sado-mechanical...

micro-mini potentates
want us adhered in webs of policed states
leveraged egos magnified
sadistic undercurrents amplified

nazi-nazi holler I
bureaucratic knots to tie
our hands behind our backs
shackled allegiance to bully packs

be them dogs who prowl throughout the night
much is dead within this blight
G. Gordon be his name
redeeming qualities not in his game

psycho-critical red lights flash
all this posturing gives me a rash

found a new drug...

I'm starting to 'get' certain things; things that were already there, I just couldn't see them. I now understand the concept of finding something positive in every situation no matter how dismal the initial and prevalent outlook is. Case in point, my bout this past week with viral infestations, severe wear and tear on the infrastructure, and the residuals of mucus gland inflammations left me with more than ample time to reflect on more deeper ills. So an epiphany has struck. The synapses are still stinging, singed from the passing lightening bolt.

I won't go into everything here as there is not enough bandwidth to delve through the layers. I'm just warning everyone that the next time we all sit around a table of purposeful discussion, I'm going to be fully loaded, oozing multitudes of questioning concerning the reasons for starts and finishes that probably already exist, why crafting is more of a peeling back, chipping away at layers rather than building accentuation and enhancement from nothing to something, why as we whittle away at those layers we stop short of nothingness because nothingness is a non-commodity that can't be peddled; and nothingness is where truth exists and we can't go there because the truth is not marketable.

So until then, I'm off to read Dharma Bums and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance again.

And... NyQuill is really good shit. What do you think the "Quill" in NyQuill is all about? Actually, I think the NyQuill (the old stuff, not the new and improved) has stimulated long since abused braincells. I'm experiencing rapid-fire tangents though. I couldn't find a copy of "Dharma Bums" at the used bookstore so I grabbed "The Portable Nietzsche" instead. That's an oxymoron, isn't it? I have "The Portable Mary Parker" somewhere in the basement. Of course, being housed there, she's not as portable as she used to be.

Gotta run, Zarathustra calls....

three day weekend

a Zen hick from lands of simple pursuits
came by to revisit the other day
he brought luggage packed tight with the traumas of dramas
he crammed all he could between the gator and the carpet
the leather and the plastic
he leveraged all his might to snap the latch
fearing the springing and unwanted unleashing
they were heavy duffles he had slung over each shoulder
but they were tucked away
portable-like
disposable-like
and freedom was

so this Zen hick from wooded isolation
from mountain deranges unmapped uncharted
sat before me staring back into eyes drenched
with the glaze of the twisted unreal
looking deep past mud and alabaster dressings
searching for the beginning of nothingness
searching for truth
and after a while
time not contextual
he smiled and then a nod of forgiveness
and handed me the luggage
"I believe these belong to you"

all things bohemian...

the bohemic wheezes a deficient breath
the bohemopheliac fears he'll catch his death
the bohemophobic traces wide circles around
the bohedonist indulges upon what he has found
and the rest of the world crawls off to weep
as protocols ooze and defactos seep
through cracks of armor left rusted and week
and when the world clinches its ironclad grip
the bohemian exits off on another trip...