing,
that kept us immortal
before mortality caught up.
wrote this some short time after september 11th, 2001. not really for that occasion.. more of a tribute to the one left or leaving.
to be told i am worthless/
useless/
unloved
is liberating.
without those
cuffs of roles unfulfilled
i can
be uncaring--
that
cold'd wave of wind clinched-less
in palm
and
belly of fingers.
how pale turns moon
when your eyelids close
and your servant, i, can see you dreaming--
within subtled twitch
your lips turn rose
and left am i,
the startled spy upon your ceiling
how
round those eyes
the
roundest eyes
that arm
jerk-twisted and showing
those ribs
those ribs cleaned
and caving
those eyes;
how round
those eyes
swollen and stationed
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