I believe there to be a tornado approaching,
But Ive been wrong before.
I often dream of death of late and having done so and woke to the sound of dark windless trees and the sound of thunder my mind thought of cyclical winds and the wings of butterflies and the heat and cold smashing one another like a cock entering a pussy and creating an explosion of pressures, ripping me from the face of existence.
This doesn’t happen of course, and I apologize for the coarse use of the words, but I feel that as a 30 something year old male in a strange new world nothing like the one he grew up in, I often wake feeling tornados, and dream monoliths, wastelands and apocalyptic probabilities where survival is endless, monotonous and mundane, nothing like the apocalypse we’ve been sold by television.
If , however a generation had less a right to be surprised and more time to be prepared it would be us. Even now we waste our time staring at articles knowing they will do nothing, when the business of sucking the marrow out of life is being sucked out of us, and we wonder at our health , our faces and eyes growing opaque from the luminous glow of various devices which have taken to imagining our dreams,and mimicking our hearts beat .
I want to walk into this tornado and beat my chest, and be a being again, feel the water run through my hair, the wind tear at my weak/strong physicality, die or live a man, one is the same as the other.
It is all one should aim at, the bead always on the target, the ever so small target.
The men were hungry, ever the captain told us to sail west,
Our sails stock still, the wind never causing waves to crest,
God cursing our endeavor.
Months later we sailed into the natural harbor, on the Island we dubbed Hispaniola.
I saw the flag struck, the land claimed for her Majesties boundaries ,
the curse list into the ground invisibly, a seismic lurching toward the center of the islands mountainous interior, and a smile cross the face of Sir Colombo ,
as a smile crossed the lips of a demon I saw lurching in the canopied jungle, greed in his eyes, and promises so empty they tinkle on the streets like tin coins .
The other day the wind and rain knocked over the birdbath, and it lay on its side, grey.
I spotted a tern , it stood oddly on the moss skewered surface of the pond, the horses grazed lazily near the rock and grass strewn shore of the minuscule body of water.
There are pine, and cedar, and oak of all sorts, smashed together in a cacophony of green, more akin to an orgy than to an natural sight.
Animals who’s reek your unaware of, strange fruit and berries, growing ripe, you know nothing of.
We’ve since righted the birdbath and i saw it this twilight, As i embraced a lager the sun set upon the scene of what could be called pure August and I settled myself in a coolness and a humidity of joy known only in this month.
Tender boned sternum of my son, rising and falling as he sleeps,
his body warm as a coal ,wrapped in quilted embrasure,
night please regress,
Let him sleep.
Yestermorn I watched the sun force its way through black clouds laced in silver,
shouldering through to illuminate a scene of such green and verdure it defied all bated exhalations,
As If I were an alien and this my first sunrise,
no wonder that like one as an alien,
I struggle to scry the memory and record it on paper, in such a simple language,
Let us build words to describe the unfathomable, let us fathom it.
For on this day I stood and burned before a Star and spun around on a giant orb, and these things are remarkable.
I dreamed yet again of monoliths, in far distances which can only be described as hungry space, starving, emaciated, needing to fill itself.
A walk you could go on forever and never be done.
I turn on the computer and the glow lights up my face, I’m getting older, i have a beard now, i drink the coffee, take my pills, adjust my ass in the seat uncomfortably and prepare for a day of dealing with all these thoughts.
Its hard for me to respect any of you, let me be clear why. I love you all, and that is hard for me, but you simply are not interested enough in the stirrings that make life and poetry and existence worthwhile, is this why I’m considered an asshole.
I grow bitter when I’m not agreed with, I have fits everyday where I rage like Hyde and smash mostly the furniture in my own mind, i rebuild it each morning but its never the same, and the splinters poke me in the side.
Forgive the pity , it is a bad color on anyone. Enough writers couch their honesty in terms that look like lies, Ill not waste my time its too early.
The leaves Augustral , humid and of rain.
Hallowed path, i see your shadow even from here,
voices , timbers , slipping in and amongst the moss.
young doe , the fawn in its wake, dappled white tail and urgings instinctual and elegant.
they hide in a copse, I go to my home and hide in my copse.
The flowers though bleeding with life, droop and seem to wilt in the heavy wet air, their scent muted but unstoppable, I ride a crest of seasonal change, and find it is good.
I touch the old gods and new with each breath and all the breaths I breathe are of my forebears,
my patriarch and matriarch.
my inheritance? the entire earth. as it is yours.
Pumping our fists for the latest algorithms,
Riots in some cities, votes and politicians unaccounted for,
This has always been the way, and behold the cure is in our hands,
What is it Montaigne says, one shouldn’t feel sorry for the ill man who has the cure up his sleeve.
The rains fell and the doorhandles were wet in a disgusting way as i shut them in the morning for my cigarettes before dawn,
the light often perfect, bespoke things possible but un-defined. Often one would hear of far and away riots, in a land they tell me I’m a part of, i file my taxes, they’ do what they do, silently and with fervor.
Do I approve? That never was a question I believe was part of the scheme.
I praise any who would bring an end to the fallacy of communication we’ve erected.
Praise any man god like enough to staunch the flow of nonsense into the suppurating wound of logic.
men propose we build walls around a portion of earth, when it is all our inheritance.
others would say we have some countermining purpose, false, contrivers of illusions, needed to maintain their sure slippery grip on a power they never should have held.
I stand alone as all will in reality, and I place my foot hard on terra firma, refusing all as illogic which goes against the brotherhood of man.
He waited humbly and in plaid,
the square imprint of cigarets in his front left pocket,
the implacable burning arms of fate,
holding him tight to the mundane destiny before and about him,
a man for a holy city,
and quiet prayer,
bricks aged and covered in the refuse of chattering pigeonry,
in the echo off of the alabaster walls you can hear tendons of joints,
the rosaries, the conduit to the godhead,
he would love a city,
filled with this popery,
the empty ritual,
given strength and power by the depth of their incomprehensibility,
and the aged reluctance with which we committ them,
like some worn out adultery between an enemy and a captive,
he had a burning eye for lack of detail,
you could see it in the way,
he missed even the most bare and obvious bones of truth,
and acted as if men were teeth upon a gear,
if only life,
were a thinktank,
and men like this,
had a place to go.