Filed under: Poetry
MIRACLE KILTER
was it not enough blanket,
or just too much feet
staring blankly into darkness
on a cold metal seat?
here I can sit and stare into my face,
the miracle kilter at a really slow pace
sleep off indecision,
walk away pain,
clear skies or dark clouds
always bleed similar rain
theres nobody here with which to switch place,
a miracle kilter at a really slow pace
sunlight falls down
now I can see
colored rose sunsets
coming for me
theres nowhere to run to, this isnt a race
just a miracle kilter at a really slow pace
light brings on shadows
reminding us all,
every time you stand up
theres a chance youll fall
here in the clear with no past to erase,
but a miracle kilter at a really slow pace
Filed under: Philosophy
Some days are an unencumbered parade. People line the streets to wave ascension to the never-ending and always exquisite victories, proclaiming the innocence of the champion, and celebrating the mighty deeds of the day. These are the sun days, the days when man as god is not improbable, or impossible, or anything outside expectation. The trouble is the run of the dumpster days, where all the bullshit is no longer effigy but reality, and the victories of days past are nothing more than history book drivel, never to be believed. Expectation falls, and realization sets in. The transformation is so short lived, whereby what was working slowly becomes a morass of broken hearts and broken dreams; each piece destructing without hope of recompense. It is startling in terms of speed and construct. It is what wasn’t, and therein lies the problem.
It isn’t any kind of honesty or truthfulness that becomes us. For all the bloviating on how much we all want honesty served up easy, and for all the pent up aggression and the desire to lay the liars in the stinking black oubliettes (I ALWAYS wanted to use that term!!!) there isn’t much sense to that course of action. The problem is not the lies, but the acceptance of them. Despite the insistence on the dualistic construct that is so in vogue among armchair philosophers and jail-bait, nothing in my existence bears out this ridiculous theory.
All that aside, this fog of substance is hard to shoulder, harder still to break. I’m told I stop breathing when I sleep, but to me, it’s just an unfortunate sidelight to my free admittance ot the kingdom. Lately it is all aesthetics, and in my condition, that can’t last forever. Whomever knows who put the bullet hole in Peggy’s kitchen wall would be well advised to answer. When does it become more than a simplistic parlour game, all players assigned, all lines demarcated past any sort of understanding. This is just more vicious elements of hard pressed open ended sieges. There aren’t any parades for those that survive only to euphemistically claim cause.
Answer’s will always be in shorter supply than questions. And some claim provenance provides? We are the fools of the kingdom, foolish and prideful. The sooner this all ends, the better.
Filed under: Uncategorized
There has to be more here than invective. The mysterious and alluring semi-precious Mrs. Delaneri, she of the cool evening and early summer, is fading, losing her grip on the subtleties of ingenue. She makes sounds like nails on chalkboards, that high pitched sound that gets between soul and skin, an itch that resonates the limits of expectation and execution.Suicide notes are, by definition, terminal projects. They aim for the highest juncture of the aperture, desperately trying to communicate the sense that this end isn’t really what it seems, to be brave, to view the barrel as something more than what it is, the gateway to just another dimension. Warmhearted crystalline figures, more myth and reputation than anything else all debate, each strand a connection between ideas and necessity, something that can only be witnessed, never stopped. If the soul is willing, there will always be a way. But when the letters cease there remains something else, whether in a sound, a memory, or chiseled into a stone. Figuratively of course, but omnipresent nevertheless.The travels of one Eliza Dhumire are something I keep to fall into, like the feel of fucking an old friend. The simplicity is what does it, the ease with which the past becomes something more than what it was, more than it ever could have been imprisoned in the past. She’s diary pages, words once spoken, a caress with the chills prepackaged. Her own allowances are open to question, after all, those qualities cannot be known until well after the fact. What survives is the longing, the remaindered possibility that she would have said yes to anything, assuming the logic fit with Ms. Dhumire’s credibility and good sense.So, like I said earlier, there has to be more. There has to be more because what is here is not enough, not for me, not for the ideal. Admittedly, we’re way past the stage of idealized romance, probably still far from the notion that naivete is some kind of excuse, but right now, for some reason, that is all I want. So, we go through the motions, grasping for the occasional strand of Mrs. Dhumire or the lovely Freeda Castlegame. The problem certainly isn’t a lack of the optional footsteps. After all, numbers bring you to her, but words seem to drive her away. It is a bitch, but maybe is a word that could give new life to the damned and the heartless.I am feeling the heat to close with something more defined. Let’s try this. Imagine the laviscious delight of heat and moisture. Anywhere you want, we’re not inexperienced, nor shy. That first electrical crackle when the skin was exposed and the missive complete. Imagine the slow ascension, waiting in ecstasy for the moment, knowing damn well it is coming, but moving slowly, arrival being held up for titillation purposes only. The moment we are searching for is reflected only in the eyes when they soften and present the inverse scene to another. A nod, a smile, the cool cool evening air, a bend in the road where we can see only so far into the woods. Whats behind there is clouded and dark. If you concentrate hard enough, the evidence builds, and the semi-precious beach body can be seen, hidden where the wind doesn’t blow and the fingertips sway. Down here, we know nothing could be finer than to sit down with Mrs. Delaneri and consider her sweet prospect. She wraps me in history and suicide notes, sedate and waiting for the moment to arise. My heart for kind Delaneri. My soul for sweet Dhumire. Now who are we trying to fool? Fucked if I know. Good luck Romney, you’ll need it with these girls.
