For Millenia

June 11, 2018 § Leave a comment

Is a funk like the blues? Are they like they were in the 30s as Merle said? The depression.

Historically it makes sense now. So does the feeling. Hadn’t before. Might be these meds, the toll.

For whom does it sound? How much does a half century cost? Happy birthday.

I’m already older than most of my idols ever were. Older than my mother when she died. Seising the flame is better than fading some may’ve said. I disagree.

Even, not ever being down like this before—for this long anyway—is the way it should. These primordial weights of the world that 27 years is not enough to share, like modal scales, is as it has been for millennia.

So I’ll blame the side effects for they are not as bad as blindness, cardiac arrest, erectile disfunction, or shortness of breath as TV’s fear routinely broadcasts.

I am not afraid of living. She can kiss me sour ‘cause I love her when she’s sweet. And “Picking sides is plain just not fair, Mama,” I’d say to her.

She’d just smile and not say anything. Looking right at me she says all she needs to, and I nod back at her, understanding that I understand very little and almost silently I say, “Thank you.”

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Dueling

June 1, 2018 § Leave a comment

I’ve notice that most have trouble with introverts. If there isn’t constant noise, comment, or movement many are uncomfortable.

Especially extroverts. They think something is wrong if there is quiet or silence. I understand. There is nothing wrong, though. Keep talking. We just don’t feel like saying anything. Or to be more specific: we only say something when something needs to be said. We actually enjoy quiet.

Some of us even see the beauty of silence. We let the surroundings lead what will happen. We do not need to control or guide. Some of us know that if we step away things happen without us and that many times the situation is much more enjoyable and spontaneous when we let things go the way of the universe.

And again, keep talking. The world needs you the way you are. We understand that you need chatter, to lead a conversation to where you think it should go. You are you, just as we are we. The world needs us both.

It takes different types of people to take this 21st Century to where it needs to, so keep being you and we will keep being us and hopefully all will be as it will be because of our duel existence? Don’t be uncomfortable. All will turn out the way it should. Like it or not.

Cracks

May 22, 2018 § Leave a comment

Visiting my oracle, my little book. Reminding myself of what I already know. Getting out of my own way so I can sleep again.

Back to the beginning of things. The way they’ve always been. Dormant for a few years is all. The earth cracking for the sleeping giant.

It’s not much different: by degrees, millimeters, maybe less. Things are already as they should be. Acceptance and patience.

The patterns to be broken take time. Realizing they are there sets the motion toward the caffeinated sutra.

“Things are not as you think, nor are they otherwise” swims on the daily wave to years of birthdays and anniversaries.

It’s the same now. Let the melody lead to where it takes you. Rising and falling the beautiful harmony has dissonance and sweetness.

If Heaven Exists

March 4, 2018 § Leave a comment

Sat down at the bar. The only empty stool was at the far end next to the servers’ station. The management had iconized the word “focus” onto the screen saver so if I turned my head and looked down the exposed brickwork I could follow the slowly bouncing subtle push of the once-called suits (now more likely bearded and tattooed thirty-somethings). The way the word caromed off the sides of the 15 inch screen reminded me of the classic black and white Pong.

Hanging from the low ceiling a few feet from my head a long row of tulip glasses lined toward the the crowded street out front where I’d walked in about an hour ago. The bar was almost empty now (the Happy Hour rush gone). As soon as I noticed the upside down tulips I saw my mother. We were talking about something she was excited about. Not remembering what the excitement was about makes me nostalgic in the sense that I see my little kid self and my mother still alive. How would the present be different if she had seen me live older than she did? I want to know why she had forgotten my age while we were talking and she realized I wasn’t old enough to be at a bar and said, You know how the glasses hang upside down at the bar right by your head? I didn’t. I do now, though. My mother’s story ended there.

Maybe she was about to make a joke. Probably not. I don’t remember her ever making me laugh. I was a taciturn kid. My brother’s the jokester. Even now with multiple visits to the dialysis center the nurses can’t believe how everything is a joke with him. Amputations, cancer, diabetes. Life is meant be enjoyed no matter what, he’d say.

Doesn’t really matter what my mother was thinking all those years ago. I remember it now. Don’t even remember what she was wearing or where we were. I don’t know how old I was or if I had had a good or bad day. She was excited is all that matters as I wait for my “small plate” to come to the counter. The imprinted feeling of I hope you are okay if heaven exists. If it doesn’t I hope you felt how much I loved you even though we didn’t talk much after a certain age. After melody and harmony, sex, & victimized assumption crept in and took over. I know that a few more years would have lifted us to a blissful place, but I know now (as I feel you did ‘Ama) that we don’t decide these things. That thinking that we have control of our lives is a lie. We make choices, yes. Other’s are made for us and we have no say. And that’s okay. I don’t need goals or set levels of societal norms to feel alive, be happy, enjoy this improvised flow we call living.

Just like sitting here now: wasn’t planned. Had an appointment so I came early to fight traffic a bit. Once here my phone told me the appointment was next Thursday the 8th not today the 1st. A few years ago I would have walked up ready and someone would have apologetically said something like, Sorry Sir you are expected a week from now, and then I’d of walked off embarrassed probably. I had no control over why I got my dates confused. I could have checked my phone before leaving instead of leaving early. That didn’t happen. This did. I’m here now.

And everything turned out okay, didn’t it?

Swimming w/ Koi

December 5, 2017 § Leave a comment

Everything follows me. Sit down and the landscaper’s blower buzzes as rake-against-concrete scratches add a nails-on-chalkboard backtrack.

At another bench the loudspeaker from a high school across the street echoes a band director’s directions to brass, then to percussion: “Take it from G to I—cut, cut, cut! Come on lift your heads. You wanna be heard, don’t you?”

Paranoid? When all sound and movement attracts my attention, maybe. Gestures and mannerisms. Lane changes without a signal or amateur semaphore attract the orange reflecting same. Focused. A discriminate eye sees madness’s divinity Dickinson says. I see it.

Being is a magnet. Sound. People’s intimately subtle movements. Silence. How the clouds hide the sun and my skin feels the cold instantaneous like an ant crawling quickly across my slippery hand towards a much rougher finger tip. Looks like time lapse footage. Everything follows.

Feeling alive. One with it all collides with the routine everyday. The smell of ashes from old cigarettes turns to a passionate conversation before white sheets and sex.

Nothing ordinary, only the miracle of existence, the fascination with being alive oozing onto the wooden counter, shouting in silence for no one and all. Hear the ticking of the end. The countdown to being. The slowing to the next. Listen to Miles’ trumpet muffled from the other side, wading.

It still follows me, lowering into a minor sixth as night cools to 43 degrees, the water 6/8 warmer as fish jump out, lifting tiny white water splashes back to 3/4 double time.

Found Poem +

August 14, 2017 § Leave a comment

as the orthodoxy spews and preaches its decades old knowledge I go back to the instinctual. the infamous “they” ask me to put on a tie and coat I amble unshaven in shorts to where I want to go, huaraches slapping on concrete.

I just look and stare, take the pills they prescribe: “you’ll feel better.” nights of pain and thoughts of suicide scare me awake. on my back adjusting to darkness and slivered light and moon shadows, then deep appreciation of what I have lived. sitting up, legs dangling into black I hear Rosie breathing, Tristan gaming, Aidan studying a film. I see Jonas reading trends as they spike and drop in his office, the glare off the laptop onto his face reflecting on his glasses in reds and green blips.

before long I think back to childhood, music, words, movies. back to unorthodoxy. herbs and shaman cure scenes, charms and salves, teas from British bands and coffee wraps tight on my feet as a shivering fever kept me awake like now. My mother always there, sitting in the dark. I always got better. placebo or not, I always got better. I will get better again. It is in my story, my tri-cultural build, my homegrown optimism, my being. it’s who I tell myself I am. & until this fragile shell returns to it’s mysterious beginnings I will keep it up and not give in.

The Joys of Sunday

April 30, 2017 § Leave a comment

The joys of Sunday are like Wednesday for some. Monday for others. The joy of Sunday.

Every other day’s the same. Sun up moon down. Arguments and loving words none. Or some days words again: one and arguments are none. The joys of Sunday.

Is it the coolness of the evening or the sweating Tuesdays as the dew builds between your legs? The joy of Sunday’s all the same to Thursday or Saturday. The joys of Sunday stays the same.

Tamarind, strawberries or coconut milk sweet. Plastic wrappers and the thin thin wood stick. The joys of Sunday.