do what you do with what you got…

This one’s about genesis. That’s the only way I can think of to say that all the warnings and suppositions are just more kindling for the fire. Right now is what can be controlled, at least in that vague manner of the righteous few. It doesn’t happen much, but the rules are there. The best part is nobody has to think about it. The worst part is that nobody does. Still; it could be something more ethereal. Every time I get too close to knocking it down, the whole thing stops making sense. I guess thats O.K. I mean, it’s not like you can pick and choose when to stop and start. What’s the fun in that?

I was going to tell you that I’m “fighting onward,” but that’s the wrong analogy. Fuck it. Maybe the whole thing is a poem. There’s nothing to fear about that. There’s that whole murky clarity of painted straws cut with the fine mist. Ain’t nothing that can’t be solved with the right mixture of fuel and desire. My fingers might be slow and my mind drafting, but let’s split the difference and call it the kind of essential preparation for enlightenment. I got all kinds of experience that tells me not to worry too much. It ain’t that long of a ride.

So where is everybody now? Some kind of sick joke; bad advice mixed with good intentions. Never underestimate the power of the echo chamber. For a few brief seconds, gravity dissipates and everything rises a few inches. So tangled; how did they all hear the story at the same time? It boggles the mind. Most of them have better things to do when gravity reasserts itself and we all come down. But I got time. There could be measurements made. Maybe even those crucible judgments that let us know that yes indeed, we’re really one of the chosen few. I guess some find comfort in such simony. Still nothing to say about the rest of the world. I reserve all judgment until just after everything starts making sense. Mediation would work, but who sit’s where at the table? Do we need more than two chairs?

All the answers reside in the pocket of a pretty little thing walking around somewhere south of here. Miles are miles, and they make kilometers out of yardsticks. She never reaches for this particular pocket, but something she said years ago still figures in the thoughts of cloudy days raining down on those hillsides and mountain meadows. Some day I’m gonna reach for that pocket and find out what it was that made things as they are instead of some other way. I’m gonna question everything, down to Planck size issues that we never got to talk about when the time was wrong. Patience, patience. I’m not here as some johnny-come-rapist in the dark of night. I never hurt anyone without a damn good reason. It’s in the joke spoken by the auteur. Plainly said, I’m just here for the sake of the question. If there was anything that could be done (besides the obvious concoctions mixed with keen razor blade theory) then it is going to be done. Don’t ask me to stop. I couldn’t if I wanted to.

Precision knowledge can only be accumulated via conversation, or maybe in the recitation of restraint and self control. Who says who does? Go join the people, get yourself a wife or a husband, maybe have some kids. I’m told passing on your genes might be why we’re here. I shudder when those words pass through my lips, as disrespectful as I’m known to be. Fuck it. Like so much else, it will have to wait.
———————————-
Maybe it’s a poem?

The more I think
about the pocket of the jeans
of the girl walking
down an old boulevard or avenue
of a gracefully familiar town,
the more certain I become
that the contents of her pocket
hold the memory of my muse ,
and the answer to my question.
————————————-

Maybe it’s a stab wound in the arm, or a fall from from on high, either pride or a skyscraper. But maybe she’s just got the peculiar mix, like shards of green busting through concrete. Maybe I know how to slap together some kind of dinner from scattered lines of poetry gathered up from the tangles of her hair while all around me is in motion. Is this a weathered grin? Is it important that she not know her role in leading the words and sights of this sorry assed dumb fucker? He’s still convinced that the word and the light (sorry CB) mean more than a ragged body and scattered mind. He cares little for anything but the word. With the help of music and his muse; strike forth. Forget meaning for a moment; create something else based in part on that sensation of reflection of the light from bulb banging into her eyes. A welcome wave of relaxation passes through. You can’t make this shit up. Who knew what unlocking the passenger door could do to a fool?

With all the conversations that never were, the word and the light (apologies again CB) seem to leave a broken trail to follow from the exhaustion to rebirth. If there was any justice, I’d be weeping. More truthfully, it’s late, and I’m too tired to satiate my muse with the praise she deserves.

—————————-

nobody remembers how it felt
to open the door of my piece of shit car,
on a cool night in the old mountains,
wearing my lousy jeans and a cheap shirt;
and welcome Pallas Athena
with prayers and nervous laughter.

warm light from the sodium bulbs,
lascivious light falling down
made the act of opening a door
seem magisterial; my muse
sat next to me as we drove off.

at the same time, far in the past,
I was dumb enough to look at the front
of Athena’s tight jeans
instead of the hip pocket;
where everything I could ever want
waited on me.

back to the present, years
later and in a different place,
straining to remember the
night I tried to satisfy my muse,
sharing cigarettes, wanting something
I couldn’t quite name.

the scent of perfume remains
embedded in my memory;
lining my mind as I look to that moment
when she swung her head
around and washed me
down for good
the scent of beauty and genius;
Pallas Athena

It’s late, and I’ve failed;
and I’m too tired
to satiate my muse
with the praise she deserves.

————————————-

Too many questions for a restless night. I might be getting my poetry mixed up with my prose. I’m so tired, and I can’t give back what was given to me one night a long time ago in a place that’s as closed as a boarded up row-house. I did the best I could tonight; I tried to be a poet.

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