SUMMER 2023
7:6:2023
New words are hard to come by these days:
All these overused phrases
do little to save their own fates or faces,
just participate, cooperate, and I alone resides— the middle man, too much mere “is”
and far too little for “I am”
so we wager iambs,
practically palindromes,
reflecting fabricated reciprocity
in favor of prosody,
drafting epitaphs for headstones.
Suppose that these symbols survive
what our bodies cannot seem to weather:
neither dead nor alive,
that they transcribe transcendence
which severs distinction between all our words
and the truth they endeavor.
And the mind lingers on—
not as one, but as tether:
supplies what appears and demands Host forever.
New words—truly new—
are the stuff of ancient pressures, rare treasures.
But to discover a new permutation
is to really stretch God’s imagination—
to uncover new pathways!
All these overused phrases
do little to save their own fates or faces,
just participate, cooperate, and I alone resides— the middle man, too much mere “is”
and far too little for “I am”
so we wager iambs,
practically palindromes,
reflecting fabricated reciprocity
in favor of prosody,
drafting epitaphs for headstones.
Suppose that these symbols survive
what our bodies cannot seem to weather:
neither dead nor alive,
that they transcribe transcendence
which severs distinction between all our words
and the truth they endeavor.
And the mind lingers on—
not as one, but as tether:
supplies what appears and demands Host forever.
New words—truly new—
are the stuff of ancient pressures, rare treasures.
But to discover a new permutation
is to really stretch God’s imagination—
to uncover new pathways!
7:8:2023
Peace is a buzzword;
Peace is a moment
that you're only shown on screen.
Peace is fear's helper;
Peace is a shitty approximation
of what it all means.
Peace is that lingering pause
between one breath and the next,
between one death and the rest,
between Pulse of life and sex.
Peace is not your friend;
Peace is the enemy waiting at the end,
Peace is elipses,
purging what you know.
Peace is a tipsy means of letting you go.
Peace isn't found in the moment you want;
it's the chapter you're on.
Peace is forgiving time's debt
'cause I already know
how the story would've gone—
Peace is thereon.
Peace is a moment
that you're only shown on screen.
Peace is fear's helper;
Peace is a shitty approximation
of what it all means.
Peace is that lingering pause
between one breath and the next,
between one death and the rest,
between Pulse of life and sex.
Peace is not your friend;
Peace is the enemy waiting at the end,
Peace is elipses,
purging what you know.
Peace is a tipsy means of letting you go.
Peace isn't found in the moment you want;
it's the chapter you're on.
Peace is forgiving time's debt
'cause I already know
how the story would've gone—
Peace is thereon.
Dissociating on Stage
Wrong poetry flickers behind my eyes
as I try to realign my mind with time.
No, not that time;
the one that's going on right now—
the one that I shouldn't even need
to think about, the space between
tones who tell tales
and whatever it is that they want me to know.
We both flub a few notes, but hey—
that's just the way it goes with live shows.
No "time in a bottle"
like my precious studio;
you can never go back— might re-trace,
can't re-track. I can feel the attack
of new sound fighting back, fading black:
Play it right! Pick up slack!
Just sing into the mic and forget about
trying to re-write dead frequencies;
get them out of your head
so that you might instead see
what Sequence sees,
be more like Socrates:
let the myths claim your fame
(though at present you seem to resist it),
be a force in your own right
despite having never existed.
And all the while,
All: The While,
running in and out of now and style,
of new ways to take
and of old names to give them.
I know everything
in the span of about seven seconds:
I keep missing the chances, the changes,
you.
as I try to realign my mind with time.
No, not that time;
the one that's going on right now—
the one that I shouldn't even need
to think about, the space between
tones who tell tales
and whatever it is that they want me to know.
We both flub a few notes, but hey—
that's just the way it goes with live shows.
No "time in a bottle"
like my precious studio;
you can never go back— might re-trace,
can't re-track. I can feel the attack
of new sound fighting back, fading black:
Play it right! Pick up slack!
Just sing into the mic and forget about
trying to re-write dead frequencies;
get them out of your head
so that you might instead see
what Sequence sees,
be more like Socrates:
let the myths claim your fame
(though at present you seem to resist it),
be a force in your own right
despite having never existed.
And all the while,
All: The While,
running in and out of now and style,
of new ways to take
and of old names to give them.
I know everything
in the span of about seven seconds:
I keep missing the chances, the changes,
you.
7:15:2023
I can say that I am the luckiest person alive
Because I don't know a soul
who's luckier than I
even half as well as I do myself; I can say
that Indiana is beautiful when the sun sets not in spite of absent peaks and valleys,
but because the light arrays
at every conceivable angle,
no eye sores, just the poor wide sky,
unable to bare its own beauty.
How lucky are we?
As much as we dare to be
(no thanks to probability)!
I am me is not myself— but one of us is here,
and we're the trinity
that leaks out of your working memories,
the moment you're too busy being
to give a good name.
Put your shame to shame;
what is blame
if not for another weak way
to remain a false cognate?
The current whisks us all away:
don't fortify the mind if it hinders the river's imperative— you'll crowd out the narrative.
Because I don't know a soul
who's luckier than I
even half as well as I do myself; I can say
that Indiana is beautiful when the sun sets not in spite of absent peaks and valleys,
but because the light arrays
at every conceivable angle,
no eye sores, just the poor wide sky,
unable to bare its own beauty.
How lucky are we?
As much as we dare to be
(no thanks to probability)!
I am me is not myself— but one of us is here,
and we're the trinity
that leaks out of your working memories,
the moment you're too busy being
to give a good name.
Put your shame to shame;
what is blame
if not for another weak way
to remain a false cognate?
The current whisks us all away:
don't fortify the mind if it hinders the river's imperative— you'll crowd out the narrative.
7:17:2023
The undisturbed mind, true peace,
I've come to find, is ironically wordless.
It's purpose is purpose;
The Problem is The Problem is The Problem and
The Answer is The Answer is The Answer—
don't act like you can't tell which is which,
who’s who: they both depend on you
to be seen through. Whose side are you on?
Protagonist’s or enemy’s?
Coincidence's or conspiracy’s?
Your body merely carries out the prophecy.
You are the one who's been setting the tone,
who's been seeing what's shown
before all has been said and then set into stone.
Yet even headstones are all known loyal subjects
to time's weathering, whether they know it or not
(I suspect that they do).
I have this running theory
that I'm always trying to catch up on, to:
something about how our lives
are this problem we're living to solve,
and that when we all die,
Death absolves us
by turning us back to solutions,
a higher resolve
in a low resolution.
I've come to find, is ironically wordless.
It's purpose is purpose;
The Problem is The Problem is The Problem and
The Answer is The Answer is The Answer—
don't act like you can't tell which is which,
who’s who: they both depend on you
to be seen through. Whose side are you on?
Protagonist’s or enemy’s?
Coincidence's or conspiracy’s?
Your body merely carries out the prophecy.
You are the one who's been setting the tone,
who's been seeing what's shown
before all has been said and then set into stone.
Yet even headstones are all known loyal subjects
to time's weathering, whether they know it or not
(I suspect that they do).
I have this running theory
that I'm always trying to catch up on, to:
something about how our lives
are this problem we're living to solve,
and that when we all die,
Death absolves us
by turning us back to solutions,
a higher resolve
in a low resolution.
To Cope With Life,
(7:20:2023)
(7:20:2023)
I often imagine
two infinite tendrils—
the good and bad endings—
spiraling up and out like DNA,
filling in each other’s plot holes,
information gaps.
two infinite tendrils—
the good and bad endings—
spiraling up and out like DNA,
filling in each other’s plot holes,
information gaps.
I often imagine
my primordial soul
getting processed like cheese puffs,
whisked away by some scary machine,
prefaced and prodded into
someone else’s misguided desires.
my primordial soul
getting processed like cheese puffs,
whisked away by some scary machine,
prefaced and prodded into
someone else’s misguided desires.
I often imagine
my father,
happily somewhere and never a father;
maybe he married some woman or man
whose love cut through all of those stories;
maybe they’re playing guitar in the woods.
my father,
happily somewhere and never a father;
maybe he married some woman or man
whose love cut through all of those stories;
maybe they’re playing guitar in the woods.
I often imagine
the mother I'll never let myself be,
the one who's bound to make mistakes aplenty,
who tries her best to balance friend and foe
since she all too well knows
that there is no such thing as parenting.
the mother I'll never let myself be,
the one who's bound to make mistakes aplenty,
who tries her best to balance friend and foe
since she all too well knows
that there is no such thing as parenting.
I often imagine
what it might be like
to re-member life's meaning again:
I was no more than three this last time,
absentmindedly eyeing the Georgian mountain span
when suddenly, my tricycle screeched to a halt:
“Here I am!”
what it might be like
to re-member life's meaning again:
I was no more than three this last time,
absentmindedly eyeing the Georgian mountain span
when suddenly, my tricycle screeched to a halt:
“Here I am!”
O, Tempora
(7:25:2023)
O, tempora
Oh, the times
Should I die a million deaths before the morning
for the next day's crimes?
O, tempora
O, mores
Should I take the hazy skyline as a warning
for the human race?
And should I really pray that God will act according in either case?
O, tempora
How we've grown
Seems like yesterday's a world away and counting
Tomorrow's still postponed
O, tempora
Amazing grace
Do you have the means to make my dreams surrounding;
Will they ever leave the pillowcase?
And should I thank the God who's name I'm mispronouncing in the first place?
7:31:2023
They say it’s “on purpose”—
not of it, you know?
Purpose superimposed,
re-exposed as many times
as old photons meet new eyes.
The seeing is what sees you,
sweet pretender.
If you want a different ending,
then you'd better do pretending better.
Ever-humming as a river,
strumming in accordance
with the cost of harmony’s affordance,
the abundance of redundancy
as rivers join the sea:
that’s your agency.
There lies latency!
Must you aim so aimlessly,
shame so blamelessly?
My purpose is the same as me!
What difference comes from sameness, see?
You'll never be; you'll never be.
The ocean’s not your enemy.
Your actions crave activity
derivative of their own proclivity:
you are solely comprised of your tendencies,
so if you desire a purpose,
true purpose not “on”
but beyond your identity,
don't depend on these.
8:8:2023
One of these ways is not like the others:
I've seen abuses in dreams that my waking attempts to write stories about.
It's writing one now,
perched solemnly in the gallows,
eager to be fed
by whatever I shook my head
about at breakfast time last week.
Confusion learns from me sweetly,
yearns for me keenly,
grabs me by the jaw and looks dead-on.
Do you recognize me?
8:12:2023
The water’s tone is impossible,
wouldn't even exist in a vacuum,
almost blends right in with the steel railing, scribbles an ongoing portrait of the sky,
has something to do with science, I'm sure— science beautiful as a painter’s subtle hand and eye, heroic as the clouds,
something to do with science,
the kind of sky that coaxes you into believing
the stuff of legends,
notions of the heavens,
los cielos, they got that one right.
Los cielos quien se reflejan
por la mira de los deidades,
toman la forma de los nombres que no nos vengan
y mueran cuando la luz les toca a nuestros ojos.
¿Qué sobre los momentos medios?
¿Es verdad que mi primera temporada
será la última también?
Todos los momentos medios requieren la mentira,
la mente.
Todos son palabras, solamente palabras.
Las cosas que sé son casas solitarias;
no contienen información útil.
Pero conocer está ser.
Y ser está vivir está morir—
pero no significa que vivir es morir;
esos son dos palabras diferentes—
well, at least they are in Spanish.
Still no language comes close to describing
that impossible hue better than my eyes do.
8:16:2023
We name things stuff
because they serve some separate purpose,
name stuff things
because they snuff out verse from versus,
same enough to curve bluff’s worthless fix
for fluff from wordless,
huff and puff through rough absurdness,
cup the ocean, corrupt the surface,
stay the course and force the nervous
to source what cannot be reverted,
diverted more than poorly-worded,
dearly beloved and sorely perverted
as glory through stories prodded and hearded,
another mystery subverted,
contradictory as history excerpted,
consistency consistently averted
for simplicity's sake
in specificity’s wake,
possibility’s take on divinity’s bait
wagered on inference's state
by deliverance’s debate—
from where do all these differences originate?
8:17:2023
I've been talking about you too much;
is that why you won't come out of hiding?
Because with each new prayer,
another canyon deep?
The grave was shallow—
now sinking,
winking at another hour’s leftovers;
I can't imagine a better time or place
to now be erased, replaced by the next best death never to be seen again,
but here we are, my friend:
another canyon deep,
and our words the poor shovel,
and just there, like a shooting star,
the light spars over another hour doubled.
Make the rain dance for me, damn it!
Make all of my feigned commands
out to be something I can break
with my own two hands—
and clean up the slate so that I can reap
what I wasn't caught sewing,
and damn the node that tethers one to other
without some “higher truth” filibuster!
I'm taking my business elsewhere;
I'll find a bigger sandbox with cheaper rent
and I'll never speak your impossible name again—
the grave was once so shallow; I know
I won't be getting my deposit back,
but if you could do me just one last favor
and forget I said all that,
I'll save it for my epitaph
and meet you wherever the answer’s at.
8/31/2023
Center.
No ————————
Center.
No ————————
Be.
This is nature; nothing
is not nature; nothing
is not; nature is
Center.
Every thing performing
The exact same function,
same variance,
a different configuration
of unity,
Center.
Words are all nouns;
words are their own utilities;
your mind is a noun,
body a noun,
both utilities;
and we are the using
Center.
All is sacred;
All is useful;
All is vital;
All is true
Center.
The story tells its self and so do you:
Consequence,
frequently,
frequency,
free.
Am is free; freedom is slavery.
Center.
No——————
Center.
No——————
Be.