Broom Dust

There's nothing I need to say here.

There's every thing that needs be said. 

Finding personal fluorescence, that's the desire. 

Switch on and suddenly be bright. 

Life as easy as electric light. 

Yet the power standing on these shoulders of progress, is it guaranteed? 

Can't say with authority. Only know the chaos entropy wave continues unabated. Is this perception truth, or the mere trick of age and ever mind garnished maturity?

Funny thing about persisting along the human consciousness time line, each moment carries added associations of memory. Each action recalls not just a moment of repetition, but especially the remembered comment of another.  

And so present experience deepens.  Layers of association. I open the fridge and remember what she said. I hitch this trailer and the first time occurs to me. 

Guess that's why the wise travel, verses making the morning coffee the same way, again.

I haven't ever declared i have answers to such questions.  Just know I carry a candle.  Handy when describing the darkness of this uncertain life. 

Cast on my friends. Don't stop pushing backwards the gloom. Fret not whether you are the floor or the broom. 

When Sanity Snickers

When sanity snickers, and memory mumbles

When angels dither, and darkness drinks yet deeper pools

We wonder, singular and many, how long to remain patient and patently obtuse

When complex considerations become simple choices

When merely wishing to write out these thoughts is chilled from doing so in digital format

When the medium becomes the danger

When we wonder what paranoia is suspect, and what is sufficient

When the eyes and the brain no longer agree

When the scratch out tells more than the perfect calligraphy

When shape becomes more than a relationship of structure and surface

When color was born, and flowers first bloomed across the Earth

Tully Ate Cooly

An articulate condensate

A matriculating coagulate

The last Labrador believer

Elucidate hallucinate

Heretofore Henry Ford

if you know what I mean

Syllable cymbals

Snitching creeping crime

Break meaning, break time

No allowance, Clearance

No towels, Terrace

Take this bottle, and spin it

if You know what i mean

Such a terrible trench

My dear rendolant wretch

Sorry you hear this

Little test of a twitch

Some tees buzz like bees 

Dancing directions

Obliged in the Hive

If you Know what i Mean

A Phrase in the Spiral

 

http://www.jgiesen.de/hohmann/

Way Station

 

Think upon the way stations.

A place to wait. A mental locale defined by a singular limbo realized. And here we find ourselves.  

Such a phrase. Here we find ourselves. 

Were we lost?  What created such disfunction?  The answer lay in the riddle of perceived time. 

Is it time that separates self from self?  Of course, you think. But is it not interesting that it is this other riddle of 'self' that notices? 

Perhaps the twisted question rests in this play between self and time. 

We are creatures of cycles, diurnal experience. We intuitively discern breaks of identity from one day to the next, one hour to the next. Noted in the calendar and the clock, our experience of the now expires and is recorded, and then reflected upon. 

Yet, isn't it just one long day from birth to death? The insomniacs understand how the cycle can be broken, and seen as a stream between light and dark and then light again. Seamless. 

So when separation of experience fails, then the mind can see the continuance of self. The unbroken length and breadth of our time, alive. 

It is a questioning of the very personal paradigms we carry high on a flag pole, as we each all march forward, discovering how choice later describes destiny. 

We all follow ourselves. Through the needle of our eyes. 

Is there a point to this?

Ask the balloon pierced by the hand that made it, as the moment of a birthday party's surprise,

arrives. 

You Burn, I Burn

You burn. I burn.
Ashes, dust, Again to learn.

Been falling since I woke,
Midnight, 3am, a late cloudy sunrise. 

Found the fire lit by my own hands,
Again, consuming the consumed. 

Left my breath blowing, careless,
Sometime last year. 
Lost your faces this year,
In a pit of fate, and fear. 

Dug the holes,

One and then two.

And meanwhile, my father, you. 

Can't find the time machine I wish.

Remaining is just cruel evaporative memory. 

Seems so silly.

The depth of feeling I deal,

Minus you. 

Compared to the rest of this desperate world. 

I don't know if sorrow has increased 

Over the long course of this earth's natural history. 

But it has increased here 

Of late. 

And I'm so sorry, and thankful.  

And other such ineffectual communications of my experience. 

Nothing I do will fight this known horrible beast. 

This relentless Entropy. 

I sometimes hate that I was brought here to live.  To have an I and eye. 

Pitiful self serving remorse.  

Yet it's real. And I declare truthfully, it's been with me since I had a me. 

And forgive me, you who finds this. 

Such notes do nothing more than a sudden culvert absorbing the momentary deluge. 

If I could just back up. Back away the recent floods. 

…

Fall Singularity

And, ultimately, it's just me. Everything falls away, the distractions dissolve in the fluid flow that is my continuous heartbeat. 

I confess I don't know how to live. Just work. Work through adversity, challenge, and the deaths the creep up on us. Like a hungry wolf pack on the icy plane. 

It's fall now. Generally the season, and specifically of my life.

I feel the passing of my father into his late winter state, and the house move from where maybe the sunniest years of life were spent with my betrothed, and the sudden loss of our dear pets that followed us here…marks the turn into the said third season. 

It leaves me sad and at a loss in this season of loss. 

Yet relentless, the world turns, and cryptically makes the sun appear to leave and come again. These revolutions will be the death of me. And may I add, literally. 

My continued coping choice in the face of irresistible entropy will hasten that personal death. 

But maybe. Maybe a light will find these eyes and actions. Maybe. 

I do not live without hope. Hope in this life is a jacket hanging in the closet. Waiting to be worn. I find only the logic of next steps, and smile to dissuade the truth. 

This act of writing is nice. Something I've enjoyed and feared. Very akin to the other coping mechanisms. 

I wait for the future (death), as I waited to be born (life). 

I'm sorry to those who thought I have a heart. And I'm sorry to those who thought I didn't.  

I'll try to not disappear into darkness, this Fall. But there are greater mysteries pulling us below than gravity.  

We can only pray light does yet find an escape from such singularity.

...

 I won't post this on more common social media. 

But, I'd like to address the God, lord, what have you. 

I know existence is a mixed bag at best. And I hesitate to emote an ungrateful tone. 

But, for fuck's sake, do you maybe want to fuck your own ass for a while?

Write me back to discuss. K thanks

Things

 A lot. A lot of transitions of late. Saturn or Uranus moving on, some semblance of outside explanation, explains it. 

Bit I see, and notice.  Some crossing has announced a crossing. 

And there are things, to be considered upon this midlife marker. If I make the continuance of a life. 

There are things. To be done. 

And. And the meaning of And. 

It comes. I desire. If only I can defeat self, in favor of design. 

Turn over

 It's about that stretched out series of moments between dreaming and waking. When your dreams, your plans, fall away to the pragmatic barking demands of the awake hours. 

Things central to your soulful progression way laid, sacrifice before the necessary. 

This is my current time and small epoch. 

And who's to bitch?  Not me. Not in comparison to the wretches of this present world. There are many more due. 

I was made for struggle and strife. 

But I can't help but wonder. Of the other hours spent in speculation. In sublimation, in exercising more joy and art. 

This is but a grieve for my life, as I rightly preserve the happiness of others. 

No expression of martyrdom here. Just noting other desires.