You In My Dream

Not sure where I was coming from

but where I was,

outside I was watching you.

Walking around the perimeter,

you saw me but pretended not to.

I could see that you were crying.

Sitting beside the bed, covering your head

with only your eyes peeking through. Quickly

though, you hid them away.

I came around to the door, still,

with an unspeakable distance to cross

the almost empty room. It was like a vacuum.

The walls, still bare,

curled in on themselves

a wave of unending repetition.

Their curves leaving no steady place for anything

leaving oneself pushed into the center.

The scattered empty windows left you open

the entire room available to the outside.

A chilly light came in teasing me cruelly.

Never for a moment letting me forget

the surrounding emptiness.

!Why were you crying?

If it was me, why

when I finally managed to cross the room,

you let me in to hold and console you?

All at once, I realized.

It wasn’t your sadness

but mine, given to you,

so I could be there.

I was the architect.

You were the vessel,

empty like a mannequin

and I shaped that pose,

putting your arms over your head,

putting the tears inside

only to watch them steam down your face.

You cry because I cannot.

I have no reason, no sadness.

Only the futility

of waving my arms in the air

touching nothing but space.

Your tears,

your sadness

were mine for me to enter.

I held and consoled you,

but it was all for myself.

How unfair it is of me.

Your eyes shine, still new

and yet I rub them out

into something worn and tired.

How unfair is my own disposition

imposed upon you.

It’s my sentence.

What Happens When Things Slow Down

To the audience:

I come to you

Your judgment makes me see.

how else could I see?

You

Look at me like I’ve got a spark

And this- the impetus to act

I show you to make it true

You know what happens next.

--

Twice daily I try to consider something else

Like loving embraces and holier empires

Extremes or extremities are misleading

Lipstick and brightly dyed hair

are what they are

A Quick Fix Fantasy

a novelty

I treat it like high

I believed it so

it plummeted

down to the ground

it was digging in the dirt

--

i come back to you

with my tail between my legs

and you tell me that

You

are my imagination

with my tail between my legs

i come to back to hear you say it

imagine my surprise

--

I worry constantly about what you might see

The wires to the pace maker or the laugh track in my belly

Precisely what I’m hiding

behind my pounding chest and tittering

I feigned interest

It became interesting

watching the scarred…

watching the sacred…

watching the scarred

watching… pro-wrestling

before you learned the truth

--

You!

My audience

I know as well as you what you are.

But with you

This body, this gesture

They…become…me.

The finish of what was started.

The finish of what was started.

Or to say the beginning of the end

which is laughable.

What isn’t.

You fill in the blanks of what might be schizophrenic text.

Te hee.

Que lengua?

This one.

Okay, so the point of beginning was to start something.

You angry fool.

How foolish, right?

Change!

Becoming something new

Refresh.

Begin with a cold shower

And call this legitimate change

And not repetition.

And don’t believe a word the angry man says.

It is valid

but scorn makes an awful truth

and one feels the overwhelming urge to grow up

and face the facts

staring one in the face

so disguised by the distance between face and interpretation.

Watch the moment of defeat

And play it over and over

overtly torturous

beguiling and charming is a mystery that has sucked one in

that has an ominous beginning and end

as it should be.

Two roads diverged are the same road

going two places that started in the same place.

Retrace your steps and the statement has a point and purpose

Even though how you got there is a moot point.

So go to sleep and forget all of this.

It is only a vestige of unresolved pains

Culminating in jealousies and bitterness.

It makes a very rhapsodic venue for voicing defeats

And that overwhelming feeling of ‘of course’

But not knowing how it really ends

You are trapped in repetition

so there is no end.

So just stop now.

It is only feeding a cat that wont stop begging for more food.

So go on with smarmy laughter

As a winner juxtaposed

Against a white flag waving defeat.

So I love how pain can give voice to beautiful pain

And go forth with a belly full

And sleep a little better

Knowing full well that you gave voice to the rhapsody

And the tirade that was brewing

Still wondering what is next.

Polar Bears:

Polar Bears:

Here is how I think this works:

You produce a sine wave.

Something you can hear.

Then you produce it’s exact opposite.

Something you can also hear.

Now when you listen to both together,

You can’t hear a thing.

Sometimes I feel really great.

Sometimes I feel really bad.

I think that if I could feel them both at the same time,

Then all my problems would go away.

.yawa og dluow smelborp ym lla neht

Never to hear a plucky guitar,

or the mourning of a cello,

again.

Physics and Analogy

Physics and Analogy

Tonight I saw what I think to believe

is what thinking is.

I thought to believe

in its undoing

but then I learned about

neutrinos: spaces which exist

in space. Neutrinos are present

without having presence.

They can’t have anything. It could seem

they are a mere mathematic anomaly.

I don’t know enough to know too much

but I can imagine that it is somewhere

a presence unaccountable

and necessarily so.

Neutrinos are only there.

The thing that neutrinos are,

nothing is.

They simply (ha!)

make an equation possible.

I can’t grasp it any further than this.

CPS Turnaround

My experiences have led me to believe certain conspiracies concerning CPS all over again. The irony and keystone to all conspiracy lay in the surprise or shock of it’s possible truth. When a person finds points on the map that the whisperers and murmurers would tell you are there, does this prove anything at all? How easy is it to find a face in many things? : -> :) /..\

~

I could make many more even through the limitations set by a word processor.

Though a lack of evidence that would point to innocence is not the same thing as clues suggesting guilt, it leaves one with little hope.

One can easily reason many scenarios.

- If the accused is innocent then why on Earth would the accused be present where the crime took place?

- If the accused is innocent then why would the accused dress in the style of the typically guilty?

- If the accused is innocent then why would the accused not attempt to be aligned with the innocent?

And so on…

Here’s the thing, if one proceeds with certain expectations and hopes but then sees not what is expected but rather evidence showing the inverse, what can the expecting expect?

At the same time, if the one accused has made statements proclaiming their ability to be or provide, should they fail to be or provide does this indicate or insinuate underhandedness?

Is paranoia born of missing evidence or the presence of only some? Or is paranoia learnt through repetitive mischief or is it always only the abuse of spotty evidence?

It can be worse.

How scary it can be to hear a person speak of the importance of openness and transparency if you fear them to be holding a knife behind their back.

The keystone of paranoia and conspiracy is irony.

Its probably important to substantiate the vagaries with a story.

The short story which could be the father of these musings involves a job interview. An interview for a job which was secretly responsible for so much supposed faith and confidence in the present. A future that was always being considered and never acknowledged to be providing grease for the present. It’s not quite that a bubble has burst but it is something close to that.

I hate the hype but I drink it as much as I do coffee.

These Turnaround people do not seem to be what I had hoped they might be. But at the time it seemed to be the only logical possibility. That false belief is what is pinching my sides repeatedly now. Of course, an imagined situation makes sense as if it is the only possible configuration for so many pieces of a tangram.

The paranoia is not born of one parent or two but many, however, it is strange and true that they have expectations implausible to achieve my expectations. Somehow they want to arrange the same pieces in a different manner and I am frustrated that they aren’t attempting to make a square from these so many triangles. Because a square is the only logical shape to be made.

Overlooked - the small bird revision

A small adolescent bird sat on the edge of the porch pecking nervously for spilled birdseed that might have been overlooked.

Somewhere

elsewhere

a tabby cat sat waiting,

hungry for the occupation,

unaware of the hunt that was there.

When found and observed in its stillness

found laying painfully is beautiful.

The bird left dying,

grants the discoverer

the opportunity

to observe real beauty,

up close but panged

by the impersonality of the find.

The bird left dying evokes

heart wrenching desire

to connect through saving or salvation.

the ability to save is not there

the Inability to connect and communicate

love for beauty is overwhelming.

It hurts so much

realize that one’s love for beauty

forever disconnected

the dying bird whose suffering unavailable

is so crushing.

The observer cannot hold

the dying bird,

it is a breach of some natural order

the observer decides

the observer wants to hold the bird

the observer wants to console the bird

who might need no consolation

in doubt and in fear

the only recourse is burial.

Remember then Forget.

Bury.

The beauty of Life is buried

Honored.

The life of the bird unknown

-unknown to the undertaker-

cannot be given its true honor.

And who or what could attest?

Who can give a name or a history to the life of that special bird?

Perhaps the cat

who was with the bird in their final moments of living.

Is the closest the discorverer could ever come

to knowing the bird

is to the know the cat who killed it?