Beauty from the face
Symmetry is invitingBut eyes tell the truth
I had this run in with my ex-history.
It wanted some say about me now!
Isn't reality only this immediacy
How can a distant future of then
come back dressed up as now?
What is so wrong with this picture
that it is dismissible?
Are there not laws of continuity
and anomalies to every frame?
When something appears
to be referential through time,
aren't there vintage laws
where datedness is implied?
Yes, there is some sketchiness here
rasping as memory,
some bits and pieces remembered
in a first hand toss salad way.
But this history
wants the now of bottled dressing!
This can't be so!
We have recycling now.
And yes it is true
that facts these days
don’t last as long
and are printed with cheaper ink!
Maybe it is not even the same sun
passing in the sky above and burning
but worth, in the way we do worth,
with any sense of respectability,
does not dally in the past.
It moves its nominal ass along,
day by day.
It scavengers most every aspect of life
to build a pile of self-worth
in a constantly changing world.
This is not the long arm of the law!
This is a hunk of my ex-history,
possibly only a distant relative!
But really, can't even say that for sure.
And here it is, in my current life,
Go . . . away.
You have no proof.
My now lives with alibis . . .
The way we run on with nothing
yet fuel up at first thoughts.
We are vacant to say
but fume on privacy restrained.
We think ourselves a blank billboard
but our surface is beehive tension busy.
The humming within gets louder
as the hidden hive grows larger.
What we want to fall out of the sky
has no place to safely land within us.
Everything else is magnified bother
slowly reduced into our burning ash.
We are identifying with being
the runt of our own first litter event.
Yet each subsequent circumstance
rushes to the forefront to be foremost.
Everything that is new and exciting,
is eventually the same once again.
Yes, we are living it aliveyet we still manage to be so alone.
I'm going to choose my acids.
for a declaration about life?
From saliva to urination,
I want full control of my ph.
Just alkaline fluids
as demeanor and stasis.
And absolutely only acids
in digestive functions
when absorption is
a called for necessity.
No reflex from emotional duress,
no reflux of stomach acid
yelling up my esophagus,
no secret mission secretions
oozing through my pores,
no crumb drainage
from my overnight eyes,
no secret sinus infection
producing nuisance fluids that drain,
no lymph nodes gridlock clogged
with extra debris,
no excess water on the brain,
no need anywhere within
for swelling or bloating,
sweat when appropriate,
phlegm for a worthy cause,
weekly nocturnal emissions
as a last resort,
tears of joy everyday,
and that should do,
(this was overheard:
what one righteous hand puppet
said to its left hand counterpart . . .)
"Those stupid complex private thoughts
that you openly share
through your body language,
what's with that?
Why you have an electronic billboard
for a forehead
and those apologetic postures
better not be
your entire behavioral repertoire.
You are on my food chain list for sure
but just below shared flossing
and maybe an occasional substitute
for mandible water pick work.
And if you think for one minute
that Rogaine commentary
is going to help mask
the obviousness of you
as a hairy ape,
it will be considered by me
as only a subtle shift of an excuse
for your personal presence.
Why I am surprised
that all the pores on your face
haven't turned butt and run up sleeve?
For the way you cower
is, in no way, a poor excuse
for your version of social levity.
There is no sound or facial expression
that can mask your insistence
as your personal invitation to fear.
It appears that everything
before your face
must look like a gun barrel to you.
And the moving shadows
up the barrel's stock
seem like any one else's nostrils
facing you with murderous intentions.
This must get you really concerned
about where they're pointing those things
which in your case
is in every a face-to-face situation.
No wonder you feel like
a squeamish hostage
from deep down under.
Whatever the rest of that gibberish is
that you propose as speech
of that beady eyed
dodge ball fist head
of yours appears as balloon exhaust.
This is an irreverent usage of air.
It is disgusting
what those lips try to shape
with what is passing between them.
Have you ever thought, no.
First off, have you ever thought?
Then have you ever thought
of wearing a muzzle
or some other attractive device
that could contain,
no better that could conceal
what that is that goes on there?
You could fake a type of throat cancer
and get better results.
You could get some kind
of medical cosmetic make up
and make your face look like
a goiter takeover
or a mole possession situation,
and get more like a sympathy audience.
They still would give you the look
of both barrels
but presumably keep their hands
off the trigger
for most of the time.
unless you inadvertently appeared
some sort of inference towards
assisted suicide or accidental homicide
Why you could get one
of those clangy repetitive horns,
like the one they use
on vehicles for backing up.
Then hook it up
to a frontal motion sensor
somewhere on your face.
That way, just the sheer annoyance
of that sound detecting anyone
in front of you,
even if they are only out there
on a dare
or a bout of morbid curiosity,
they would set that sound thing off,
like a truck backing up does,
or better yet, a stadium horn
that just blares itself to exhaustion.
Then they could justifiably run for cover.
And you then,
could avoid further instances
of conversational abuse.
It may be lonely
but it would be
a quite breezy
to completely see the horizon
unobstructed for long pans.
And the wheeze
from your own existence,
could then easily suffice
as your dialogue intimately spoken,
maybe in a pocket
and eventually heard as a lullaby.
But hey, that would be a two-for-one!
You certainly can't go wrong
with that option . . ."
Everything is comparable,
or of that persuasion
for the first few seconds
that any initial notice brings.
There is the internal quick study
of all things front and center,
the sieve of comprehension
as coming into frame.
Then most everything spoken
to a spectatorship lingo point of view.
There is summary and encapsulation,
power point depiction in the mind,
and “and lastly” phrased to share.
But there isn’t very much of
“not like but is”.
That would be each one of us
but not really, on display.
This “is” factor
is everyone’s desperate search
for true identity manifest
yet displaced by projection.
Babies have it
before the dumb down
of our reality sets overwhelms.
Many people have it to exhibit,
but much like aurora borealis,
it is a special set of circumstances
and apparently spontaneous if at all.
For me, it comes
in the drinking of water,
not that food doesn’t evoke.
But drinking water,
although it may have taste distraction,
is definitely “not like but is”.
Food has a taste extravaganza,
a tango to chew,
landing the food utensil
on the delivery deck,
disembark, disengage and depart
before said process reaches assignment,
chew, taste, and swallow.
Where as water is an instinctual quench.
It is a reload, a refurbish, a refresh
and a tap into that “that is” . . .
even in terms of people,
we would all want to quench
and tap into the spirit
of a person “that is".
Remember, "not like, but is . . ."
I have a place within me
with these strange sensations,
that take a stand.
Behind the staunch and surety,
is a subtle frenzy called value.
Its space of occupancy is illusive.
It is strung up broad and inclusive
with crisscrossing lines of cognitions
like good to bad, more to less,
and big to small.
They all seem to overlay.
Even complex continuums as
like to dislike, care for to reject,
or love to hate,
find room for display.
I do not know what use
these orientations ultimately serve
but they function within me
And with a great sense
of compelling immediacy,
a core choir of inner emotional voices
give sound to these perspectives.
I feel helplessness to avoid them.
I am an eavesdrop listener
and yet these strange sensations
persist quite on their own.
And I have come to live there
where value proclaims
and I respond,
in an unending season of laments
that acoustically possesses me
as a stairwell for these soundings
to hum along within me.
There is an insistence,
demanding within almost every frame.
Value-claims come to mind
like broom movements
across the pavement of each thought.
Some heartfelt interactions occur
from each sweep of the mind.
I am this habit of the engagement
yet how did this elemental task
as its motions mandate,
come to represent me,
to become me?
The rise and fall of value
is now like breathing
against the inertia
of experiences' trivial fill.
Always a way of passage is made.
All the necessities
of keeping a storied self alive
are carried out in accountability's repertoire.
Self becomes evidential
at feigning an existence disenfranchised
but unassumingly so.
hugely inappropriate self-perceptions
to stir the fire
but hardly a purveyance
of conveyant wisdom to speak.
Value is like a personalized scarf
as a hip replacement
on a belly dancer.
Oh there is something to it
that is immediately appealing
but upon further reflection.
look in the mirror!
that really . . . doesn't work,
at all . . .
Value as a select from the menu
of life ongoing
is not the same
as value expressed as spirit
sharing light from within . . .
Die as I must.
Words will come out of me
to break my fall.
Gravity will bend me.
Grief will hollow my stare.
I will discover
that I am not whole.
I will lean on you,
all of you
and invisibly grow.
What I compressed
into a meaningful life,
will gather more loosely
as myself I once knew.
Die as I must.
I had all of time
to follow your lead.
I pleaded then
for your love.
And now I know,
you loved me,
not for my plead.
I had expectations of you,
all of you in some way.
Now we meet,
outside of frame.
I had versions of you,
each of you,
kept me from you.
Now I sadly bury my version,
while you all watch.
Die as I must.
Memories become maggots
from all of you on my mind.
Where I see your seeing me,
I can see
through you to your me.
I feel squeamish
not up to the pretend
of this going on.
Oh to be sure,
your laughter now
provides for you.
Die as I must,
but we do and will
all go on . . .
Yourself as a brand
becomes a voice
for a product
that becomes a souvenir.
We all, by that means,
become extensively superficialized
in regard to each other.
If I am a celebrity to you
then you, as audience, imprison me.
For I am held prisoner
by the applause
of your expectations
and the presumptions
of your candid unsaidness.
All of your faces
become masks of persuasion.
You are all accomplices
to the crimes of false fascination
and the collusive contractual binds.
their own reality show
strictly for effect.
If I sponsor you with my attention
then the way you serve my needs
is in the forms of valued distraction.
Our consensual reality
becomes a managerial project.
becomes a trite form
of intentional flattery.
The intimacy of my world
is best seen through these portals
of posted comments and pictures.
I’m really just a postcard sent your way
from being relevant in your life
but we don’t do that any more,
except for, “wishing you were here”,
inside of wherever I am.
I was brought here like you,
to be the proud product of two parents,
to be a child-like debutante
of this moment,
somewhat and sort of ongoing.
But upon looking inward,
I must reply.
I am not innocently here as any part
of a debutante is this moment.
Instead I am still in the first breath
of my birth moment,
from before now,
and again and again,
with the feel of any new moment's
stark foreign setting upon me.
I have recently discovered myself
over and over, as a performer,
newly waiting here for this moment
to become my stage of invitation.
I am also a lucid dreamer of spirit,
walking through the walls
of this moment's sassy display.
I am perhaps coming from
unhappy times in my past lives,
here to party in this moment
to get through it
or to get into it to get over it.
I am sadly here without permission
from my inner child at play,
yet to freely appear
in this moment's celebration.
I am partially a slave to the shackles
of this or any other moment's
accessories of distraction.
I too am reluctantly swayed,
looking for love
to continue to come through
in this moment's blind entry.
I admit that I am a poser for now
as if my personal baggage
were outside of time.
I probably will really be
in avoidance this next moment,
my addictive perceptual style.
I am filled with a crush of expectations,
cramming the bottleneck of this moment
that will eventually come and go.
I am prepared to be a litigant lawyer,
ready to summarize
any other moment's value
against this moment's maddening display.
I feel that
I am a sufficiently damaged goods
to dimly weather this moment
as another in a long line
of personal disasters forthcoming
and yet driven to blossom and shine.
I am this party of twelve heartfelt moments
with only a table for two in mind.
I am myself this annoying splinter moment
in search of a someone
who has tweezers for me sometime today.
I am often a reminiscent historian
prompted by other great moments
to indulge this one
into a story time passage.
I am a gossip columnist's all-ears
for this moment's innuendo and here say.
I am the 6 p.m. news
in alarm of this moment’s worthiness,
just waiting to verbally anoint
another 15 minutes
of in-my-eyes fame.
I am all this
bundled up energy of light,
in this, as always, a somewhat
stop gap moment's restraint.
I am jaded enough
to offer the kind of lip service
that renders this moment off as passé.
I am this crying towel moment
yet no tears of joy or sadness
seem to have timely arrived.
I am this dreaded but private
sunken disemboweled moment,
paradoxically in a greeting line
of friendly moments' fair shake.
I am this adrenal
that sees jury foremen
as every minutemen in my face.
But then, I am most always
a timeless spirit in witness,
dressed in hopeless cynic drag
with centipede rights of passage feats
these other moments'
out of my way.
But for now, this now,
for all that has come and gone,
am I still as,
a debutante is this moment?
Well, in an ageless way,
surely more yes and than no
but I can't really say . . .