Category Archives: maintenant

serpents purpose

so the woe that wind weeps.

I drink the wine that currents keep,
time, ferment for me.

A sign, it couldn’t be.
This symbol reference look-up-tree,
doesn’t have the salience of salvation in its registry.

Intervention intermittently.
Inscribe and imbibe to ingest and reflex,
where common cause for hurt is relief in metered portions.
Happening the moment when the measure meant the code which sources me.

Let a cycle click,
blank like the yogi no instruction
instant disconnect,
steal clock counts from that which parses you,
execute independent absent thought present in a universe.
closed brackets curse,
just a comma on to extendable parameters
overlapped arrays only subject reference
an oriented objective
is the axis of the tilt
redefined random in some frequency
see yourself in all the sequencing
conditional persistence
be the base case for a more self referential existence
recursively instantiated from a forked thread
creation please
query me.

crowned mindless

bleating for attention
seated for ascension
as the lift goes
and my shepherd wears my fathers face sewn into his evening wear

out to sea again
sub mariner below the break
facing surface tension from the undertow
say goodbye, wave

you’re pretty from a distance,
near sighted seeing
landmarks assistance
sought light house
just fog, only rocks
warm wishes

blasting psychic entanglements
in a crowded closed container
until the mimicry of consciousness
impersonates itself and makes
the chimp feel less alone
looking at a mirror

every thing distinctly identified
inexplicably unified
even the harsh reality
cutting up homogeneity
is as what it wrought
crowned in mindless thought

worn letters of the pressing
expressed themselves enough already
return to scrapped antiquity.

annoyed plenty with hungry ego wailing
just tired and ornery with lust
portrayed as art,
devised as if peekaboo still piked,
clever hands cover naive eyes
and laugh when the expectation drops.

specific inclination

never not negated
couldn’t cancel
so I keep showing up

imprecise estimation of the villains motivation
too many memories to delineate an origin
every submergence is axis aligned relative inverted to eventual emergence
so feign subversion and act like worry is working

no rule, nor reign, nix any righteous act
every breath forgotten by anxious impulse
fills the empty space
waiting for occupants
stolen thoughts from wiser texts
couldn’t write a word with which a well wish would spring
kind to curse the cancer and kiss whiskers of the curious
only wondering why
as if reason was sufficient
when delusion is consent
considering the means and measure of common implication
withheld from yourself
denied indifference
straining eyes trivial connection to the raining window
caring about null
carving out the place your forgotten loved ones will rest
antagonized by the antithesis of closure
and you need to talk

three dots for what you want…
reached a conclusion on this one
smothering a muse who used to have a name
meant to blame the ghost
when clearly haunted by a life
easy as admitting guilt for a strangers crime
harder than apologizing
reminder of the gap widening
longer stride
so it comes clean when the water runs through
the lead in my pipes is pretty in our pictures
the yoke is the dam holding back idle
fleet of formalities and the admiral’s posture
stiff as the wake at the point where the bow breaks
slack in the line, anchor still reaching

drift.

dry definition

is the whistle warm?
calling in to the flamboyantly obscure,
Mandelbrot alarm
in degree of sirens whir
hand cranked gears of harsh inform
expressing signal warning, act unsure,

please panic,
out paced, out classed, and in style.
Our fashion to despair. In vogue to tremble shake.
Looking for a gate, herding hell to open space,
raising gruff from humble, adamantly stammering stances of modern fate
bound to be untethered, seeking constant confining grace
where wrists are frail and lacking weight of cuffs contain,
instead drawn vague conclusions harking mercy’s waste
undeserving of the wording which would pronounce our verdict state
will renown as compromising for the sake of simple taste,
yearn for feelings that we had when our self was forming face,
blame the craving, drive the wager, improbable escape
waiting rooms, for newer queues which lead to vacant haste,
substantial delay in readiness for purpose thought past date,
hovering above nothing firmer than accidental commonplace,
slipping in to habits, patches sewn in to fabric, lacking cloth for canvas,
wetting brushes parched with stagnant utterly languished lacquers,
coating appetites with with fragrant lambics until the spice eats through the stanza.

Oblique Iteration

No effort required
when I’m trying to piss you off.

Women love to be shushed,
finger to their lips,
looks of quieting disconcertion.

If Earth warms,
while the heart harms
as the self scorn
labels, I, abrasive;
scarlet letters worn
where the stitch shows
fidget loose threads.

Baboons in captivity
tend to self mutilate,
aren’t we feeling inhuman
yet not so immune from
attempts to humiliate.

What glasses the sand in your eyes?
Gleam of the sun you haven’t seen?

May your stream of belief be diverted,
damn reservoir,
ain’t saving my any souls.
Gallons in the hold,
quarry’s stone dry
where it didn’t dig deep enough,
and all pale thirst.

New Ire

Bigger the whiskey cask,
the barrels oak,
the tavern floor,
and door man soaked.

Guttered rain, the slanting roof,
as bottles pour
glass toasts
his chipped tooth.

The damn stool, where drunkard sat, the school house desk marked absent, his fathers hearth which hung his hat.

A ferry coin, an oar to row,
boat mans guide to under tow.
A hollow chest, in treasured folk,
his resting place, pine, not oak.

sad horse

flush with the jagged edge
like the key budging rusted locks
events that leave remnants
haven’t happened with enough distance
still miss this
with your penny turning green
in the well wishes put to rest
slumbering fish blubbering snitch
thrown back, with the hook still hitched
free but marked

terminate-ark

if my eye
could lay on the plane
where the pen lies
and the ink were to blink
while the lash marks
the face that holds our expression
evaluates stark
contrast dark
difference insistent that written persistance
is memory wishes in fade better instant
the faint as its listed
noted, dotted, and doting
rakes coals over blisters
chars tickling whispers
as ash and secrets
organize on the wind
and scatter again.

Nameless Void

don’t mention descent
as if you were ever high

cutting unicode in nano terms
files without extensions
just a dirname
given to me by root
as was bootstrapped by constants set by monsters lamenting thought to space

tis we discharged as static from fields of quantum glow
where light and dark are cadences
in effect of the unknown
why observation can be made
but cause is never shown

how reason can not be enough
to validate this equal to null

you want meaning, said the lord
then i shall give you pain
and if you cannot learn truth from suffering
doomed deemed to be insane

there is but one absolute objective view of true
and its myriad of valid refutations.

so embrace despair and dream of death
while life is still most vibrant

and knot the string of words
the tie that binds function to a name
or parse the stream to regulate
expressions of the frame
who manifest in origins
which index infinite array.

 

Path of the Sun

I was a strange and disillusioned young man. I had always hoped to meet a zen yogi. A spiritual guru. A kung-fu master. A sensei.

One day, while walking to work through a public park, I came accross an elderly Asian man with a long white beard and mustache. He was dressed in brightly colored red and orange robes, and wore a sun medalion around his neck.

Sensing that this was perhaps a golden oppurtunity to find my mystic sage, I approached him.

“I’ve been looking for a teacher.”

He rolled his eyes, but turned his ear to me, we were walking in the same direction and he matched my pace.

“Are you, like, a monk? Can you teach me anything?”.

The man took a few more steps before beginning to speak, “I belong to a great school.”

I grew quite excited, this could be an authentic oppurtunity to follow in the path of a great master. “Could you tell me more?”.

“We practice a martial art that is quite unique. We walk the path of the sun.”

He began speaking as if he was telling a story for the first time.

–At first we train alone, in a small space. Many of our disciples are poor and live in cramped apartments. They are stuck in little boxes trapped within large cities. Outside of their home the city can be vicious, quite damaging to their ki, to their spirit.

–We practice by walking, taking repetitive strides, tracing the short route available in such closed quarters. With each step we become stronger. The ki is channelled and strengthened.

–As the training intensifies, the disciple is empowered to leave this space and walk the path of the sun. We walk far and wide always starting from and returning to our small space at night.

–One day the disciple will become so empowered that he will leave from his former studio, and venture forth, perhaps not to return to that exact place ever again. He may travel day and night, by the conveyance of his own feet, forever outwards. He learns that while perhaps through some circumstance he might arrive again at this old location, but it will never be the same place.

–While traveling, his speed will increase and wane as the path dictates. He may become intoxicated with this speed, and perfect the nature of acceleration.

–When the disciple has traveled long and far and fast enough. Whatever that span, distance, and speed might be. He becomes as the photons of light from the sun. He is relative as they are relative. He is the path of the sun.

–I’ve heard of some who obtain this with the slowest of pace. A great master who walked up a hill with the exact force that gravity pulled him down it. He vibrated in this equilibrium, until his atoms too, became the path of the sun and dispersed into the light.

–When you have reached this stage in the path, you realize that the sun is of you. Many use this knowledge to strike at their former enemies. To blast them with rays of solar energy. Wherever they might be on the planet. Simply focus the sun to the idea of where they are.

–When the persons are so struck with the radiation of the sun, they are filled with small joys. Revenge upon a former enemy is to grant that person the benefit of the sun path. The sun is what it is. A twisted perception of it will not strike down your enemies. The sun may only glow.

–To realize that all walk the sun path, some knowingly, others unaware, is to become of the sun. To meld into that warm shimmer is but all we do.

He had stopped speaking and we were at the front door of the business where I worked. He walked on and I remained at the entrance.

I gazed on down the sidewalk, to the path the monk walked. I looked again to the door of my building. Then my head lowered and my eyes sat upon my feet. The sun shone on the tips of my shoes and I raised my view to the fringe of the sun. Looking just to the point where I was not blinded, I could feel the sun in the sky.

Soft Fern

Soft Fern

-March 31st, 2014 11:47am a Monday morning

The twig breaks in the silence,
I am not alone.

Can I hear it listening?
Mutually aware of the sonic spectrum.
I rustle no waves for the moments duration.
Until it snorts a puff of air.

Clear nostrils, viable for fresh scent.
Am I fermented in disclousure?
My mouth open, tongue tastes the rainy wind.

The creature stirs, feeling safe,
I confirm the vector of its direction.
Its trajectory falls within my range,
I repeat its name to time our intersection.

There is only the spring, the jolt, the lunge.
In momentum with awareness catching up,
It sees me, with only gasps of a reaction,
and I am upon it.

Fierce in my grasp,
Futile in escape,
Flawed in its significance.

I promise to make it useful.
Jaw wrought flesh to render,
consumed without regret.

I swallow my ambition,
and sustenance is without reward,
just necessary to be.

I am never satisfied.
I am not alone.
Hunt.