Saturday, October 21, 2017

regrets of course


sometimes after school was done
and I was firmly in the center of
the engineering caucus
I had the opportunity to know
two extraordinary women
who studied art history
an artist and inventor
and a critic
to learn two stark perspectives
and acquire the wisdom
of dating archeologists
I should of course
have been studying for
the platinum degree
and by today, I would have

Sunday, October 08, 2017

view from a bridge


Its a diffuse day with ten different directions pulling together and a still blue sky offering no clues. But a day of promise, I can feel it. The traffic worms closer and away, like the day, up and around green shadows of trees. there are cars and cycles everywhere standing alone with no one to ride them. the flowers have all been cut and stuck in plastic foil, they sit around bored, waiting for time to kill. Too many "Go Green" signs, the guilt of this age is quite exhausting and monochrome.

most people are invisible, inside cars, and stations and buses and helmets and seatbelts and phones and iPods and laptops and dreams and crossings and restaurants and friends and lovers and clothes and attitudes and newspapers and cultural stereotypes. some pop alive from time to time beautifully, little glimpses to permit the understanding that life is alive and kicking, even if it has become sporadic and conditional and fearful.

There are two young men dancing on the road, each on the opposite side, the world watches, heads turn, smiles, comments, hurried look-aways, giggles, every instinct of disconnect comes alive. There is very little enjoyment of the dance itself, other than inside the dancers themselves, stages are needed, tickets must be sold, with full page ads, announcement, announcement, there will be dancing here on this date and time, don't be alarmed, you may enjoy, even applaud.

There's a shiny red pickup truck in the parking lot next door, the lot's almost empty, yet the truck has circled it twice trying on first one parking space, then another before finally settling for a fifth. The door opens and an elderly lady in a red dress emerges. How odd. Her husband on the other side is dressed in white, and blue, he clashes with his car woefully. But he does have nice legs. The lady walks out of the parking lot for about a block before she turns to check if he's with her. He's not. He's still fussing with his pickup. She folds her arms and stares grimly at him. He doesn't even check where she went, they've been married a long time.

I understand her feelings perfectly, she figures she can't ditch him just because he makes love to a machine for fifteen minutes, but she can't watch either, it irritates her. She turns away and waits impatiently. The red dress makes more sense now. Give it up lady, the pickup wins this round.

My fever has become a nearly constant companion now, Like a cranky pet. It comes and goes as it pleases, asks for food at odd times, and hates baths. I must get it checked out for any fancy names it might have. Flu, viral, mono, or maybe madhuri's syndrome.

Sunday, September 10, 2017

pulpit of the ubervilles


in stone paper masks
curling rays of sunshine
around the edges of summer
warm bloody hands
such language
to make my fingers burn
my dark angers fade
tolling in the long empty wait
for forever to come
blindness gumming my eyelids
to fierce daylight

Thursday, June 29, 2017

starfang


for a world unable to stomach its own reflection for all the various wrong reasons, unable to stomach all the right reasons, nothing new, whats new. for a world filled with such beautiful ethereal smoke sculpture, it is quite frightening to move around in, one cannot destroy a work of art with a sweep of hand, it cannot be that easy. but it is, works of art were once the primal scream against time and hope, are now the commerce of skin and bone, the mundane sweeps of hand become. and when they are create destroy destroy and when we are cause, effect and meaninglessness abruptly clarified and brought to life, except what was is a dream, was a dream, stillness of life acquires a newfold meaning as artifact, time travel, in the edifice of sunlight just so for only so many times, but addictive with each toll, as art always is, literacy capable of exponential illusions in life, causality a slowly sweeping palliative. for life as its own sake, the actions of movement, rest and change with a contrived blindness to the mirror, discarding fades of moments and time with equal misstep chat chat and hope, is the comfort of this age, not wrong, whats wrong. but the immortal craving to have been, fully visible, recorded and archived, just a few minutes ago, it continues to be a pointless feature of non-existence, addiction to the grand theater of I. the test of time lies wildly scattered in the continuous deception of morning light, varnishing the blind seers, and just sort of being there


Saturday, June 24, 2017

TEDxSSN

one of my favorite bloggers is on tv! http://krishasok.wordpress.com



im a total groupie :D!