phlegmatic ruminations

the perfect place for a good fever is made of darkness, silence and simple things that cool - water, sweat, tears. I would like to add my gentle embellishments - a good book, ginger tea, jethro tull playing august rain, or any squeaky instrumental - flute, violin, lemon juice, occasional chore shouted in by authority figures - spouse, son, anybody, a soothing scent to foil the suspicious odors that suddenly develop, preferably incense, recently acquired from india, ooo fiire. theyre all still not enough, to induce stillness, to enjoy my comfortable numbness, to stay losing time. inside the fever I really have no way to tell, if ive been here long enough, if its the same as before, if i progress, if i accumulate, where my rainbow phase dammit. my iguana like existance is supported by a vast array of hyperlinks, people are too much in fevers, incoming bundles of cravings and bias. also kindness, where hyperlinks tend to face existential dilemmas. id like to believe this is temporary, as many of my fun fevers have been, but theres so much permanence in this one, wherever I turn, theres this sense of, um, well, itll come back in a minute

a modern fantasy

in the somewhat disappointing absence
of intricate design and jewel inlay
in my cookware, of lace lattice
in my non existent curtains
a short supply of opal earrings
that catch the light just so
no swish of silk behind me
catching at doorstops
as I progress from room to room
I find daily entertainment
in imaginary conversation
with complete strangers
excuse me, good sir
would you think me
culturally or religiously offensive
if I asked you how long
it takes to shampoo and condition
your lovely flowing beard
till it gets that fluffy, can I touch
oh you would? then I wont

hacking at solid ground

when the canopy of stars
has been made
sandalwood turned to sky
all lights have dimmed and blazed
just right, just then
my hands still reach somedays
feel ready and justified to claw at
more than I can reach
more time, more bevel
if today I could have the power
to stretch forth two hands
and reach somewhere
change someone
hold on to something
then everything will be all right

waver

I am so rusty my bones creak, not from lack of material, life has been full of it, just the whole thought circle is getting so repetitive, each time I put fingers to keyboard, I am afraid of disappearing in a cloud of rhetoric and self inficted boredom, and survival baby, survival, ice pick to snow mountain, wind whistling, imminent frostbite, survival is what its all about. and finger foods. mostly survival. Also, im not super sure what finger foods are. Or mulberry bushes. I would google it now, but that would deprive the world of this piece of scintillating literature, takes away somewhat to hold forth Google defines finger foods as... Or maybe thats exactly what I should do, reinvent rhetoric, reinvent myself, phoenix from um, wildly average ashes. And it dawns on me, as it has a few years back, that religion would be very useful here, to inject a hearty dose of okay move on and do the good work of worthy usefulness. The days I want to desperately believe in something are now replaced with the days I want to desperately disbelieve in everything, which basically means theres a lot of good work to be done, but im so comfy, leave me alone. The evolution of my days from a series of extraordinary events to a series of unfortunate noises have been tediously catalogued, I feel like I have discharged this responsibility with courage, ableness and a rare grace. Also, today was a good day.