yum politique

some soon posturing
about an old hick affliction
overlapping the rim
of a long evaporated addiction

toward reclusion---

liking to reverse, invert
into a turned outside-in
with the sewed-in tags now out
and blaring:

"not open fer bidness"

like nobody's bidness
because it's none

of anybody's bidness

but then what would be the point
because when the doors are bolted
and the shades are drawn
the noses of the nosey get

bent and snoopy-like

can a trap be sprung?
can reclusive reverse resurgency
work?
would what we have here is

proprietor impropriety

bundled
into an impermeable impenetrable

silk wrapped ill-irregard to the ways of
social courtesy and manner

scandalous behavior beyond reproach
ready to pounce at the first jiggle of

the web

prey to be ravished
as any offering of fresh meat
after so long an absence
from devouring lust

or maybe i should just
be my social butterfly self
and not worry
about the preferred

cannibalism

of the moment...

a yellow caution...

i call it the intersection of lost souls. it is a name that will not be placed on any official map or other designator for there is nothing sanctioned about the crossings, and lights, and turn lanes that could cause the participants' souls to vanish. i just name it for what i see---vacant expressionless zombies traversing through from one side to another or passing beyond, leaving an invisible vapor or body heat imprint that no one can trace, and yet i sense it. that is my gift. i feel the numbness of a disconnect as they pass, like they just entered the eye of a hurricane long enough to unscramble before reentry. i will soon see if i can pick up, pass through the remnants of their lost souls before the street sweeper gets them. they probably have little in the way of defense mechanism when it comes to vacuums.

 

i watched them all today from the bench where the transients usually rest, recollecting their thoughts, and checking the within reach garbage can to see if something useful was discarded, or maybe a tasty tidbit was tossed. it was a particularly overly encompassing view. i could see in the car windows and follow the pedestrians and catch the rhythm of elastic traffic, moving slinky like in a semi choreographed dance. i wondered how far and long it would be before their awareness returned. i imagined somewhere around third gear or the next curb.

the great unwinding

somewhere is the source or was,

i've tried to reach back, grasp through

into that portal and others to grab hold of something

and all i find is nostalgia,

a bitter reflection of what was never really there to begin with

because looking back is not the same as re-being there

while not knowing you've been there before

can we call that deja not?

 

but we'll probably never find it, return to it

as we would need to be like salmon in a death-life song, exerting

our last breath to be one with beginning,

because we are not nearly that committed, relentless,

ferocious in our resolve to perpetuate at all cost

because there is so much else to consider

and our schedules are basically full through to next week

 

that initial thrust outward was violent---

a jettisoning without regard to consequence

as no one asked permission to spew debris into the next dimension

no one petitioned for access

so maybe that is why we are so violent, arrogant

in our immediacy of the moment,

it was our first impression---

the initial imprint

and somehow we formed with and from,

something hitched onto many something elses

and there were no lines and ques and hierarchies

and maybe that is why the human predicament

is really the human calamity

because applying so much self-censorship

and structure to what is indigenously chaotic

is driving us all mad mad mad

and the priority of being is colliding with duty and subordination

but we could riot

we could war

we could eradicate

we could cleans---

purify

 

i'm trying to dump all the wax build up from too many polishings

trying to loosen the bolts on too many adjustments

trying to return to unleaded 

before i coast to a stop, exhausted

from all the tune ups, because

the freeway is clogged and more than likely to turn into a toll road

and i'm really not in the mood to have to pay anymore for access

and i'm wondering if this is really enlightenment

or unaffected-ment

 

so as we have too long hurled away outward, waiting

for the next colossal collisions 

where our building blocks along with all else unravels---

maybe we are not progressing toward a finality---

maybe we are coming apart

as the titanic orbs further distance themselves

and gaps for light to shoot

widens beyond an identifiable spectrum---

maybe we will spread thin into nothingness, until

the last sizzle

dissipates via a fizzle

and there's nothing left to swizzle

dark noise

down in the fall

way down deep

into shadows hung--

flung

with the day's tossed clothes

draped on bare frames

and skeletons all awaiting

the dark

when the human silence

is heard

finally vacant of

rattle and hum

market buzz

and lab rats squealing

with the delight of being

here

there exists life's roar

ferociously silent

 

can't say fuck, can be fucked...

Torn upon dire straight tacts, insidious they be and sharply protruding so one who might be pushed beyond a tolerable limit, tired and less cautious, finds it easy to lose balance and get snagged and that is why they push---because it's easy to get someone snagged. The tear is straight, not jagged like a rip as such reminders are to be quick yet deep and lasting like the slashes left behind from a whip. Transgression is punishable that way. Before it was being tied to the post and now it is accumulated interest and penalty and boycott. Same thing, different bloodletting. Solution? Become unaffected? Negate leverage? Hardcore pacifists and real Dharma junkies know how to do this. They are immune to the mob goon packing the silver spoon of conformity.

 

This moment's topic is self-censorship and why one would or should bother. Do you not wish to offend? Is the content false and agenda laden? Whose truth do you project and for what purpose? This are dilemmas wrestled with for anyone who slaves for the art and not just the craft. For it is the art that can be given no value and everyone likes to eat. Art cannot be created with profit in mind and thus it by default is priceless from the standpoint that it is either perceived junk and worthless or phenomenal and beyond possession. What lies between is perception and the money flow goes where it goes however it wants to go. My suspicion is it is usually the cult of personality that gets paid along with the marketeers that spin it, them, him, or her. The art remains the same... the only constant.

 

This is why poems are never finished, only abandoned. This is why when the sculpture is done, it no longer belongs to the artist. The artist moves on, has made the statement, asked all the questions, interpreted the vision, applied the articulation---the eloquence. They are done. All that is left is the handoff for the world to interpret, to critique, to praise or bash, and the artist must become even more transparent, or bullet proof. Hopefully they get paid by someone but most likely they don't.

 

So this place of interpretation stays free from censorship, free from perceived entitled predators, and free from the persecution penalties. It is what it is when it is until it isn't.

 

 

 

 

surprises

I'm supposed to know whose who and what's what in the industry. I am supposed to be an industry player, by definition, by qualification, and yet, I can't seem to find my certifications. Silly me. I only worry about what goes with what and why does it have to cost that much to go with that and why that is also pricey and inaccessible. I'm trying to be more sophisticated, but I'm weary of the "tude". I've collected the ratings and found them to be lacking in one dominant factor... validity. Not that they can't be cheap and highly rated... but when they are highly rated and cheap, they are insufferably boring. Why do they make so much boring at the bottom. We need to steal more from the rich and give to the poor. Crozes-Hermitage for the homeless! Then we need to eat the rich... but first decant.

 

Instead here I am in my dark quiet place of solitude with my qwerty top on my lap and a glass of that Crozes-Hermitage within reach and I await the noises of the night---the ones associated with a rattle at the door or running by or maybe a jarring thud to really test the bolt. They have been quite active in the vicinity as of late, much breakage and theft, but tonight and for no other reason than I am here just because, I have a surprise for them... just in case. If they penetrate the front door, I will reward them with Champain projectiles from above, hopefully planted directly upon their unaware skulls. They are really heavy bottles. They are cheap and highly rated. It could be a waste though because they are also quite tasty. Maybe I should drop the couch on them. It is also heavy... but padded. That could be considered humane. It could be fun.

quiet time...

Collating all these thoughts into an ebb and flow that works in a manner for reasonable articulation without compromising the expression is more of a difficult process than previously imagined. It requires attentive uninterrupted focus, at least for me and how I apply the work. I believe that may be where the real art exists. I believe summer days when everyone is at work is a great time to attempt this. There is method to the madness and reason for compilation as everything is connected... nothing is without purpose---even tangents.

 

For example, next door where there is no door, there will be a door but not before a considerable amount of noise in the way of tree clearing, excavation, delivery, concrete pouring, masonry, carpentry and the residual sub noise of boom boxes and yelling. This noise will accumulate throughout the summer. The lot is cramped, but someone got the go ahead for a potential build and flip even in this particular down housing market. There is a built-in nonchalant rudeness to this process, as if the priority is in the quest for profit, with no regard for the price of disruption. No one asked the neighbors if the disruption was an issue. No one saw it as even a courtesy. Courtesy is obviously not regulated. In the meantime, I'm collating to the sound of nonrhythmic clanging calamity. Even chaos has some form for eventual linearity, but this is about independent grunting of heavy equipment that pushes and shoves and scoops at different decibels when higher resistances are present. Resistance is the dominant force in the business of construction and development.

 

I'm resisting a confrontation. I may not be able to. But in the end there will be a house with flowers and people and this all too will pass, until the next lot opens up... real near... real soon... and someday there will be something ready for the publisher to scour over and there will be another contractor with a new boat and set of jet skis that he rarely gets to use. Balance is again achieved.

5 nonsensical senses worth...

i read that the oysters aren't breeding,
their larvae are dying
and are shell shocked,
they can't seed and it's a disease of an unoxygenated kind
because that is what pollution does...
it makes it hard to breathe.

i heard that the salmon can't spawn...
it's the damnable dams and silt from treeless hillsides
but there are views to capture
and protect from water
but the salmon would probably prefer the water
to be protected from us

i noticed a foul funk to the air
here and there
to and from the other day
and I wondered how far it had traveled to get into my nostrils
and if I was getting the diluted version
and who got the full strength dose first

i felt an itch and a burn
so i scratched
and then i coughed
but i couldn't locate the source of the irritation,
so i assumed it would be best to move...
somewhere

i chewed on something yesterday
but spit it out because whatever it was,
it had no sense of place
so i couldn't figure out where it came from
and without knowing the source,
you forget where you are going.

quenched...

cheap mexican beer

with a lime

and maybe some time

with a prickly agave' blue

can cool

a hot night fool

dizzy headed

to bed

breakie

can i get a cup a jo
and a j to go?
it's the side i want to be on
because i've had a cup a jo
and a mcmuffin to go
and i'd rather be stoned than clogged

bio pasted theraputic

for awhile about now

from around about then

there was this decided decision 

to become a full bore whore to the metaphor

abandoning technique for a contextual bent

wobbling

saturated and buzzed

moments in and out of content

shaking dry an open ended nonabsolute

while pimping like a poetic diabetic

looking for a little sugar

or a hypo hyphenated insulin nation

or looking for a predilection

not all that dissimilar to my penchant

for things a notch off

a tad short

or overshot

with a crooked decrepit follow through

grained against the maximum megalomaniacal 

an acidic upon the parasitic... burn baby burn

lobbing that metaphor at a predator... aim a little bit ahead...lead em

antagonistically contrarian to those that shove their absolutes down the throat...

with a segue to a tangent... a sequel to a digression

a rewired ex-corp whore 

once escorted out the door

cuz he shoved his prose

up their nose

cuz years are lost like summer wages

 

 

 

taps

Shhh... you can hear the tap tap tap of warrantless listening, the one now entrapping with an unlimited guarantee because everyones a potential threat to the greater ideal, the one supposedly for the people, by the people, and the greater good... not. Because no cause is needed for peek-a-boos to map your don'ts and do's, track and stack the proof of your insubordination toward the nation, no permission asked for an intrusive insertion, an unparallelled in-line feed to bleed off bits of your damn-well unintended subversion, connecting the dots even if there aren't any. And there are new lists to belong on, new categories in the file, the file of elevated threat levels because da gubberment wants yer babies before the boogie man gets um. And there's profit in the high tech snoop, better toys to scoop the poop, and immunity from an illegal premise... so be very afraid, be very afraid... the walls have ears and you're pretty much fucked if your intent is to dissent.

holy man
shaman
preacher
priest
toss out your potions
elixirs
of diabolical cures
for ills that don't exist
listen to the wind
watch the willow bend
it is talking

of 4th's and more...

Big Jer took his chair next to mine last night, after a fine day and a really fine day it was. But he wasn't planning on sticking around, at least the part of him that was the real Jerry, the one connected to the source of all things ever expanding forward and away, ever ready for the next twinkle of light to hitch onto. The Jerry in front of us didn't know that he was about to depart. Most anyone wouldn't. He had just finished one great July 4th feast with wife, friends and neighbors and was settling into a familiar comfort zone in front of the fire pit as the pyrotechnic participants of annual backyard ballistics ritually began warming up, tuning their instruments for the celebratory chaotic ignitions throughout the night.

 

Something was amiss though: a moment of vulnerability, a drop in immunity, a fade from the invincible, maybe something as simple as a stray thought. There could have been a flash or two, a sequential code triggering a circumstance, probably nothing too predestined, more inevitable, that might have signaled Jerry at just that right moment---the bus was leaving. I don't think he tarried for even a second, reaching out and grabbing hold of a sparkling tail of something somewhere in the night sky. There were so many at the time, the choices seemed limitless.

 

We tried to bring him back, trying CPR the best we could, but he would have none of that. The medics worked on him for 30 minutes after they got there and still he was determined for different places. Maybe the universe is built like that, ever expanding with waves and sparks of light zipping around, past, and through everything and everyone and for no reason other than being in the right place at the right time, something or someone gets snagged along the way to somewhere else. I suppose someday, someone will figure out how all that really works, but I will probably have already been long since snagged myself.

 

He left us with his former self, as if to say, "Here, I'm not going to need this anymore. You guys will have to deal with it. I don't have room where I'm headed." The coroner didn't get anyone out to pick up his body for about 3 or 4 hours. In a strange way, that wasn't all that bad, like how could it have been worse? We had a little time to compress what had just happened---grieve, reflect, search and say goodbye as Jerry laid stretched out before us where he had exited, next to what was left smoldering in the fire pit and under the sulfur streaked sky... and the fireworks tapered off into the early morning.

 

So long, Jer...

 

Fellow Americans...

Wishing all of you a happy merry safe Independence Day celebration---feel free to ignite and combust any and all sulfur based byproducts you can find, scattering any and all domestic cats and dogs into the four directions of the wind, and please be safe so as not to remove fingers, especially the thumb, for that is opposable and prehensile and necessary for the distinction of the species. Drink until your gullets overflow and don't forget to war whoop until your lungs collapse because lack of oxygen is essential for the brain to shut down enough to properly cause obsessive littering, especially the empty cheap beer cans that need to be spewed about the landscape as a testament to your patriotism.

 

and/or....

 

take a wee bit of time to pause and remember why we have certain freedoms and who sacrificed to give them to us and how fragile our democracy really is especially in the hands of certain unmentionable mentionables and why it's still worth fighting for when the cause is real. Specifically, beware of the enemy within.

 

Now get out there and party!

 

I am.... minus the cheap beer...