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Monday, October 31, 2011

Darken mirror looking back 2

Brutal honesty is beyond refute here.

No intention of suicide.

Survival's slimmest margin

of acceptable means

in sharing light with others

to start with.

This is my way

of truly knowing of myself.

My smoldering pains,

offering counterpoints.

are the best for me

that life has offered.

All the joyfulness in getting by

lives unseen as passages

of secret sorrows.

For me to share from my heart

is to admit and to risk

of even deeper pain.

To embrace

the unembracable whole

is to make a case for worthiness.

This is a star-crossed path,

but there is an incessant calling.

Historically, no two consecutive steps

have met with this sweet embrace.

My true momentum comes blindly.

So far service in secret

has been my path.

Few people know this riddle well

as pursuit towards revelation.

Sunday, October 30, 2011

cliché immunity

guttural utterances,

as babblings,

seem to have

cliché immunity . . .

Saturday, October 29, 2011

Darken mirror looking back 1

I have fallen

into a blunt gray stony haze.

That life is thick muted shadows.

It is an isolationist's view.

Black and white judgments

come into frame.

Prerogatives are flatly stated in black.

Stark and bleak are about the face.

The martyr lives within.

Self-defaming is worse

than you could name me.

Each step shadows as my death walk,

limited and finite without recovery.

Whittled down and without means,

are the festering of feelings.

Abandonment is of a reoccurring kind.

Self-idiocy is imposed.

A mental boot camp's discouragement

is at the end of every day,

it is as day one all over again.

Yet, deep within this fix,

there is the caring of others

who hurt in more obviously painful ways.

To give a kindness is a potion

of self to share,

by turns of heartfeltness towards others.

Maybe relief will come to me incidentally

as it always has in the past.

Friday, October 28, 2011

debilitating (haiku)

to see suffering

and then to feel so helpless


Thursday, October 27, 2011

money to confetti

Money a lot like confetti.

They both travel down,

one through space

and one through time.

Each is just trying to find

a gravity of permission

to celebrate

its means of passage . . .

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

monkey dung

monkey dung

not the same

as monkey pile,


Tuesday, October 25, 2011

the passion behind a conscious rage

It is bubbling to the surface,

now and then as this fume of rage.

It is seething as a flow

of minute unconscious turbulence,

not really as repetitious

or presenting as accident prone,

not revealing as the hidden source

of self destruction,

yet a haunting behind presence

that echoes as a shadowy familiarity

but in a somewhat muted distain.

Forensic evidence can be everywhere,

dressed in bystander's observations,

as a clumping of minuscules and fistulas

of tension in their field,

held somewhat hidden but back there,

as a fired up ganglia within,

reserved for reaction

yet without a specific focus,

slightly trailing off into oblivion.

It appears as a sloughing off

of endless karmic dander,

always in the picture

but seldom accountable

in the perceptual frame.

If you strip away the clues

that instigate higher blood pressure,

what a method to their madness?

For some, you will find

where memories arrive like bird shit

on the windshield of their attention

as apparent tells to their familiar view,

you will further find that the safety is off,

both hands on the trigger

and there is a smoldering,

cross hairs of blind response

secretly set on taut.

All the subtle physiology

of this body is heightened

as if in anticipation is a way of life.

The auric fanfare is frozen

on the presentation of full red alert.

The electric infusion of personal amperage

is sparking off as twitches

and restless body syndrome.

There is a sinkhole of self-witness

readied to take on the darkness

as if total blame

would be shedding sufficient light

to see and sense an intended target.

A dream bleeds through

blatant with coagulant trauma

as a movie too personal to disregard.

There are emotional water balloons

stored everywhere waiting to rain

against any cactus of admittance.

The unsaid premise; no nametags,

no prisoners, no one unscathed.

There is the indelible black ink hurled

at a white life through accusations.

The stream tracks from tears are forthcoming

but there is neither engine nor caboose.

The release of a sky,

full blown with white doves

of dynamite cascading down,

gives us an unscripted trap door feeling

for there are fire ants issue bound

on the warpath towards undeserved pain.

The blithering sound of one's own voice

is, in this state, indecipherably falling away.

You can lip read the clouds near by

and hear the curse of all existence

by the shaping those clouds make.

There are compressed involutes, as beings,

bent of the rage expressed as disaster,

moving towards a total personal horizon

of impact and rage release.

But, if you strip away

the shriveling up of topic as motive,

really as the source

of this crisp burnt indigestible chew,

then this meltdown of character

and its position

as the standard bearer of cause,

and the utter wasting away of belief

as bone and fear is as fragrance

in the idolatry of having issues,

you will come to find

that there is most essentially

an infusion of spirit,

a vapored breath with utterances

of secreted soulful self

beyond these topics of disdain.

If you strip away all

of this graphic destructive entourage

as heavy and thoroughly as it is presented,

what really is left?

What is this essential source as driver,

after all of the horrific is stripped away?

What is really left

is the ambient passion

profoundly concealed

behind this as conscious spiritual rage . . .

A higher power of spirit as being,

trapped and kept in issue-bound

emotional contrivances,

never to have cleanly express

the most precious of sacred loves

from its collective radiant heart

blessed with these,

these paradoxical circumstances,

yet all hidden away

deep within their being

is the passion

of a conscious rage

yet unclaimed . . .

Monday, October 24, 2011

Efforting (haiku)

for without passion

efforting expects results

this moment is lost

Sunday, October 23, 2011

a different point of view

a different point of view . . .

(the revisitation)

[the seven sins of pointedness]

cross over a river

lively stepping along

on the surfacing heads of crocodiles

one after another

then you'll talk

from a different point of view

[1.) facileness]

catch a downward descending tornado’s tip

within a glass

and offer a toast

that sends it back skywards

then you'll talk

from a different point of view

[2.) eventfulness]

drink a glass of ocean

in a single swallow

and know the cycles of the tides

then you'll talk

from a different point of view

[3.) scale]

crawl up the rope

of your whole life's head of hair

still attached

then you'll talk

from a different point of view

[4.) time's worth]

perspire the lake

you then swim

and when you reach the other side

then you'll talk

from a different point of view

[5.) effort]

breath in again

until you re-breath

the same exact molecules

from your first breath this lifetime

then you'll talk

from a different point of view

[6.) unconscious habit]

lucidly come back to a dream

you've already dreamt a hundred times

now with complete understanding

then we'll all hear you

from a different point of view

[7.) completion]

Saturday, October 22, 2011

no control (haiku)

we have no control

yet we demonstrate some things

to prove that we do

Friday, October 21, 2011

the twenty-first of the month

It is the twenty-first of the month.

Not unlike what you could say

of any day, or any month.

A mark across what time makes plain,

unique by description,

supported by detail,

irrelevant as all the same.

Time is like the sweep

of a reptilian tail,

a long tale of us

as we would so describe,

approached with the some befuddlement.

How to render without the overburden

of self reference,

to toast a day

without inference to effects,

to experience the preeminent stampeding

flash flood of time

as a hydraulic engineer's

best immersive envisioning

and not as landowner or homesteader

or newscaster

or any other at-effect responder.

To be up front with the churning motions

of how this day is done

and not a religious clamor

for the whys of this day, this month.

Evaporative means is a form

of time's ever-laughter.

The miracle of this diminishment

as if moments were

droplets into disappearance.

How small in passage

until there were none.

Is time a test of focus

as concentration would administer?

It is the twenty-first of the month,

not unlike all others

but in the short term, apparently unique

yet lingering into irrelevance.

Now is how I see

the sameness in every day.

Now is who I am

for the seeing I do.

I stand somewhat in the awe of time.

I am an oral tradition

even if only as a reverie within.

I sense a countenance of spirit

that finds time as comforting

as wild animals

that would feel secured enough

to rest at my feet.

The tea ceremony is a peace aspect

of this presentation of time,

and yet a demystification of time

as if it had shadows

with all knowing motivations

for the oppression of means.

I do not see time any more

enrolling me into bad yoga postures.

Six p.m. does not have to be

the evening news.

Stoplights are not a uniform

appropriate for the dress code of time.

Holidays are not time's curbside wino,

cynically winking back.

There have come ways for touching

to take the pulse of time;

it is my body in an ocean of water,

my emotional component of aura

in a lingering group hug,

our shared face of permission

in response to cosmic disaster.

It is the twenty-first of the month.

It is a long corridor of time muted

but clearly defined by echoes.

It is the mundane whining weave

of everyday tasks and pleasures.

It is the massage of precision

lost on subjective versus indifference.

But for once, I have taken notes

to a half year's cycle,

Starting six months ago,

working towards the twenty-first of now.

This is really more than

noting street signage

and not anything like

studying suicide notes.

Just staring out into the vast

as gathered by experience's web.

Looking at fixation's stance

and how it is composed.

Seeing how composition sets itself

in the center of frame.

Observing the mechanics

that allows this frame

to be the honest hand.

Feeling for where a trust of being

then subsidizes this frame as real.

And what is this substance of trust

bonding these six months of sun

as the backdrop for who of me

that feeds as a witness to this freedom?

What is this

wellspring called trust made of

to be so resilient in these observations?

Working this time-filled collage

into mediums: of boredom, routines,

unrewardedness, the waitings,


bookend-to-bookend aloneness

in a life changing dialogue,

with major interior assimilations,

yet with little to share

from the flood of minuscule influences,

unweaving the rope,

undoing the knots

putting the fiber back

into the field of my being.

It is the twenty-first of the month.

Less is more.

A statement of being

has a chance at life.

Insight into the overwhelm

that doing can be to living,

that over-achieving can ever justify

an otherwise impoverished emotionality,

that over-watering any and all plants

is as if gushing were the nurturance,

that over-knowing everything

is as if there is a safety to be gained,

that over-exercising as if demonstration

were a form of concealment,

that over-loving is as a secret technique

for diversion away from pain,

that overcome with performance pressure

is to feel falsely rooted,

that over-gripping anything

is as a method of tension towards release,

that over-amping on conversation

is as if topic were the cause,

that over-entitled to an opinion

is as if self worth were a sell,

that over-guarded by a cynicism

is as if loss is kept as a score,

that over-impressed with experience

is as if reality were the reward,

that over-endowed with chances

is permission to seek the myth

of small perfections,

that we are bejeweled with choices

is as if accessories were needed

in an alley walk of sorrows,

that companionability is

a first five-minute intensive

in a cardboard cut outs sort of way,

that overly sensitive is

as if disappointment were

a style of acquisition,

while overly responsible is as if

a mandated need

to source some self importance,

that too quick to judgments is

as if the fastest gun in any situation wins.

All of these as monthly aspects

are time card reports

for now to become sheets

for origami made from my soul.

Once again,

it is the twenty-first of the month,

new shapes may come,

the folding continues anew,

producing out of timely observations

what is eventually, beautiful to view . . .

Thursday, October 20, 2011

nose tingle (haiku)

carbonated drink

the source of nasal tingle?

droplets to nostrils

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Emotional Candida

Experience can exist

as an emotional form

of Candida.

It can be

a thought-form fungus

leading to vague infections

that can linger a lifetime,

feasting on tendrils

of personal attachment,

fostered in the forests

of expectations

with the constant craving

of drama as the feast

in an endless hunger

for distraction.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Hinting (haiku)

say what you mean to

then clearly in your mind’s eye

you can stop hinting

Monday, October 17, 2011

The subtly in efforting

Efforting is a state of mind

above and beyond the doing.

For some, this can be on

as a way of life.

Inspiration would truly never hire

efforting in the first person

to get anything accomplished.

Efforting is not passion in drag.

Efforting is interior AM radio

heard over the inner-self airwaves.

Efforting has no tea ceremony in mind.

Efforting is a harbor

for emotional baggage

undisclosed yet flash flood

carried forward.

Efforting employs will as a stabilizer.

It features initiation towards

the posing of action

while venting

the concealed compression.

It postures towards gaining results,

yet it gives animation, the “grind” look.

It taps into reserves

of emotional strength

but towards a hardness

of accomplishment resolve.

Efforting has needs

for exterior eventful conclusions

while fueling low levels

of unresolved cynicism inwardly.

Efforting, as impetus,

expects results

as for measures of self,

well, oneself

either against or amongst others,

as justification for declarable value

properly on display.

And by this process itself,

efforting has adequate reasons

to cultivate a self story in mind,

thus acting out

is apparently justified.

For efforting is a dynamic bold blend

of the unrevealed blasphemy

of ‘self against spirit’

and of the hidden hypocrisy

of living towards ‘character’

while denying ‘integrity of being’.

The degree to which this is so,

is dependent upon

the inward impulsiveness

concealed within the effort disguise.

Efforting is self-management,

and in all ways,

however subtle in source,

a reaction to something

previously declared to be worthy.

The percentage of self-assigned

in efforting,

can be the ‘action commentary’

about the self-consciousness

of a person

when a more present presence of self

is not readily available from within.

Efforting essentially is self-denial

but so subtle as to be denied . . .