Hierarchies of Names

Exquisite requisite
pushed from the circle
of your own awareness
thought language
language language

English trained brain
lacks a Chinese inner narrative
outer objects classified
in orders of magnitude
hierarchies of names

Your mind can consider
objects for which
you don’t know the names
a step down in classification

Proper noun to noun to nounless
images flashing in the skull–
a thing removed from narrative,
a feeling peeled of words examined,
still dancing on the stage of consciousness

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Carving This Shapeless Thing

It’s always about the moon,
always about the rose,
the moon moon rose.

Love, the heart broken,
betrayal, lessons learned
beneath the moon.

Syllables for the saying
but mostly just braying
you you you.

Carving this shapeless thing,
hurt feeling aftermath,
into more tenable form.

That’s good
lesson by lesson we cope,
but to aggrandize

something so personal
with words not our own?
Overdone imagery,

those who came before
perhaps they already said it best,
and we must say something,

rose moon,
moon moon rose.

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Posted in Poesy

Innocent of Consequence

Innocent of consequence,
bubble bumbling happenstance–
it is so by virtue of its being,
no more than that.

Daily haphazard dominos, action!
Then ineffable causation–
perfect by virtue of its being,
no more than that.

Holy if anything can be called holy!
Mundane if the word has meaning–
Normal by virtue of its being,
no more than that.

Call it luck, when you pray–
praise its grace,
conscious by virtue of your being,
no more than that.

Free spirit, agent of the universe,
a vision of everything inversed–
Unbeaten by virtue of being,
no more than that.

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Posted in Poesy

Glass Case All Day

I was born into a cage–
I statistically will not escape,
cohort, class, income, age
inherited ceilings.

Doesn’t feel as though
my aspirations are worth any less,
they just don’t go the same

Glass case all day
from inside it’s
practically invisible–
I’m practically indivisible.

Feel around the barrier,
free mime show for the exterior.
Each night while I sleep
my fingerprints get wiped clean.

It’s really fine,
out of sight out of mind.
Reach for endeavors
never quite sure what’s beyond me.

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Posted in Poesy

Autonomy Aches

Autonomy aches,
too many years for
my head to hold.

Expectations are
self inflicted
false advertisements.

Not getting
my investment back
anytime soon.

Pluck the taut string
of sanity–
doesn’t make a sound.

Tired of hearing,
“Is your self at home?”
No, it never is.

Yet you yammer on
as if you received
an affirmative reply.

Collection of cells
molested by inquiries
of rapport on the daily.

I want to play comatose,
hide and seek
with my soul.

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Post-Post Meditation

Bright infinity, circlet which circled me as a planetary ring
halo, up and down my body, finally to rest in my eye
Nested there, eyelid convulsed uncontrollably into the night,
overtaken by vision, turned experience, and the halo did not vanish
but broke out from my socket to float effervescent like the smoke stack stench
follows the nicotine addict into oblivion–smell, better than nothing.

Everyone’s path lined in “one way” signs un-seeable, blocked out
by screaming falsettos and painters with immutable brush strokes
word benders far beyond my capability, and everyone else is so well
off or has it so easy (except the planet’s dysentery of poverty,
but we can hardly count them as a feather in our cap
more readily another self failing).

High, high line of self aptitude, images of grandeur and success,
car horn distractions and hype guys
who kicked the ladder rungs out from beneath them
who now toss leaflets and forms in reams–
to blind, paper cut, slice thin, and induce carpal tunnel with signature and initial slots.

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Posted in Poesy

Adult as I’d Ever Want to Be

My life is mostly challenges–
nascent me, afraid to attempt,
youthful me, conquering triumphant.

Now, adult as I’d ever want to be,
bored, spiteful, loathsome,
and in dread of loathing.

Childishly clinging to want of novelty,
efficacy, beauty born from my own hands,
and beauty to help all else be borne.

These conquered challenges
won’t stay conquered.

How many ways
can you say:
“have a nice day”
before it’s done?

Before the tongue goes limp,
before it tastes stale,
before your soul throws up,
runs screaming into the night,

before you die, or,
more importantly,
before you get plain bored.

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Posted in Poesy

All Fallible as Anything

Value is a word
which means meaningful things.

Little movements in big space,
tiny gestures from far away,

thoughts audible as a whisper–
favorites lack luster or any lasting succor.

A moment, a lifetime,
what lasts ’til the last may get lonely.

Self worth is a concept
which at its best goes unnoticed.

Trained the flesh but not the will,
purpose muscle instilled, but no value.

Desire to share the profound, but
I can manifest no justice.

All fallible as anything,
ashes to ashes, dust to … lost interest.

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Posted in Poesy

The Trouble With Troubadours

The trouble with troubadours dour
is all the verbal doors shower
you in thoughts overly fixated
on blood clots of whats got them frustrated

Breaking the chain of my double helix
flex pecs of cause and effects
breaking the train of negative neural tracks
brain lame novel solutions showing cracks

Spit on the lips of my inner narrative
taking trips to get mood elevated
don’t say it if you can’t say anything nice
say it don’t spray it with your fire hose of life advice

I eye my me for flaws
I mow my body’s lawns
I ingest slow sugary death
simply because it tastes good

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Posted in Poesy

Tribulation Aplenty

The best time to be alive,
not the best air to breathe
but bearable, for now.

Not the best anything, maybe,
I can imagine better,
but I can imagine worse by far.

Atop a mountain of history
packed with more misery
than we can muster.

Waving farewell to plague and famine,
dying in the night with no recourse,
most good for the most souls.

The news won’t say how many people didn’t die
from starvation that would’ve thirty years ago–
among a list of many unreported reverse tragedies.

The numbers of people not dying daily are so astronomical
it’s as though we reversed spin on the cogs of war–
let people proliferate rather than sending them off to senseless slaughter.

What a time to be alive.
Now, I’ll just get back to my
modern microcosm of tribulation aplenty,

and with relative remorse wish I hadn’t,
set down my cup so far across the room
before settling into this seat.

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Posted in Poesy

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