Month: March 2017

Taking Note of the Light

Taking Note of the Light


Discovery has struck me as stumbling in the dark over what was known.

Then, oh then, shining of lights burning feverish ridiculous ideas stem from some crepuscular electrified ordinance in my mind and i flush blooded with remembrance of some inherited ideal, a brush with fate, the need to persevere despite any real need to persevere.

As men on islands survive alone, intent with purpose, even if the purpose merely be to survive on the crust of a barren piece of dust. My sons in the other room, no possessions of mine, free of this I hope, a yearning to escape is often rewarded with death or madness, or genius, all of which persecute and set you apart from spirit, alienated harsh a clime untenable but breathable, a world where one grasp at the chaff ,turning it somehow to wheat.

And men, now (in this shadowy world of lies masquerading as truth) scoff at us, for dreaming, thinking alien thoughts, breaking the back of their earthly wisdom, filled with its own self actuating ideologies.  Perhaps I’m a fool who can quote philosophies of dead nations and living ones, perhaps a harbinger of a fate higher than ever expected but spurned, or merely a fool who thinks to highly of his regimen, of his God, of his fellow man.  Ive thought worse and better thoughts.

Written worse and better things.

The Matter , Huh?

The dawn seemed unable to arrive, almost 7. the sun died in the storm last night,

i heard trees with longer lives than me break and strew their leaves around the ground , cracks of thunder like the slapping of hard palms against skin, blue beyond description, from another realm where blue has a deeper meaning.

I woke as always, when i breathed in the air from the fermy earth, i knew this was not like storms before, and  this spring? unlike the others.

before me was the flood, behind me times when we marked seasons, a trains engine roars in the distance hauling its wares to be imbibed, warming and warming. I have four bags of trash on the porch, i take it to a green box and its hauled to a large mound outside of town, rising like a mountain of shit next to the interstate, indicative of the realms you are entering.  Men work there in large tractors forming and forming it like spiders form web sacs to hold their victims.

I keep scratching my head, wondering what the matter is. My hand all along scratching always on the head of he who is the matter.


The way it is now

Tonight is the plaguey feel of miasmatic Dutch cities,

voices of irration echoing, proclaiming rationale.

The green fields burnt black by nights shadow, the children sleeping,

the fighting couple , American, well funded, over stimulated, drunk, drugged, at home.

Pines swinging like slaves to my will, roads breaking more and more often, less and less repaired, me, thinking of distant cities, where men and women formulate plans to control what it is i’ll do next in a general way,

Let my curses rise high to the God allowing this.

In town we have lots of tombs, men maintain them, mow the lawns above them, I often smoke joints on them, I take pictures with my phone, met my friend who’s in jail to buy drugs,  they echo with firmament , burn with stars, I go there for all reasons, and one.

In the streets one by one we sign off our morals t0 gentlemen in nondescript suits, and pillars hold up new vestiges to the hate we uphold.  Laws are written as if we could write laws, things said as if we made them.





I look to my hands: swollen  of my grandfathers ilk.

I recall him,

Upon a ladder: drilling through his hand, cursing to the heavens as if the recourse itself was a way to exude his pain unto an unforgiving heaven, he wrapped it in a bandanna and went about his work as if daring god to question him further,

my grandmother now passed, i a pallbearer, the funeral more a reunion of lost progeny.

i placed my rose from my lapel deep in the bough of her caskets  arrangement, i thought of my great aunt ,how i shunned her funeral out of love, and how doped up for purposes of my own, i endeavored to honor this one.

The funeral home gentlemen like professional mourners in other countries, merely more adapted to our customs and so in no way idiosyncratic to us, the very act of toting a body to its resting place and the need for some form of primitive closure denied by us all.

As we dress well for the occasion and shed tears.

Traffic went well on by as we prayed forlorn and multicolored, and the sun a presence though it was to rain, all I could think of was how much I never really knew this person more than i was allowed and how i would never be such a distant star in a black night to my coming legions of eventual zygotes bearing my stamp.

I thought of my mother, her skin a mere rasp, mine as well, my father , and brother, all of us destined to dirt and yearning im sure to face it without fear.

I woke the next day hungover from narcotics and fear, I still haven’t breathed the last breath of all those I’ve lost, though they have breathed theirs.  If only existence were a hunt and we could mount our victories, but it is a silent endeavor, we celebrate it in tombs at night.