Another year goes by

This one didnt really register in the parade of life passing my unseeing eyes, all that bling, such a waste on me, one flash and im blind for the evening. Its not a morale failure precisely, its a fierce concentration on a distant dream that changes every day, and changes back every night. Doesnt leave room for any external input. Pointless of course, but isnt everything?

I'm too old to be anything but decisive. these opinions are now direction, these vague hopes are commitment. The lines are getting darker, and colored in, they no longer run together or outside their boundaries.

As a means of progress, I finally understand, that our sane and sensible selves are incomparably lame. With the blessing and curse of seeing too much, faith never worked in suppressing this mundane evil.

I'll never be a fan of rules and boundaries, but now I come ready with a down payment in timemoney, when I want to breach either, getting away with it is no longer an option, its the morose realization that someone is going to pay, might as well be me.

My feet are more resolute, they walk only as far as they want with the road, they will always walk away from the worship of cashmoney or human edifices of blind hope.

I am a roamer, its what I do best. I no longer fight the path spotlighted for my life, it keeps me moving, and I can change it at will. At 32, im a sports shoe ad, so be it.

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

 

 

tinkering in the forge

 

a warm fire blasts, close to mortal, playing with colors on a flat light, dabbling, awed and blinded, slowly drawn, addicted, to the possibilities between light and death

for years and years, there is only light, too much. but slowly and louder, today and tomorrow, the music spins. in ballet whirls, in sparks and slivers, curve ribbon slashes, in ebbs and flows, in perpetual motion, blood and tears, with no direction, but inward and around, in no purpose, but the rhythm of the sound

sooner or later, the harsh endless light has changed, from boring to rich and intricate, the pattern is laid, the ground glows ready, to freeze the best display, as life

now this ground is sacred, no trampling, no teeth, until these hands have tugged long and deep, to pull this seared image out, increase a dimension, and allow, touching

and all the reasons come crawling, sentries out and about, fearful and loud, ominous in their shrouds, demanding a silence, swords drawn and trembling, spawned without mind, snarling to be sure, the pattern is safe

the new dimension was pulled off, the castle a dream came true, a fountain in the garden, a kindness in the breeze, a couple of sentries dozing, a watchdog at ease

but the reasons kept circling, vile weapons on the loose, threats chained to smiles, force dug deep inside, the reasons still demanded each wide-eyed visitor, in a wheedle, cotton thong, a poor imitation of song, you should, you must, you want, you need

and a listening philistine noticed, the discordant chimes, the yapping at the heels, doomed curious to ask,
why this proxy addiction, to a favorite delusion, why must you make it mine?
why not simply call off your damned reasons, and say, I want

no reasons ever understood a why, the philistine was silenced, the castle quiet, the reasons flung adrift, without their favorite lie

no destruction burns grander, than when reason pursues light, searing and slowly, the castle melts back into flat lines, the light too blinding for ashes, but enough for the reasons, to dissolve back into the forge, happy to have been alive