Month: April 2016

Man Goes off on Tangent But Tries to Return

Man Goes off on Tangent But Tries to Return

I remember a day with the wind in my hair and my hand touching the air as I drove with friends,

I was 16 I believe, I remember moments that cant be communicated like this often, but what is “cant be communicated”? I often wonder if were certain were doing this communication thing correctly now.

Case in point,

returned from dropping my son off at the child depository ( as ive come to think of the square architectural fractures on the landscape) ,

on the way home a desultory electronic voice , with very little vim,viv, or verve told me that all the counties surrounding me were in for hellish flooding,

adding to the terror his voice held no emotion, the opposite, a seeming joy in the iteration of these weird facts translated through his unconscious electronic voice and fed to me as fact, I almost drove from the road, honked at a dickbag in front of me ,

realized i had no horn, thought about Kierkegaard.

Even now the sky is green with the odd man in the radios electric promise, a flood approaching, my hands swollen from arthritic decay, the sedentary affliction of our times, death by a thousand cuts, for each of us, for some of us its just more obvious,

saying things as they are rather than as they aren’t ,isn’t being unhappy, its accepting ones fate,

Paul knew this, for him this suffering was a joy, he really really looked forward to a more.

lack of knowledge for him was not fear.

My Sons Drawings

My Sons Drawings

My son showed me more of his drawing schematics for future war machines this morning,

At first I thought nothing of it , but then I really looked at them, and what his drawing of them over other things meant.

The flare of machine gun fire, something his young mind should be unaccustomed to, sprayed across the page in vibrant crayon by the hand of my loving harmless son, who will be hindered by the world when he finds the pain to be real, and flame to burn.

Each day is different in fatherhood, none the same, you wake up and love more than the world can contain on  some days, others you wake you epitome of failure, the very avatar of pater familias failurias.

When his little body wandered back in the house to give me a hug because he’d forgotten to tell his mother and I he loved us,

my heart burst from the cage holding it in, this is no war machine profiteer. He wandered out into the grey of half morning into the truck of my father in law, I wandered into the glow of home , wombish , nestish, to reconcile the self, insofar as that is a possible thing when carrying the burden of flesh.

Mars

Mars

Mars  my epitaph and representative,

bleeds in the sky,

craterous and half smiling,

his light will reach us at least until the dawn comes,

reflected from the sun,

here i am,

my ellipse closer to Solus,

Im free, and I must get used to it,

freedom is a thing and things change,

its a word and not a thing at all, a construct  hewn from the ebon dark of what was given  ,

not the best,

but praised as so,

as would simple sculpture in  dimensions where shape was never seen.

 

For some reason the word Final just jumped in my skull, I walked onto my darkened drive and a possum scurried away, the word still remains, what does it mean,

or is it part of the shadow that I’m bourne to until I slough off my skin and depart this vessel?

If I walk back inside and my coffee is there and the computer screen and the shadowed room with the rain outside and the window lurking , what shall I do.

There is a music for me , ill find it, and watch the shadows recede, men with bad names somewhere , and forehead marks know what I describe.

 

Everybody Revolution

Everybody Revolution

And if your peaceful revolution breaks out then what?,

How will you avow yourself of the universe, or is the pressing of food and clothing to the body the utmost important,

and if we all are fed and clothed will we grow wings and justice merely prevail due to some unheard of human nature ive yet to witness, which needs no guidance.

What gradual transition do you propose? What acute transition do you propose? Or is what your’e doing merely proposing proposition?

When the mortar grows loose from stone , do we not rebuild, yes,

I understand, but your’e just reusing the same materiel.

You are all the people that read Kafka with a serious face, when you should have been trying not to shit yourself with laughter, the kind who take Joyce’s later work seriously, who dig deeper for meaning in others because you lack it within yourself. Yet you’d build a world…Im surprised and wary, but you are many and I but one, im sure ill soon hear the new booted feet, doing the new thing that booted feet are told to you, all voted, vetted and approved, or something like that.

Hears Whip Crack , Begins Scribbling

Hears Whip Crack , Begins Scribbling

 

but that’s unfair,because no two dawns are readily identifiable as such or even as brothers, ones blotch is a bit more grey, ones cloud face a bit more pink, one touched by the sun more passionately and without purpose.

what to do about such feeling, or the color of the glass reflecting from the lamp, or the open pages of books, and pens. where will they go, i imagine being launched away down a river in a ship filled with these things and lit aflame in death by an arrow shot by one of my grand kin.

all dimly lit by the room, my presence in it an ember in a furnace yet to burn with the vivacity of life.  I hear the sound of the river of years burning in my ears even yet, this day is going to come soon and with it a light, and always more of the dark, but the umber of dusk will variegate what would be an interminable flux, of homogeneity.

The Silence that You Heard Has Words That

The Silence that You Heard Has Words That

4 AM , no bird mouths a refrain,

. The coffee is almost sickly in smell, filling the house thick,

since everyone else is asleep, it roams the house like a curse,  the floating spirit of a mummy in a scooby doo cartoon, green, noxious.

I sit on my throne, swill, swill, sleep wake, make statements, often I forget the words I’m saying have meaning or that time is a fact, or im inside of it, its hard when you hear the otherworldly echo of something more right outside of your head.

what if I were really trapped and this were just a diving bell, and I an experimental gent who went down and has been in a coma, when i wake, ill be in the properly adjusted universe, where the sounds of birds and the death of certain trees hold deeper meanings and love drips like blood , but good blood, blood you can see and not run from. Also there will be ornithopters.

There was a time when I believed that this, writing, was what was supposed to be the cure, I would spike it in my arm, release and instantly see, I was a fool, I keep jabbing but the results vary. I hate even using that metaphor, what have I become, some kind of weak fool who has to use this kind of symbolism to convey a message, I think not ( I hope not, I pray not so) .

Ill be back tomorrow and when I am, I might not stand outside the door and knock politely, I might just kick it the hell down.  The fear is not beating the door down, it is what lies beyond it. Ask the Government, those guys are wondering even now what you are doing behind that closed door of yours, hopefully your’e doing some kind of weird crossing of the self before a replica of Donald Trump and a small confederate flag, I need something to make me laugh.

If a man has something, to say I guess he says It.

Man Uses Only Mode of Communication Available

Man Uses Only Mode of Communication Available

I hear it out there mixing in with the rain,

entropy falling , continuing, me in here and the shadow of my head against the wall, an alarm.

The loblolly pine reek today, i smell them from my porch,

my be-house-shoed feet looking ignominious, what if a time traveler were to come? Id not be properly dressed…ever,

I suppose, this makes me think about people who think they can go back in time and kill Hitler and only think of this when they think of time machines, their breath more wasteful than my pumping and pumping car exhaust.

Its Monday, ( for those not in the know Monday is the first day in a 7 cycle period we call a week and have adopted for convenience rather than logical reasoning or helpfulness) , and my phone doesn’t work out here, I love it here, anywhere  where things don’t work is where I want to be, I hate it here, everywhere where things work is where I have to be.

I keep wanting to be done, a man speaks his mind ,

finds it lacking, but words keep falling out, an unimpressive orgasm of words, something to be talked about quietly and out of earshot of the committor.  Smoke pours from my lips and as a dragon I masquerade into the day, laughing and crying at the sunrise and knowing all too well that days pass, and I know little to nothing. Let the waves of age come, in my prow, withered and boned I’ll stand, proud , delighted, hateful, argumentative and in love with everything until I’m flung to the depths.

Social Life and Its Requirements

Social Life and Its Requirements

 

Know this: Today its in the low 60s

and its grey as the bones of a wolf under the shadow of  branches lying on the ground over them,

like a web ensconced by light: the sun seems to rise.

I’ve got to put on clothes,

my hands swollen fumbling with the buttons slowly and adeptly, like a retired pugilist tying his tie.

Everything seems to happen for me in the morning, the rest of the day is almost just a deadness of light I must endure,

I cant convey to you the Atlas like sensation of holding the cold dark world of morning on your shoulders, a joy and burden owned by insomniacs down through the centuries and cleverly hoarded and cursed.

Being Born and the Day of.

Being Born and the Day of.

Yesterday at 6 AM in some fluorescently lit Hospital corridor I whined and screeched into life as I

Was C-Sectioned into brightness, my mother unconscious, like an alien being born on foreign soil, in a hostile environment,everything all Sciencey , the scent of love probably absent,

I knew my Dr. who birthed me later in life, a womanizer , pill addict and decent man.

Now Im 31 and it feels like nothing, another reference number that Im not even sure exist, but I hand it to you and my name Colby , the only things I have , that we have, and we barely have them.

Some days I wish Id never read a book, that I couldn’t trick my mind into logicianship and geomancy, trick it into believing it will know,

know what? ( I dont know, think of an absence suddenly filled.)

 

 

Ill wake tomorrow and there’ll be a light, but it wont be the same.

Knowing expression is personal but operating in a meatmarket venue

Knowing expression is personal but operating in a meatmarket venue

When I was young I had these ideas,

Id build little isolated Neroesque grotto type scenes in the woods of our farm in Lockesburg in the hills of southwest arkansas,

Id tear rocks asunder from their resting places in the cool creek water and scrape them free of moss,

use them as the foundation for one of my multiple fire pits,

I would shoot  at squirrels with my no name brand 6 shooter 22 revolver, they were the safest squirrels ever , the sights being off and the bang of the gun and not the blood of the animal being my passion, their mocking stares accompany me to this day and Im vaguely insulted by the superior way squirrels seem to traipse about,

(are they the meek Christ promises us will inherit the earth? smirking knowingly?)

I would invite friends, some of us would drink and stumble through the woods,

killing the art of hunting.

some of us would just build,

all of us  has drifted apart,

I sometimes think of the play of leaves and light in February when I was 15 and Id slept on the ground for three days with my best friend,

Men facture and buy drugs that will never put them in the feeling,

the sense that leaves , sunlight, friendship and three days away from  gears clank  and gnashing teeth will do for a man,

Help me to be meek, Give me the flutter of leaf back.