Month: September 2016

Thoughts on Two or Three Things.

Thoughts on Two or Three Things.

Dawn’s steady looming, a greying brightness, muted ,wary, slowly working its way unto being.

I know without looking the coarse gravel driveway is slate  and mottled black with wet and rain, there are puddles, deep, dirt red, the horses chewing slowly on the heavy grass all around them, lush tufts of ruffage and grazure, my eyes see and don’t see these things. All around me is craft, beauty, ephemera, the various weapons we wield in the battle of life. the clanging of valleys where rifts formed and we let them, screaming opinions like lonely angry stay at home invalids.

The works of worthies lost to the entropic erosion of time, its bumblingly destructive interaction where it meets mass, in what we describe as living. Measurement, hours, years? really a spinning mans frame of reference , thats all we have, and  surety in a void of ignorance so blank it is overwhelming in its lack, i imagine it as a white wall, endless, a wall that makes no sound when one beats a fist against it.  I no longer fear loss, I fear acquisition and what it reeks on mens hearts, what tune it plays in their minds, urging them to dance as fools to illogic, cite refrains of realities which rely on false contexts.


“Suppose I were a King without knowing it. Then I would be no King.”- Meister Eckhart

I Often Hunted Alone

I Often Hunted Alone

” In truth I seek the company of those who would treat me roughly, rather than of those who fear me.” Michel de Montaigne


Smug city, Brimmed with policemen,

cracked pavement echoing tires driving over their crusty surface, fine limestone buildings, ancient facades , theaters dead where none will laugh again, the ghost of the entertained flowing from the shadow of the doors, and bricked windows.

Bars reeking of the same people, and those who will eventually replace them, training to be them, leaning symbiotically against one another, watching a sports event,  repeat, shrivel. Die learning nothing.

The trees losing their leaves, though it is still warm,if one moves too much brings small sweat patches on lower backs across the city, leaving us to cherish the breeze when it does blow, angels breath.

I love everything and yet curse it all under my breath, I am of flesh and yet in me I feel a burning that could be soul, something harvestable after the husk is dry,

How could something endless echo from this oh too soft flesh,

such profundity proclaim itself from weakness, mere shards?













Mortality is underrated it gives us moments like these ,

with those we love, their hair glowing from the light of a risen star.


5 Assorted Terrible Haikus

5 Assorted Terrible Haikus

1.Rusted handrails,lining cracked stairwells,

a homeless man reclines.

2.Starlings wings crushed in midflight,

and wind current,


3.Sliding beads on abaci,

yet none can calculate,

true worth.

4. Coffee with a friend,

the baristas laugh,

nevertheless ,God exonerates.

5Having built monuments to God,

still we lack the faith,

to build just one man.


A Prophet in His Hometown

A Prophet in His Hometown

And I will tell the painful tales God feeds me,

until the hollows of my lungs aged and chesty , provide the last wind of life and i sail forth on a sac of water and flesh toward a horizon beyond this unverified dimension.

As this happens I hope to witness the growth of the seeds I’ve planted, to look on the fields and know the furrows will rise, not be blighted , survive the long winter, sure to come. But it is our plight to not be the witness of the greatest of our gardens growths, yet within that black and fertile soil lies hope,

and love, and all the vomit of the cosmos, the hopes and dreams of philosophers and agrarian fools dumb lipped and coarse mannered but filled with love, and again love,

which makes all else a superfluity

Scene from a Planetary Research Station

Scene from a Planetary Research Station

I wish to set bones,and to terraform other planetary bodies.

I will browse Seneca,like a nightmare of Borges, the endless stars and unfamiliar nebulae, my small research facility glowing in the short 3 hour nights.

An automaton, my companion, with complex associative algorithms we mimic conversation, in this ochre dusted horizon we are both actors, tools, we test hypotheses for physicist so far away Ill never know them or their effect, or the nature of what my studies entail.

Here there is nothing to be related to, or associated with or of comparable ilk with which to reminisce.

Stranded on this wraith planet,

I play with ideas,

One Day I will go Home,

but i will never be Home.

My mind, bound and suffocated by stars,




carbon eternally.


First Third of September

First Third of September

I know of no worse feeling than to tote a block of anger around each and every corner your mind walks down, some red faced fool, adding pounds to his labors, digging deeper his heels, causing holes and ridges to form, obstacles.

Its the first third of September and I was thinking about a few things.

There is a man at bus stop, he carries an iron tipped heavy wooden bow staff, wore a nice brixton cap, he waits there in the early mornings, I wonder if he is a wandering Monk who can fight, a man sworn to abstain from something and to wander the Earth only to grow and age and pass.

Yesterday I looked into a doorway of a house as I passed in the College Hill District of the city ( as all places which fall on ruin become Districts) , as I peered in I saw a semi feral white teenager at work on something incomprehensible, in the yard was an antique wooden ladder leading pointlessly up a dead white oak, the yard littered, multicolored refuse. I thought of Jacobs Ladder and the ascension to heaven, am I a fool? Yes, let me at least hope to be an honorable and loving fool.

Ive been thinking about handing out cards from various psychiatrist offices to the residences of those people in whom the  yards have been pimpled with Trump Pence signs.

Ive found out only horrible news from doctors, I’ve experienced a lot of pain, I’ve been happy, i have loved, hated, eaten, gone hungry, cried once, tousled my sleeping children hair, embraced my wife, and now I’m going to make breakfast.

Conversation with a Stranger at a Park

Conversation with a Stranger at a Park

Early yesterday , the time of brunch  the sun to the left of the sky,when the leaves are burnished copper and all or most is shadow,I took my son to the park and brought a book as I always do( though I never read them ) too interested in the oddity of things and my sons safety from the Earth, its forces against his frail bones,  and general fate itself to really read the words, do more than lift the book like a totem to shush away people or animals or both, insects perhaps.

There are the cigarettes and the trees, the eyes downcast of others, some quiet, others brazen. A Gentleman with fishing pole and white bucket, fishnet cap on, inevitably representing a sports team or company of some sort( I never knew he didn’t turn around), merely looked at his line unmoving in the pond, the ducks flying overhead.

I wore a full denim outfit,despite the weather, which is hot by any standard. I prefer a full type of dress during all occasions, I am prepared for actions, can go into different environments, these are my reasons, on paper they sound like the ravings of a lunatic, but so do many of the things I am supposed to process as normal in my life as a functionary in a vast piece of ordnance designed by something or someone to do something for someone or something, none of us really knows if we know that we know, or how to question it if we did or what a question of something that is a paradox itself represents.

I noticed despite my state of anxious but pleased reverie, a gentleman in a shirt that I envied, (I envy anything authentic), and the shirt was itself and for that and that alone I judged him my type of person and herded him out from under the suspicious cloud of my social mistrust of strangeness or difference, and began to speak. I offered him a cigarette, he accepted. We sat and I listened to him ramble, I didn’t really need to hear his words, it was more a fugue, in his endless harangue I heard the voice of those different but the same as I, I knew I would go home and pore over words and thoughts, to try to come to grips with the meeting of this one human, and there will be more meetings,more humans, and ill be expected to act accordingly.


While Llewellyn for that was the  monichre of the  gentleman in the fancy rodeo shirt from the 90’s  , was rolling a cigarillo of herbs, I pretended not to notice, I spoke of Wittgenstein, we both spoke knowing we wouldn’t understand each other, just bouncing our voices off of each other like sounding boards for some speech we had to give, but we had no speech to give, and yet it wasn’t odd.  From a distance we saw a well dressed African gentleman, with a tie, impeccable glasses, even one hundred yards away ,I knew he would wear fantastic cologne, have a more fastidious bathroom sink than I. Inevitably he was a Jehovahs witness ( I have no irritation toward these people, and speak to them as I would anyone else, being a cock isn’t really ok for reasons we have). and he began to approach , I saw the tale tell sign of pamphlets in his hand and a heather grey bible, beautiful and well footnoted. His name was Dewayne, and other than a sense of mutual respect and incomprehension of each others fundamental rationales nothing had occurred in the whirl of our 15 minute orbit of each other.

Dewayne departed and Llewellyn lit his cigarillo and handed it to me, I accepted without thought, I glanced at the lake and the fountains, joggers passed, thoughts on goals, longer life, their age, dates they must go on, when they must return to work, my son slides happily , he has met two young girls.

Somehow that is all, I learned everything and nothing, but this is how all encounters seem to be of late, prophetic, pregnant with meaning, love and something alien and missing from what Ive been told the world contained, in it i feel a hot warmth, a breathing mammalian pulse from the very center of all life and know that Im not wasting mine and my children’s time, all is for play.


Division St. Texarkana, Arkansas

Division St. Texarkana, Arkansas

Oiled morning like a machine of Greek Steam and Brass,

a beauty it is,

to be called to live,

in this,

and any time.

When living sun still rises over grey hollow an inertial warmth over my sleeping family and I,

like a heartbeat of our home, breathing.

The drives through the city seem motivated, the pavement  burnished ebon tarnished by potholes, the effluvium of passers by with no respect nor the need for any in their homeland,

a woman carrying what appears to be all that she possesses, pink bag with wheels, the wheels so tiny it broke my heart,

i watch them roll, the pink so cheap i wanted to throw what little money i had at her, beg her forgiveness for never ever being where she was, praying but thankful, embarrassed for being thankful,

you see i loved and hated her, she was like me, but the me only neglect and lack of love would have brought about.

Digital pilgrim, toothless , black tank top but a face like all others human, filled with spirit, none different or faded than yours only blind by our hate, is she so varnished.

I drove home thinking, what who, how is she?

And I had done nothing.

Monsters run amok through the halls of what was once profane ,or at least what was once  given the pretense of profanity.

Elements of classical destruction seem relevant, everywhere Goths and Visigoths,waiting to swoop, looking all too familiar , the raiders are our sons and daughters, ourselves.  Well equipped to defeat our own defenses, we launch ourself into the forefront.

Have you seen the monuments we have built of late, often I wonder at the lack of foresight in this, the building of monuments, or the need to celebrate the ephemeral, the total lack of respect for the dictums of logic and moral philosophy.

I have however been accused of callousness, and over-humanity, all at once.

Im asked to take serious things which a child unconditioned would laugh at unabashedly and without restraint, due to the total incongruous nature of whats portrayed with the actual pertinent reality one is engaged with. As an adult one is asked to adhere to so many illusions,one almost forgets they are illusions, dictums, reiterations, mantras, corporate or otherwise, repeated to keep a motion urged, and forward moving. Call it commerce or what you will, but ill not engage in it, Ive laughed at myself enough, why add another joke to the cheap by laying my heap in with a group of thieves, when freedom screams my name over every hedgerow.




In a fever,

Burning swathes of my mind.

Oh to live in this fragile skin, so porous,

living also in this other world,

I can dream the dreams of God, travel to other dimensions,

with or without the consent of science,

In my thoughts while I was sleeping I put forth that i could run at a rapid pace,

And I woke with the hushed breath of the man who flew from Marathon on legs of Iron and Fear .

here in my head I live the entire mortal history of my race as written in our anecdotes which are all we have amassed, we have applied a sense of importance to them to achieve for them the semblance of the containment of definition, but still, we are only grasping children, and history is only anecdotal remembrance given lots of explanatory notation.