and this is the view
this is all i've got.
these words and these thoughts.
but in my world, it is all you have too. your thoughts, your words. can you turn a phrase, tell a tale spin a yarn? pick a word split a verb change your tense? punctuate abbreviate bloviate? (the sounds and inhuman grunts you make in response are informative.)
and here i am on my low horse trying to make sense of how or why i push everyone away through opinions crisply stated and arguments passionately made. inaccurately because i don't know my ass from your mouth. i mean... i don't know shit about shoot i forgot the point of this potty talk.
this is the way we roll we roll and this is the way we dig our own graves. breath by breath step by step. what else must i convey aside form the simple fact that it is hard to make sense of the rest? the beauty you see may be like maggots to some. the drinks you drink are death not fun to some. the some arenot some but all to some. the all are not all but none to some.
how wide is your vision? how deep are your dreams? how small are our lives and is there anything left to hope for.
i write and type i read and i skim. i work and i work to understand this ridiculous spinning madness i sleep on, walk on, jump off of and land on again despite my best efforts to break free and fly past the oxygen farther and further from the myth of the sun melting my wings and closer and closer to the reality that that is all too calm a description of what a sun would do. wwjd ain't got shit on wwsd.
but then i go again, making object like people and reverse that to make it more common. flip it to make it more remarkable. like a remark one would make. or,,, here i am remarking on remarking on remarkability.
sic sic sic. i read it. i read it again. i left it in. i got no editor, i'm just some non-punk non-kid sitting at his parents' table during a holiday wondering what the hell this all means and why the times i feel most alive are when i'm spitting someone's words back at them all twisted. or when i'm parroting back a song written by not-me. or when or when... what is this but a rush of nothing? where is the satisfaction? what is there out in the world that surpasses this measly nothing i am?
we are all nothing-- i'm nothing special in my nothingness.
if this breath is the same as the last then you're already dead.
ozymandias tells me i can build nothing which lasts and all is illusion of permanence.
the illusion of permanence is an illusion of permanence.
i must find a way out of this corner. i lash out and snap out and behave in startling ways sometimes even to myself. i'm finding disappointment inside and little else of note (though there is definitely some vital bits int he parts left out! like... the kit!).
i'm seven sides of wasted talent with your babyback ribs.
i wish i could roll myself up and smoke me just to see.
i'm done here. the air will never clear.
this is how it comes out. brambled tangled wanting. riffing raffing signing. standing sitting walking. jumping jumping jumping and hitting my head. wondering how i'll ever be dead. but what else instead? the words are all that sing, and i imagine you reading which makes my mind hum and my feet beat the beat. the notion that there is another any other out there who can help me with what's in here... is tooo much to bear since i've not met that many. but then again, what do i help with? what am i good for?
i breath. i supply the plants. i'll supply the worms when i die. i'll push the daisies while i lie.
barf.
20141129
the view
another
and now so i publish another piece of shit
Or is this even published if i put it up on a blog that no one reads in the uncharted backwaters of the galaxy?
If i waste all of the work I've put in and the readings and the writings to put these words on the internet for no profit, will you buy me some food tomorrow? Share some wine?
What if I had no talent? What if all I could do was grunt?
Would you be more likely to share or less?
Which is the best or the worst or the way we were or the way we should be?
The way we would be? Is that better? Would based on what? Could based on how?
The best? The worst? We don't even know these words any more. They are simply chatty talk to be a way of 1 or 0, black or white, fight fight fight. We gotta know where you stand, otherwise how will we tell where you'll fall when we split open your head and take out it all?
That is, the stands that you take... are they worth your life?
The life that you breathe as your own... is it worth your stands?
But what if instead of taking stands you sit? What if instead of picking sides you know that the divine or ineffable or merely the sense of order or even the sense of entropy that pervades the universe... what if you know that the sense that is there taken is one of non-judgement? What if rather than the hottest places in hell being reserved for the fencesitters that the hottest place in hell is reserved for every single time you took a stand on anything?
Who the hell said there was a hell?
Who the hell said there wasn't?
What the hell is a hell anyhell?
Just a metaphor? Just a myth?
Then why does it still chill me, despite being brought up without religion? Why does it still gnaw at me like an unfed pup? The same reason it disappears from me when I look it head-on as I cannot contain the concept. Or the way that it runs from my side when there are so many other things to mull over.
This is me. I'm just a guy typing at you. Or... typing at myself in the future. Or... typing at us in the future. Or just typing at the future because I can't reach the past no matter my wingspan or howmany stools I stand upon to reach the cookie jar.
I shout I shout but there's too much to let it all out. I reach the bottom and still there is more. Unlike Pandora's box which mercifully had a floor. These words tumble and tumble until the ventilator blues suck them in, clean them up, and spit them out. But still mine again mine again hit the ore again or again walk away. Dig into the earth and see what there is. Fly into the sky and see what there isn't. Deep into your mind and relax the nothing.
Across the nothing for no one, a wasted effort a shrug.
Naw, this ain't a breakup post... unless I'm breaking up with trying. Or not-trying. I can('t) hardly tell the difference anymore. Or is it just that I'm half-trying at everything these days? Is the future a real thing that I need to concern myself with or is this just some infinite present? Is the life something I have and is mine or will it just be degifted and was just on loan? What the heck is a life anyway but a way of describing breathing?
How is your breath today?
Have you been caring for your breath? Deepening, broadening? Understanding the filling? Grasping the emptiness? Is this just a mental exercise or a physical? Why do I keep giving false choices? Why is there a need to speak in questions? Is there a way to express doubt without a mark that asks?
My breaths might well be pointless, but is that any different from yours? Or the rest of ours? Or the best of ours? When we add up the long sum of humans, will breath be anything other than the most important thing we did?
Are we just alchemists turning stars to poop?
Are we just magician's assistants flooding all that surrounds us with ephemera?
this is what.
This is what, the moment where the clock ticks and i write something profound?
This is what, the breath in which the heart beats until I grasp what surrounds?
This is what, the thought that saves mankind, the action that acts a salve?
This is what, the nothing that begets nothing that begets nothing at all?
This is that, the thing that I excrete on the page and leave for another.
This is that, the shit that I smear on the walls.
when i breathe i breathe all breaths (and so to do you)
when i sleep i sleep all sleeps (and i hope you do too)
when the sun warms the earth, it is all suns.
when the moon lights the night, it is all moons.
there is no place but this. can you make it a happy place?
there is no happy but what you feel. can you make it worth feeling?
how we walk through this time, is how we've walked through all others.
how we wonder and grasp, is how they've all wondered and grasped.
the whole world a single flower, can you show me the way?
the single flower a whole ideal, can you show my the why?
this language is twisting, running and listing to port.
this tongue is now kissing, so profligate a a gift.
the lines are now splitting, scampering this way and that.
the meaning is shimmering, giving us just enough light.
the light is now fading, off to the right.
the dawn is now breaking, on to the left.
with this weight we wander, not knowing our selfs.
with another thought we ponder, no result to lift.
another another another line another.
bother don't bother don't bother my brother.
this word this world this wandering world.
his word her word like there is an other.
all of us y'all of us pall of us here,
tall of us short of us all of us near
the end we all work at not knowing the goal
just as the the doe knows not the foal
yet tends to bend the world to make
the soul that follows us in our wake.
yet again yet again
die again try again
rye again gin again
sin again sin again.