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.
Posts published in “Poems”
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 8×11 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.