walkathon

 

the sun here is sharper, more direct, fewer layers between me and the cosmos, as I walk in it

baldly put, my journey has been a series of repetitive walks down a few disconnected paths, with rebellion every now and then, when ennui sets, its been fantastic and horrific, its been life

im convinced any journey involving one or more humans, is a saga of mishap and ugliness, tantrums and lewdity, coincidence and work, sometimes leading to a satisfactory billboard, if you airbrush it right

the danger in these harmless human pastimes, is the addiction to the airbrush, the growing belief in its invincibility, its wielding as a weapon of mass destruction

returning to earth is such a difficult process, fraught with unconscious denial, and the very human impulse of exalting-obscuring, a direct gravity journey with a lot of bullshit

in this present moment, warm and endless, I find myself quite bored with immortality

 

 

changethought

 

between answers and reprieve, ill take reprieve any day, I am yet to encounter a truly satisfying answer, that did not have the lurking human hand behind, molding false and fearful, holding steady, until nemesis, a whiff of time, and a shower of sparks

my memory is divided between what happened, and what might have, both strands equally strong, I think my shortsight has something to do with it.

the night began alive, lighted and still, skyscrapers shortened by mist, one nightclub stabbed a roving light into the clouds, defiant against the steady rain

the day dawned long and lazy, the motion sensors yawning and unused. to brush off some lint from my soul, there was a brief monologue expounded by a dead guy, Arturo Vivante, on pieces of paper, soggy with misuse and age, his, mine.

the petunias are flourishing, they've changed color since last summer of course. they're still delightfully generic, and quiet, silence is getting so very important with each day

I did three things together, solid and liquid stuff, easily distinguishable from oxygen. and oh oh, I made a minor decision, with a helping hand, of course, thank you helping hand

soon more days will crowd on my skull, roll into one, clamoring at my conscience like shrill cicada, acrid and creepy and non-existent, but so loud, as if a continuous noise can miraculously produce form,

I have two minutes to pause and write, I have reprieve today

 

 

present, teacher

 

them of us who dream at the moon on ocean
then set sail on low tide,
hack our way through blocks,
move inch by inch with darkness all around, solid and unrelenting
a complete ignorance to daylight, navigate by sound
no periscope, see out, see in
us who dont fit in neat slots,
no appreciation for piled up motifs on skill or craft
compared to the priceless of original or true
a noxious dislike for "time is money"
price tags with tickers, like grenade pins
pull and this delicate apparatus, will go off
count fifteen seconds, and keep running
destined to become, DH Lawrence's tedious links, between cause and effect