how the old survive

then and now

I open the book carefully today because I value the handmade,
maybe not the pages or the cover nor the binding, but at least the way these were strung
and pressed together and kept and tied.  And all the things written inside, the pictures too
I love the pictures.  I could read them before I could understand the words.  Words were opaque things –
the stuff that flew between people like blocks and blips of bricks and code not meant for me to know.

They go together now, the pictures of people smiling and the things they say.  I realize, after reading
there wasn’t so much to understand.  It’s just nice to have words next to pictures.
The meanings seem to add more meaning to all the people standing around, meaning something
good.

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Force

As if at gunpoint- Be Happy the command commands not later,
Now.
If not, do I breathe in the blood and the bullets that I fire into myself?

Behind the television where all the images of the world are seen
there are many wires that used to not be tangled.  How did this line get under that one before it went over and under the other one and when I lift a single strand, the whole entity rises up together like roots of a single tree.  To understand what travels along and among these wires I continue to listen and to watch as they coil around every joint and pressure point.

Some days my head throbs from the pain of its grasp, yet I let it hold me tighter and tighter
for lack of anything else to hold.

die die die die die die die die die die die died

the words dribble on and drool down the corner of my lips and around the curl of my chin and into the soaked pillow.  The talking dreams with deadly demands demanding to go, to do, to transform into
warm dust.  This morning
I’m only brave enough to disappear
into the temperature
of my own blanket.

I

used to be tormented by my thanatos, a sin, a scourge, an embarrassment!
Hang my head in shame and let it fall lower in lethargy.
I sought understanding, a nod, a permission, an insight.  Instead I only made others distraught.
Defeated, I surrendered to life in its minimal state, for that was all I cared to preserve.
Now I’ve grown comfortable with the end .  It is always here.  I need only to open my eyes
to the image of my eyes
closed.

root4

production.  Push yourself through the pins.
Where is the death axe? How near is its edge to my neck?
Where should I start, what is first and foremost, the most cherished,
the most meaningful meaning.  The meaning that is trapped in feeling.
How much life is enough life?  What should you do if the purpose of your existence is to find or create
a purpose for yourself.  That – anyway,
is the illusion that fits snugly over our bobby bodies and our custom cubicles and clean cars.
For even that which “you create” had a necessary cause before it.  We seem merely to be witnesses to the flow of consciousness and coincidence.
Some prefer to experience the earthquake of life in the 25cent-Pony
Ride, and some prefer to experience the earthquake on the
ground, both shaking quite in the same way.
Out of boredom I close my eyes . . .   When I open them
the world and all its shattering pieces of paint
is wonderful
once again
temporarily.
In the evening, I must conjure new ways to cover the wound we used to weave away with stories told and shared every living day.  But the years have changed
and it is the year of the dead, just like the year before, and the year before . . . and you know, and you know?
We dream Kitsch together and sell it to each other and get drunk enough to make ourselves feel better, you know?
“All we need is love, Love, Lurrbbb!,” you sing and slur, slipping on the curb, wishing someone bashed your head in quick, as quickly as a humbly hooded –
executio!blurr.blur.
-Blur.

expand

the shell is closing in, unbirthing our inner energy to burst, to spontaneously giggle and smile to the world.
Never free, what surrenders is taken and what struggles breaks through.  No matter which direction you choose,
the walls go on forever and must be broken layer by layer.  I thought the chick was done once it left its egg,
but the egg is only waiting, always listening, waiting for an appropriate ending.

everybody wants everybody else

to wake up and get with it,
to hook up and link in to the newest and hottest
It’s evolution at its most verbal. What one wants, someone else will too,
so accidentally even the cruelest dictators shoehorned their pleasures and ways
into the ways we today enjoy ourselves obliterating bliss as we burn through them kiss by
kiss.