Month: March 2016

The Messianic River Trip A Poem of God and Life and Children and Wife and the Fluidity

The Messianic River Trip A Poem of God and Life and Children and Wife and the Fluidity

Ill begin as I never do at the beginning.

These are notes from my Train Journey, your interest in them, feigned or otherwise ,is appreciated in my most least appreciative way.

We woke, early , the engines roar in the looks of my son’s eyes, Sun rising as it always does, but not. We were being pulled Southways, sky burnished umber , twilit aura of purplosity and pinkisity , the mixture of colors whatever I need them to be to describe what is mine. Sky mountains.

Towns passed: Discarded trash on hillsides, gathered as if in clandestine meeting. Trying to formulate the lives behind these discarded heirlooms, I stumble upon a metaphor of new birth. As if rubbish were a chrysalis ; somewhere a couch has sprung wings , has become the uber mensch of couches.

Leaving Marshall ,TX and everything is moist and lichen covered, graveyardy. My wife takes note of the passing of a cardinal, her voice small but remarkable,infectious with secret.

I yearn for Longview and a smoke, some anthropology, perhaps some poet ill read and be irritated by either his or her talent or lack thereof.

God placed a stranger who wasn’t a stranger in my path named Maria from Portugal. We discussed Fernand Pessoa a long dead writer friend of mine. We part ways but I give a halfhearted promise that will  be made into a lie by my hurry to debark , to gift her a book by Bely the Russian symbolist author. In reading back over what I’m typing I must sound like all of the culture Nazis I hate and their Paul Therouxesque way of doing travelogue, forgive me if this is the case , or rather piss off and try to enjoy.

Don, the drunken guy who liked Nickelback and Kid Rock and tried to sing them to me with his out of tune guitar on my last train ride, whom I hugged and prayed for because of his dying father in Chicago happened to be riding back on the same train. We parted ways in Longview , his long braided hair, Willy Nelsonesque, his voice; the raspy smokiness of the east Texas to which i’m accustomed. A voice that is less like saying goodbye than saying hello for another time guaranteed by God, but at a time un-noted in the annals of fate.

Ill soon make reservations for lunch on the train, to eat as the country passes by , the ponds , the alloys of cityscapes, fill my brain to popping.

The black conductor seems a suspicious man, he keeps counting bags, and referencing some pad, calculating something I know to be redundant, to be filed away in an equally redundant database. In my mind I can almost see the digestion of these figures by the said machine , its need for information almost existential, its lack of purpose, like some shitty plot in a Sartre novel ( a medium he should never have attempted). I fall asleep with Sartre’s all too knowing ass of  a face in my mind.

We have a mediocre lunch in the dining car, the train shaking , our drink mysteriously not flying off of the table with its paper dressing, a single serve table spread. My food is in my stomach now, and I’m trying to shake off a pre-lunch nap.

Finally! The green grass and the hurl from the city’s tentacular womb, to the trees! The scope of where men were meant to graze. Cows water themselves by sparkling diamond  pools. Live Oak and Mesquite. The trend of the sky seems to be blue, the calciferous coral like growth of tree, sprouting its Spring coat, we responding. We denying our response.

I now Know why men take notes on trips. So they can edit them and make things seem as clear cut and great as they wish, and themselves seem as if Chekovs wandering the continent with these formulaic allusions and the ability to apply them to strangers. Wish i could lie to myself and let that be what I was writing, but then id be doing what was against my grain, and that’s most everything, maybe even you. But I digress.

Let it be known that we arrived safely in San Antonio , and debarked , my father and younger brother Conrad waiting politely and right on time to help us load our bags and let us stay at their home in Belcones Heights, a niche area, deloused of crime by gates and guards and certain losses of freedom, we’ve come to equate with freedom. We grow no grain, we harvest no milk , and hide behind gates, but we did arrive, helpless and fat like pink ignorant infants.

Here is the itinerary for the week:

  1. Zoo and Riverwalk Piano bar ( met a funny piano player, they’re all funny , its their job)
  2.  Guadalupe River State Park Camping Trip- I just returned from this trip so I’ll elaborate.

 

We’ve arrived at the River , it is named Guadalupe which roughly translated means River of the Wolf , the bluffs here are like grandfathers who will never die, the wind their breath, harsh,quick. The storms of cold surprising, unexpected and all words in that family since I hate a thesaurus. I’m sitting on a bald cypress jutting into the green river as my kids fight and play and my wife lies next to me. The overarching branches yearning towards the water, as if in some spiritual need.

( The Messiah Speaks ) A Cheyenne Poem/ Song

I am coming in sight-

I bring the whirlwind with me,

That you may know one another.

 

I feel this messiah, he is the rise of the hill, the eroded limestone, the very holes which the water has traveled through its igneous structure, the reservoir beneath our feet. The lives of mollusk’s , strange and crepuscular beneath the waters of the river, he is there too. The sounds we hear are the growth of God, I know this , my pulse races, i think of all the wasted effort of forcing objectivity.

 

Smoking and Listening to Aphex Twin the Day before Train Ride

Smoking and Listening to Aphex Twin the Day before Train Ride

Listening to the Ambient works compilation by Aphex Twin ( Richard James an artist extremely influenced by Eno and Glass) and thinking of how to pack my bag most advantageously to stuff it with entirely too many books so i can feel like if the world ends during the journey ill have a library in my possession with which to seed the Earth.

My family sleeps and I’m waiting on my step son’s Dad to bring him home, I wonder what they do, I know its not what fathers and sons do, because those are the things Gage and I do, but I digress , I guess its my prerogative if I want to dislike a son of a bitch on some made up principle. Just hope my son knows fatherhood is more than fishing trips, and go kart riding.

Before a trip my mind is always like this, but this trip is different, I’ve the proper attitude, Ill not be alone, the countryside will be something I can share. Up until now its been a secret I can share with no one, my outdated mode of travel ( Train) isn’t taken enough for me to have a relate-able story to tell anyone else about it. Hence, I encourage train travel, because whats your damn hurry anyways, that you cant bring a novel, a bottle of whiskey, a pack of smokes to share with strangers( at the few and far stops at the various undersides and downtowns of metropoli )you may never see  again.

Ill be reading Leaves of Grass and some primer on Anthropology by some PHD. Mead recommends from Harvard , Kluckhohn I think, and some Roald Dahl short stories, because somehow his writing seems appropriate for train travel. Or I might not read them at all, I might put on headphones and let some variegated classical artist and new composers flow over me, sooth me as I ride on this metal beast through the heavily light laden cities, freight trains going by and the endless commerce,  ugly and beautiful, terrifying but necessary.

It’ll be much safer , as I am not the driver.

auf wiedersehen

 

Reading Meister Eckhart

Reading Meister Eckhart

“Traders go when the truth appears, for the truth needs no selling.”- Meister Eckhart

” He was very religious, he believed he had a secret pact with God which exempted him from doing good in exchange for prayers and piety.”- Jorge Luis Borges from his short story Emma Zunz

 

 

 

Oh to fling myself ,

to paint the skin free of World and live deep in the bowels of the God reeking Earth,

To stain my hands dirtied by the red mud of the home of my forebears,

Eat wild greens and think of truth as I gather them, coloring my digits the neon of plant,

the scent of the mustard  and field onions,

the cries of rabbits dying in the night.

To walk long abandoned logging roads, and see animals scurry through the new growth, returning home to their desiccated  villages.

 

Verse Followed By Poem

Verse Followed By Poem

” You turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.”- David from Psalms

On you I ponder and when your name is on my minds whispering breadth, I think of windstorms on steppes , fissures furrowing the ground; a place of temptation, of stark renewal, of refusal.

 

Shaking hands on rifles,

Eyes taking in horrendous moonscapes,

say your name in unknowing,

of fear,

it flows from  dry lips, hungering of spirit,

this irrevocable refrain.

And songs are written as we gird our loins,

On a scale Biblical we wage silent wars ,

The wars also,

Wage themselves on us;

how crass is this ,the stone vista of our accomplishments ,

the mountains of our effort

always bested by the algorithms begat by chance.

 

But the birds dont care, and the sound of screeching bark, bending skin of  trees, flexing their limbs, is a symphony so loud , it blots out all complaint.

Now masters stand as acolytes before the monolith; the waking earth , a storm mumbles in the East.

 

Small violet flowers whose name ill not research,and rocks desperate for classification that fall away in some repose in the cracks of my mind,schematics that never come to fruition, alchemical computations; the study of symbols, it is dangerous , ages you as history has aged time, changing but changeless, smelling of old leather and unrelenting scent of gunpowder, the clean smell of mirrors and the fear they contain.

I’d go on forever …being bottomless.

Current Climate

Current Climate

Movements of refugees,

the seas ten feet higher,

we without surprise think of checking our phones

the waters will rise,

in the lugubrious breath of the morning dew,

And the long monthly monsoon like rains that have arrived since my youth ,

is a new formula for the earth,

not all people are selves,

And not everything is self evident,

I have no Ark , God issuing orders to escape, or the will to scramble

Ill drown like the rest, Baffled, hairless and human.

Baffling and Rushed is the Spring

Baffling and Rushed is the Spring

” Do not let anyone who delights in false humility and the worship of angels disqualify you for the prize.” – Colossians 2:18

 

Old friend,

the wind blows  ,

from a different quarter; the tree’s, still not flowered enough to act as windbreak.

 

The humidity not yet murderous,the rains subtle,

fields of flowers of whose names i’m ignorant pass my view ,

The padded feet of squirrels trodding from branch to branch can be imagined,

their thoughts speculated upon,

they speak of  the bones of life ,

the gathering of pecan  or  the threat of predatory beings ,

Or perhaps they don’t think at all,

perhaps they think that about us,

we walk around beneath them, vehicles for sedentary acquisition;

 who go in their lit abodes at night,

And kill  light switches , making grey the walls,

only the hum of  homes machinery to give thought

to the idea of  breathing mammalian bodies lying flaccid in  beds,

waiting for the next work day, so we can get back home,

the trees blooming in our yards,

and the squirrels we will forget , so near us.

Dense Morning Fog of Parenthood

Dense Morning Fog of Parenthood

The inevitable argument over who slept the most, and the need to ship my son off to somewhere ,

to some place where supposedly they teach him things,

so I wake up and pop my bones , a skeletal refrain

 

the dawn pushing at me, in my blood, in my fathers blood, in all the fathers bloods before us. I pour my cup of coffee and it scalds my tongue, my eyes slits, surveying a hushed horizon of pink and dark greys filtering through the few leaves that early spring has summoned.

I pack my son’s lunch, I do this almost without thought, my hands the playthings of some more dependable and sober-minded me, doing the good job, that which must be done…. My mind wandering thinking of Seneca or Annie Dillard, about death , which comes whenever it wants.

And now his lunch packed and bag on his back, like some soldier, like all soldiers, sent to do a job no one has clearly explained to him, and me like all generals acting like I know what I’m doing, I send him away amongst a world of beings I don’t trust with faith I do not have in their actions or motives.

I wonder if he knows I’m growing up right alongside him, that everyday with him is more than any of my piles of books…

 

But I love him and this is all that matters.

 

Mornings in the Red River Pine

Mornings in the Red River Pine

It has rained,

a week solid,

The earth has attained  ever changing posture,

Rivulets  formed small creek beds that will rise when the sun dries the grass,

Ill never know the smells of our Spring,

Like the dead spirit of something  pushing through,

Sprouting slowly but quickly,

Imperceptible but obvious.

 

However I know the names of too few trees,

But I walk  them,

as a man would among potential lovers whose names he is bound to encounter ,

one day,

as quotable verbatim’s in his hard ironed dotage,

enumerating their beauties ,

the way  leaves crested the horizon that  they  themselves created, in a Spring so improbable ,

his grandchildren will think him a fool,

And rightly so.

 

 

 

In the Defense of Not Defending Corporations

In the Defense of Not Defending Corporations

Each day as I tune into the news or read articles on my various mind controlling apps that flood my phone, I see a trend of defending corporations and other large and faceless industries in our society, but more often than not by Americans, and the very Americans that are getting dicked over by said industries.  It isn’t a lack of information , which we are all well aware is there for the taking, it is rather a lack of the capability by the populace to synthesise the information available. I take it for granted that people reap the knowledge sewn by the generations that came before, perhaps I shouldn’t as more and more people seem to be pulling the ladder out from under themselves and wonder at gravity as if it were some new thing, unexplained, a surprise, as the ground rises up to meet their face.

This is not a matter of opinion, God help me, I wish it were so. This is the truth. We are the most abused people subconsciously that I’ve ever even heard of in my studies of culture, we the ones decrying freedom it turns out are merely yelling the word “Free” in order to hide the sound of the fleecing  of our souls, and  our profits.  And that’s not all. Have you ever noticed that in all cultures aside from our own there is a general mythology that supports the underdog and venerates him for the very lack of what he possesses? Have you noticed an opposing trend in our culture which validates the monstrous and encourages it to grow to a larger mass of oppression? Ok, I know that’s thin and speculative, it doesn’t make it any less true, nor does it make Trump any less a candidate….. See what I mean? he’s gliding into a position of power on the wings of a deformed Eagle calling itself freedom and using ignorance and the overwhelming gooberyness of our electoral system,which is held up by the very things i’m mentioning, namely, Corporate greed and a culture of false affluence we’ve been fed piecemeal over and over again since the dawn of what should have been a freeing technological revolution.  Instead we are faced with the radical and horrible 4 years before us, where no one stands for anything except the enrichment of the few over the many, and to suggest this is hideous and detrimental is to be against the tide and therefor wrong. This viewpoint obviously is encouraged by those who want to maintain power,and they don’t even hide their hand in it, they make it quite clear. Let it be known that I hate generalizing, that I do not like using words like “they” but am forced to in this circumstance out of laziness and what to me is already self evident, one need only turn on their phone and check updates to see that this supposition is correct.

I say pray however you must and hope, if you can, for something a little less jargony and alot more free, as it was intended.

Living and Writing in a Time of Buffoonery

Living and Writing in a Time of Buffoonery

Its hard to continually write an uphill battle against ignorance, hell its even hard to exist with the current climate of thought , and if one has rational bones in their body they suffer needlessly in this, the new world we’ve been told to embrace. But what do we do when the embrasure of a new world such as this is simply morally impossible, a literal affront to intellect and goodness itself, a time when science has found a way to destroy its own introspection and suffers from delusions of grandeur?  I’d like to say I had answers for everyone’s questions but that simply isn’t the case, as a matter of fact part of the problem is this new reliance on others for the experiential, this tapping for unearned wisdom which has clipped what would have been the wings of so many.

I suffer from crippling anxiety , multiple auto-immune disorders,and yet even I have found a way to cope with the stringent pressures of an unsound reality peering constantly into my affairs. Imagination has been key, books, a reliance on actual data and the need to question even that. Living with unfounded trust and naivete has been the downfall of countless groups of humans throughout history. The fact that we can be tracked counted and sorted against our will by algorithms is simply the terrifying but actual paradigm we as a society face. Accepting that there are no cookie cutter templates out there to assuage your self doubt and worry is the first step towards a sound mind, compassion against your will is another.

We don’t live in a one dimensional world, stop seeking one dimensional answers.