musings & scribbles

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.