February 16th, 2022
Dead Ends Are A Second Chance At A One Way Street
These two words have become a mantra for me as I continue to fail to live up to my potential, as I have failed to grasp the ax of ill intent before it has been acted out, before it has cut down those in its path.
More common casualties from the unconscious. A bit of brandishing along the copper path. Yes. I have fallen again, ok. The callow angel had a meltdown. His capacity to contain himself loosed a vile thing into the world. Caused harm to a lover of light.
My composure is like a burning bush in a windstorm. In a fit of fire and fury I am ready to burn down the heavens.
Why? Meditate on this.
Like my many attempts to put these words down, to say what comes to mind without losing the rhythm. When there’s a hard break or distraction I move the remainders aside so that the music can flow freely through these fingers once more. It’s a game, really. And the goal is to put down as many of these obscure notes as I possibly can then piece them together to form some semblance of a harmonic sound from this thought machine. There needs to be fluidity and cognitive resonance heard and felt and seen. The imagery complete through internal vibrations.
My pattern starts at confusion. Then frustration to anger. Anger to rage. On and on like a merry-go-round with its red lights flashing WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! The whole thing spinning out of control until there’s no body left but the mechanism internally combusting breaking down bolt by bolt in a gut wrenching, blood boiling catastrophic whirling mess.
Ok. Now what. Confess? Confess what. My sins? No no no. Not sins. Synthesis. The reaction of compounds. The culmination of instances. The boiling point. I lashed out in a violent way. Verbally. Not physically. Which doesn’t make it any less severe or cruel or malignant. That sort of behavior is unnecessary. At least not to any being in particular. Sure its good to get it out. To curse and wail at the world and all that gets bottled up in the gut of it. But! Composure is important.
Words cannot be unsaid. Inebriated or stone sober. They hold weight. Contain worlds. Break open the souls of fragile stones. Cause irreconcilable harm for those only reaching out to make sense of it all. A lover’s plight. To be kicked down in the dust by those who know not how to be loved. The pain, a scar. Calloused. The ego its armor. My meddle penetrated by vulnerability.
You see, a good woman is like water that runs over the hardness of a man and slowly slowly wears him down with her gentleness and sensitivity and love until he is a little bit more human than the solid stubborn boulder firm in its resolve.
No human is perfect. Though knowing the imperfections is a good place to start.
. . .
One day I will let the boulder roll clear to the bottom of the hill and say “fuck it” and just enjoy the view.
When I have lied. When I’m lazy. When I’ve turned a blind eye. When I go back on my word. When I’ve hurt a friend. When I’ve been given a chance. A second, then a third. When I keep slipping up. When I’m out of work. When I think I’m right. When I know I’m wrong. When I bite my tongue. When I stub my toe. When I do it for the wrong reasons. When I’ve lost the plot. When I call a heart a spade. When I’m irresponsible. When there’s no space created. When I’ve lied again. When my boundaries are out of place. When I’m triggered. When I’ve disrespected another human. When my tongue splits and spits venom. When I forget to err is human. When I lack grace. When I think it’s too late to change. When I’ve said too much. When I think I’ve said enough.
I weep when I hear Adrianne Lenker’s quivering voice sing, “For you I am a child.”
It is important to remember the moment something good is gone. It becomes a crux, a reference point from where the remainder of our lives is hinged upon and swings to and fro in pendulum motion. The absence of goodness is a dark cavern. Without knowing the shadow, by what compass could we measure jubilation.
I did not water my plant.
March 9th, 2022
It’s A Dog’s Life. . .After All
It’s been six months since I moved out of the house on Fowler Avenue. And in some way I’ve been trying to get back there ever since…
March 2nd, 2022
The Old Folk Song Has Found A New Voice In Willie Carlisle
Sometimes I wonder if I made him up, as if he were a figment of my imagination. Like some conjuring out of complacency in order to bring a little chaos into my world…
February 23rd, 2022
Nothing Is What It Seems Though We See Clear Enough
A strange tapestry of light hangs over the western horizon. The sun a white circle of light cauterized through the veiling. Black clouds sweep in from the south that brood with brief flashes of light…