S A D P O E M

I don't think I will ever tire of the sun rising up everyday,
or how that sun in the afternoon makes you sweat
and wear a brimmed hat,
or that sunset.

my heart follows my eyes
as the dogwoods blur by.

the blackberries grow along the barbed wire fence,
I look up at the night sky while taking a piss
and observe the power lines silhouette
(the trees are taller than them).

the goats rotate around the field regularly,
when I hear the kids bleat and cry I know why they call them kids.

before the steam locomotive
the landscape didn't move so swift.
early critics claimed it took the soul out of traveling,
on a different note we now have time to read.

I'm not gonna make some comment about the kids
and too much screen time,
it's not inherently 'good' or 'bad,'
it's different.

when I have a kid,
and when they are old enough to use technology,
I'm gonna show them uBlock origin
and tell them about the pirate bay during the golden age of torrents.

narcissistic hypocrites post nonstop
images on their facebook feed,
I'm just glad I can unfollow
without unfriending.

I understand that the loudest
and most contradictory voices
are communicating something deep about themselves
if you can peel back the layers of the shell.

vaporwave is a product of our world, our hell,
of a plastic ocean,
of a vapid entertainment industry,
of the bottom line, what sells?
so we (we meaning millennials)
made an aesthetic that is supposed to be worthless to them (capitalists),
it has been described as "a degrading of commercial music"
in an attempt to reveal the "false promises" of capitalism.
do I have to cite wikipedia?
accelerationism=do we even care?
the end is here.

anyway, it's pretty revealing that my observational poem about the farm and nature
turned into a techno-linguistic exposé,
oh well,
what can I tell you
that you won't interpret in someway?

A Thousand Dark Nights and a Thousand Bright Women

There is only One,
eye spy a Son.
above the sun is a black hole,
wash away the wrong,
hide the light from the world.
a dark night,
a malignant curse.
maligned intent through years of...education!
it's not all that hard to see,
the produce in front of us all.
the pretty lights blind the world,
what a shitty show, year after year
the Way is never broke--
protean formula, rubric of old.
come what will, come all may
but what i know, i see today.
it's the most quoted of Yeats
because of what it reveals.
now out of that vast memory,
out of the spiritus mundi
and through my self:

it's already been established,
the beast in Beth.

Haikus

In the early evening
As the sun dies
In the Orchid's arms I lie.

In the early evening
As the sun sets
Under the Magnolia I sit.

This is how you sit:
Asana is free
Whatever it is.

Dharma junkie
Is a contradiction:
Buddhism is moderation.

I don't care about observation
Or a juxtaposition,
Just be clever.

The lion's in the corner,
The witch is a bit better,
But an Elephant is king of the room.

It feels like an ember
Burning.

The fixation
Unrelenting.

And what can anyone do?

What does anyone know?

is this my boulder,
is this my stone,

my brother;
it's good to be alone.

Dérèglement de les Sens et des Mot

Timing is everything.
Little rhymes

remind us,
physicality isn't everything.

Deregulation of the word
or the meaning,

meaning,
meaning isn't all.

Luster of all illusions,
a pauper among the bourgeois,

I'm blatantly disregarding etiquette.

Hero: me

     When the weak and fearful gain power and respect, most usually through politics and false rhetoric, they generally seek to hold offices for their own ends. Threads twined down from the top of the eye and each fancies themselves a pyramid alone. No one is an iland, except all the ones on their iphones. Ilidan knows more than Achilles, it's all good, I know for whom the bell tolls, there is only one enunciation emanating from death's other kingdom. A women with her eyes covered by a white sash walks running her hands on the cold and slightly damp walls of a catacomb, every brush of her hand leaves red paint on the stone, and every step sinks into the mind with lithe plash, soft as a gnome. Catacomb Periculosum.

     While walking back from the forest tonight at sundown I cut through the Kundert's gravel lot. It's nestled against the inside of the bend like a puddle. Five big rigs parked neatly, one engine exposed, the silo closer to the road, and the shed, closed for the evening. Two faded yellow tonka trucks lay haphazard on a drift of smaller rocks and sand, left by a kid playing right next to the real thing. This is farming country and he is a young boy like me, or clearly, I was a young boy like him, I just never learned to work machines--I learned to read. Dr. Seuss and timeless children's books were my tonka trucks next to the silo.

     I found a golden ticket and it reads: the wind in the birch trees realign a chaos breath through me. Intellect is more than one's own design, my father's name is Stephen, call me Icarus in flight, too high, and falling--all in one moment. The only moment, the moment when you die, the dance between existence and what has yet to exist in one fatal flight. Art has a price no amount of credit could ever buy, I remain the same guy, unapologetic and blind, and I've never been so close as I've been tonight. Justice is blind and the deepest places have always been the asylum of liberty.

Arachne mi Porta Fortuna

Superman is in my soul.
I will visit Spiderman when I die
In a city between two pillars in the sky.

Thin Cities 5

If you choose to believe me, good.   Now I will tell how Octavia, the spider-web city, is made. 

There is a precipice between two steep mountains: the city is over the void, bound to the two crests with ropes and chains and catwalks.   You walk on the little wooden ties, careful not to set your foot in the open spaces, or you cling to the hempen strands.   Below there is nothing for hundreds and hundreds of feet: a few clouds glide past; farther down you can glimpse the chasm's bed.

     This is the foundation of the city: a net which serves as passage and as support.   All the rest, instead of rising up, is hung below: rope ladders, hammocks, houses made like sacks, clothes hangers, terraces like gondolas, skins of water, gas jets, spits, baskets on strings, dumb-waiters, showers, trapezes and rings for children's games, cable cars, chandeliers, pots with trailing plants.

     Suspended over the abyss, the life of Octavia's inhabitants is less uncertain than in other cities.   They know the net will last only so long. 

-Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

Jungions

nātūrāle est magis nova quam magna mīrārī
it is natural to admire new things more than great things

As it is, 
the thing that brings me the most freedom
is not caring what people think when I'm developing. 
Who is the one who can really see the greater piece while looking at the threads?
As it is,
as far as we've walked from both ends of the sand
have we never caught a glimpse?
Perfection exists alone above the abyss,
the ideal we project,
anima and animus.
The reflection of the semiotic archetypal non-verse in the
Universe,
we all turn as one.

Ma Made These Old Boots (a, e, i, o, u)

Waking up, walking in the steps of the sun
Upon the colonnade of existence.
I'm not just a dreamer,
I'm a dunce.
Um, well...
I'm also not lost.
Vulnerability,
The true path to strength,
Is in you,
Why don't you seize it?
Listen to your wisdom
The voice is whispering clear
If you have ears
You can be fearsome.
Something there I won't say
Something near I won't name
Littering plain
Dead leaves in the sea.
Approaching the heartbeat...contemplating...
Delivery complete.
How much do you get of me?
Much obtuse.
Always appreciate authenticity
And honesty above social grace.
Always? Well, usually,
I'm not so much of a fool. Now,
'Wipe your glosses with what you know.'
Cool?
Cool.