Random thoughts I'd forget to remember otherwise.
So what have I been dreaming about?
He sits alone in times of company.
He wanders far, but is not lost.
Not all that is gold does glitter.
Not every man has a cost.
some alphabetical workings......
A:
Ants aching, acting against agate above;
arching anteriors anticipating ailment.
Asinine assassins anxiously amplifying an amber angle;
armies alight.
analyzing agony, angst, and ambivalent age.
Average allies assuaging apathy,
asserting astounding assumptions
about agnostic avarice
affecting aforementioned ants.
C:
Callous cash comes crawling, clawing.
Crinkled, clinging calamity calling
costumed customers, cowards, colleagues.
Conscious conspirators, capital comedies.
Cupped coughs consistently crowding
Cranky cashiers; careless cravings
Crafty cavemens caverns calling,
Crashing, collapsing, colossal columns.
S:
Sadness sometimes surges, seeps, sounds silent:
so seek sweet sleep.
Sunday slumber spend soundly
surpasses Saturday's sorrows.
Someday somewhere something small shall surface,
smile, sooth smeared soul stains.
Summer sunshine smolders softly,
September's smirking stars shine,
Somber sleep slides sorrows sideways,
Slip . . . Slumber . . . Snooze
***
Sweet angel, swing down low.
Til the field where hopes are sown.
Grace the land, and humbled man,
forgive thee of thy sins.
Bless the field, reap its yield,
let another sprout begin.
Sweet angel, swing down low.
A kiss to man, and land, bestow.
***
A Story about Nothing...
There was a cage in a metal shell on spinning tires, there was a busway, arcing over a beat asphalt path over a clearing of thistle and dirty soil.
On top of all of it was me, and I hated it.
Grey today. Grey and bold dark greens and purples. Hazy sunlight from years above the clouds. It would have been a great day to be in an airplane. It rained earlier, and colors and smells are warm again for the first time since fall.
It might be the end of the world.
The smell of life again, wet trees and dirt, add some type of clarity to the day. It becomes apparent to me more and more today that civilization is, well, doomed. With days like today out there anyways, we don't stand a chance.
The dim on the day brought out the wetness, and the wetness had the smell of summer. The contrast to the bleak winter routine was making it painfully obvious that we were all somehow missing the point.
"Who will stop the rain" was on the player. And I knew. The rain is good, who would want to stop the rain is the more appropriate question. Its our business that's gotta be stopped. Who will stop that? The rain?
Somehow I've got to move somewhere where its about living. About the days when the colors smell like summer and existence is hunting and badass treehouses.
I wonder if they have weeks, or if its just more of a day to day continuum. Do they have Monday?
The Badassians are a noble people. They are industrious and self sufficient, and life to them is enjoying the ride day to day simply ensuring tomorrow, but really just one long "today". The key to their cultures survival is simple. The list of true, realistic human needs is only one item long: food.
They survive without buses, busways, pavement, weeks. Just food, which they easily capture, and the smell of life and dirt and sunsets on rainy days when the sun finally burns through the clouds and steams the water from the grass.
Somewhere, this is the case; why am I on a bus? What are we doing here, in cities? I scratch my head at this question, figuratively speaking. We seem to be easily caught up in our progression to badass status by our infatuation with fake necessities, or as its known here in the continental US: bullshit. Does the bus driver really need to be on his cell phone while driving around at least forty people?
Arguably, shelter takes a close second in human necessities. But seriously, if we all got along we could all live in warm climates and enjoy camping out under the stars nearly every night, and that's pretty badass if you ask me.
It's all just too clear today, yessir, I see the simple truth of it all, bold and green and dirt purple. It all must end. Someday, it will.
Today wasn't someday, today was a rainy day.
***
Thoughts come and go like waves upon the softest sands; absorbing and forgetting, rejecting and regretting.
Squall of mind, torrent of syllables, glossy reflection of shadowed depths.
I.
Night falls soon.
Not so harshly upon the budding of day.
First, spreading the softness of sunset,
blanketing the world in the softest down of dusk.
II.
Darkness take me,
Dreams awake me,
Slumber . . . . slip away.
III.
Sleep creeps, dreams seep, mind begins to crawl.
Who's to say, where it may, wander when it sprawls.
IV.
I dream of dreams I cannot keep,
sorrow's soil: imagination reaps.
Blessed be, the will of thee,
who ploughs these grounds where mortals grow.
Tilling field where hopes are sown.
V.
Melancholy slumber; counting the numbers
of sheep leaping over the fence.
Sleep till tomorrow, drown out the sorrow,
dreaming of screaming nonsense.
VI.
I'll sleep until the morning,
but dream for days on end.
Of screaming and weaving
and casually careening
just beyond the next bend.
VII.
Now I wake my mind from sleep,
I pray for dreams that I may keep,
And if I find no love to take.
I pray to die before I wake.
VIII.
I'll slay my dreams,
it's "Fanticide".
This fantasy is
open eyed.
In the coldest hour the startlight showers still the winter hands, ether wash of twinkling broth soothes these lonely lands.
Today begins today, and the past is far ahead, and in the farthest glitter speck I tuck my dreams to bed.
The last rays of a setting sun
rain upon the royal blue pacific
Racing towards the distant horizon
leaping mountains and skimming plains.
Filtering through the nubile leaves
of budding spring forest.
The hue of rays slowly shifting red
hesitant in a brilliance of gold
falling upon final destinations
just west of twilight, just east of sunset
slowed by the distance and obstacles traversed.
softly lit upon my face
tinting the world an austere gold
and embracing the remnants of day.
Tick . . .
Its gone, the last particle remnants of the recently constructed past, the nanosecond of consciousness, of here, of now. Our own cause, our own effect. A mobias strip, standing back to back, to back to back: the consequences of the future from the right, the cold perminance of the past from the left. Squeezing, infinite pressure upon conscoiusness. The infinite yet microsecond of "now" swimming through time, flailing this stroke called existance, splashing. The tumoltuous sea shattering, hopeless strands of survivors, of existers. Clinging for their life, the cold, clenching fingers, strethcing for hope, towards the infinite horizon.
Tell me something, anything, ours lives have just begun.
I'd hate to let our last words linger, "Look, I've got to run."
Tell me something, anything, because I'd like to know.
I'd hate to let it all grow dimmer, "That was such a long time ago."
Tell me something, anything, once in voice sincere,
Drop the show, I already know, what you don't say I still can hear.
Falling leaves and winter dreams,
Once again it seems,
I'll spend this snow near open flame,
ashamed to trust its ashen claims.
Frozen eyes and salted skies,
echo sincere, harsher than lies.
Skyline's slip away, to yesterday,
their shadow's slip up spine.
Entwined as fate, the time is late
for it to come with ease,
regrets can't revive these withered leaves,
Finally I've left and it seems for the best,
like winters sting, I'll hope for spring.
Sorrowed eyes reflect the sky,
dissonance again tonight,
Let me down, dreams to ground,
Once more unfit to fly.
Drift away, to that place my hopes have all ended up, defeated. Just to walk out along the Nebraska highways; a black silloette against the sun, fading away like all the other things that have been left behind. If I could only walk out of my own memories like I'm walking out of yours. But I'll bathe in the lazy washes that snake through the plains, and rinse this regret right out to sea. Memories will be gentle and soft, like the silt between my toes. And maybe one day I'll lay down in that stream to cool and drift off in the gentlest sway, dreaming I'm in your arms again. When I wake I won't stand up, I won't even open my eyes, I'll roll over into that soft embrace, and dream that dream forever.
The jurors are pictures, staring from walls.
The suspect is nervous, pacing the halls.
The judge allows nothing but one guilty smile;
The evidence enough to call for mistrial.
The jury is hung, lets leave from this court.
Let's frame the new pictures, and acquit this heart.
Alligations of actions from the past beg the question "why?" Idleness flicked from the ember of our discontent. We spiral in an unnamed void of ethereal mist, Causing our effect, effecting our cause. Acrid sidestreams sicken the land, streaming from our wasteland of dreams. Forsake this stench of stagnation. What time has come that we reap our own despair in the face of an empty universe?
I will wield tomorrow in my hand, and bleed oblivion from my eyes, The reign of the present shall burst forth in wrath, Commanding an armada of yesterdays regrets, Issuing forth the nessecity of action. "Now" is your vindication. Here is your why.
You stole the stars.
Every speck of salted sky,
and the darkness where they're just too high,
All my thoughts stray through that space,
but quickly bend back to your face.
I can't even breath that breath of rest
I can't exhale this from my chest.
I can't move on, I can't move back.
I can't avoid this heart attack.
You stole the stars,
Now I take them back.
A Faded Past
I should give it up, I can't refuse,
everything I've got to lose.
This bitter dream stings my eyes,
the stakes, the odds, seem all to high.
Impossible hopes of what could be,
tossed away, like you threw me
curveballs reeling through my head,
one more swing I'm out and dead.
But way out there beyond home run,
something hides in setting sun,
blinding eyes and golding skies,
sparking hopeless courageous tries.
So give it some heat and I'll swat with my dreams,
a swing and a miss, hopes burst at the seams.
Towards the bench tired, like these cliche rhymes,
but thats exactly how you feel sometimes,
So maybe this game's just hit or miss,
and maybe that line should rhyme with "a kiss."
Are we nothing more than another infinite magnification
of the fractals of branches, reaching towards the golden sun,
doomed to their fate upon the forest floor?
Solemn
Despite the dreams of the mind, some things just won't change their ways. That look in your eyes for example, and perhaps the stars in mine.
The answers were never hidden, and this valorous quest only verified the question. Time deals the cards we set in its hand, and oh the looks on our faces once they all lay face up. You went in search of answers, because the question could not be answered true, and now the path has found its end, and here you are again, shuffling the questions, and passing the shoe.
Despite the dreams of the mind, reality knows no questions, and has no answers. We are walking questions, and living answers.
And the evidence of such a duality . . . glints from the depths of your eyes.
One More Night
Downtrodden times call for brightening moods,
Pictures of smiles provide me with clues,
Memories sharpen as photographs fade,
Imagine the things I wish I could say,
I spend these nights writing my wrongs,
Loving the lyrics of destitude songs,
“Who . . .” the words crept forth like a villain from the shadows, “can live their own life, without living the lives of his brother as well,” he paused, turned his heels and began pacing across the room. “He who neglects all his own for the good of another is decedant, conflicted with the stagnation within. It is the tie to his fellow man that beckons a man’s mind inside. Freedom is a relative term. Do you seek that freedom? Does it stir in your dreams and in your eyes at sunset? The answers you seek are not answers, my friend, search for them as you might. The end is buried in the beginning, the answers are the cause, and the question is this nagging persistence of effect. You on a crooked path towards the light, what mirage do you seek? It’s what once was, it’s the true reason for this desert. When you realize the real questions, the answer's camoflauge reveals itself, and the endless waking nights you’ll spend will teach you the true meaning of humility.” He ground his cigarette out against the heel of his shoe, pulled a chair from against the wall and straddled it.
“You can learn nothing from me until you understand what it is you must learn. The questions don’t need answered; the answers need questioned. Come back when you have learned this truth. I can offer you no more.”
It's the little things. The there and gone sparks of thought that fire at random, like raindrops splattering against consciousness, making their spash and washing out with the next line of fire. Who could name them all, what title would adorn that lenghty hard-back edition?
Port of Call
A barren time befell the lands, sweeping its great wing of protective stagnation over the human spirit. Dreams were halted and progress was stilled in the name of anxiety, the great fear that tore our world apart. The epoch of human achievement crushed into a plateau of endless repetition by the overbearing fear of humility and the obvious frivolity of all that laid behind, and that which lay ahead. The defining moment of self actualization gave us the clarity of sight found only in the void of space. The cause was useless, the patterns had emerged, and their inevitable endings scared society back into its overcrowded shell, away from the light, the truth. The hearts of men were dimmed, and their thoughts turned only to preservation, dismissing progress with disappointed hopes and claims of betrayal. Betrayal it was, of all the dreams and hopes of an inextinguishable human spirit, assassinated by the bullet of truth: society was a farce. The millennia of mankind came to a close with the last alliance of reason and logic against the sociological superstructure. Society’s downfall was eminent, and as man progressed upwards along the incline towards utopia we rejoiced in sight of its pinnacle, and cowered at the fissure beyond. Reason took hold, the ultimate natural process, and we stood still upon the top of this wavering house of cards called "reality." A reality of paper scraps inked, labeled, and ranked, performing the most impressive, and frivolous, balancing act in history. We spat over the edge, and tried to count the infinite fall to the bottom. Some jumped, hopeless and afraid. Several attempted the ravine, with their ropes and clips, never to be seen again. Society had a better answer: the painless, unperceivable numbing of stagnation. Why descend from this, the pinnacle of society? Why not stand perfectly still upon the edge of oblivion for the rest of eternity? The joker adorned the peak of this tower of cards, grinning upon high at society’s smug answer to nature’s truth. The ironic humility consumed most, this practical joke of an answer was only funny for so long. The ones who saw the truth, those who saw this end long before its time, rejoiced, for they had never ascended this mountain of paper. They traveled the lands with that gleam of truth in their eye society envied and fooled themselves by pitying. Society could not chance the decent along the path they had worked so long to forge, and with so many fallen victim to the brute truth of the matter stagnation became possible. So there they sat, afraid to look towards tomorrow, endlessly reenacting today. Those who saw the truth could do nothing, and chose not to. They knew the eventual end, and waited patiently for the day when truth would reign over the people, the end of deception and lies. Little could they do as long as nobody breathed upon that balancing act of humility, but slowly, ever so slowly, the tower swayed in the breeze, with every gust casting down several more into that pit of despair. The ever decreasing weight of the tower allowed for its lengthy decay, and nearly two centuries had past before those patient waiters mastered their philosophy and began to take action. The world decayed, technology halted, time seemed to flow around itself in a strange whirlpool of battered society. The world became old, and with every breeze the stagnation assured itself of its safety, its ingenious solution. The people lived every waking second with full knowledge of the danger ahead, and tried to console each other of this infinite moment. Those who dwelled apart from the menagerie laughed and passed their days with calm confidence in the future that would come. They played the game with a longing for its end, and prepared them for the day, the next day, the day society would fall. Their patience maintained, the generations came and went, and with each one more and more amassed around the base of society, kicking at its foundations,e would not outlast the truth, and soon that day would co hoping for its end. This impossible act of disobedience towards timme.
Conflicting Conflicts
I'll drive the miles to see our smiles, in each others eyes, and won't believe whats said of love, the overrated lies.
It's simply put by your tender hand, brushing long my face, and the moment lingered in your gaze, world at slower pace.
"So what if all I want is nothing. We're born into this society, this infastructure of our own creation, of our own demise. We're bred to fill the positions of pawns upon an infinite board in hopes of one day becoming the king of the game we have made for ourselves to pass the years we spend upon this earth. I resign, I have no need for games whose endings have been shown by society for the last century. Why do we still play? We know the pattern, the strategy, and the supposed prize for winning. Sixty years of work, only to arrive once again at the beginning. I do not want this life, this game, this society. Build your card houses, and when you look out the window of the quivering penthouse you will see the world below you, and you will see me, walking the earth, playing a game you never suspected. YOu'll know the shoots and ladders of your tower only too well before you realize your ignorance of the larger skyscraper of life which is this earth. Play your game, blind yourself of the world around, busy yourself with work created for the sole reason of activity. I want none of this. I have found myself alive, now, here, with an unpredictable yet highly probable exteneded period of time on my hands. The only goal is to survive, to live, to understand the patterns of this huge game we breath every waking second. I choose this game over a time management device deemed sociological sucess. Your minds are wasting on problems which should have never been, I will query the only real problem upon earth, understanding. The game is not won with a retirement check and twenty years of idle relaxation, that is where you started. Your game is a loop, a mobious strip of activity to distract you from the fear of a lack of understanding. You have been deceived, raised to avoid true understanding and only attempt to comprehend the matters which were created, and therefore easily solved, by society. There is no progress in this game, only stagnation. A whole life spent only to achieve the ultimate goal of relaxation. Ask yourself, what is truely nessecary in life. Food, water, heat, shelter: a sparse list. We are humans. We need nothing more than an animal does to survive, and possess more than adaquate means of obtaining all life nessecities. We are relaxation, walking, breathing, and surviving. Survival costs nothing more than dignity, integrity, and commitment, not bank accounts filled with with years of occupational paychecks. I will have none of it, for I have no need. I will survive upon the land, and my salary will be plentiful. I abstain from your game, resign, concede, I have tasted its waters and purged them into the fire. I am not here for your business, your enjoyment, your long-term goals and health-care benefits. My only goal is understanding, and the means of that in no way involve any of societies creations. I want nothing from your society and everything from this universe. I will not fight my life away striving for stagnation. I will fight the fight of progress, of knowledge, of understanding, and of survival, for these are my only goals, the goals of any living animal upon earth. Society is a dealing the cards, and I'm betting all-in, calling it's bluff. Aces high? They're all scraps of paper to me."
Once away from you I will run away far into the woods. Cover myself with earth; hide in the highest branches. Staring into a world I no longer know. A world deceptive; distorted by your words. I hear nothing, save the wind in the trees. I feel not your unkind stare, only splash of sailing leaves glancing my body in the green light of the sun. Your fangs will not reach me here. Your talonous arms entangled by the trees. Crouched upon this limb I shall rot. Face weathered, body indistinguishable. A future meeting of passing strangers; Unsuspecting thoughts shall stray;
A simple flinch, and you will know . . . only talonous arms, and bleeding fangs.
A Daily Procrastination
We got in the car and drove. We drove like the drive was endless, the mile markers loosing count and importance. We were out to escape . . . to escape what? Shopping malls, careers, and society were our predators, but we had an advantage . . . disregard. The highway lost its lanes, and we lost ourselves, the nameless roadside fields and badlands being overpowered by the infinite strength of the forest. Stopping at unfamiliar places with unfamiliar faces, only to reassure ourselves of the unknown we were striving for. To the forest we went, to the spring water and the dirt roads, the roads that had avowed defeat to the forests so long ago.
The green tinted dusk of the forest welcomed our trespass, and the engine cut, along with our ties to society. We walked the familiar path with unfamiliar minds. The tourist paths tattered with the abuse of all that the regulars took for granted. We discovered for ourselves what kept these trees alive, we walked as if we were the pioneers of this wood, and we stopped at the waters edge.
We lost ourselves in the water, the briskness of its bite, and we breathed the cool mist of summer. Disregard was our escape. Society’s threat of abandonment has no effect on those who had never welcomed it. Cities were leveled, cars were crushed. Society was flattened with the silent flow of the water. We found ourselves suddenly removed from the world, and living upon a planet, greater than anything society could imagine. The dirt was our city, the tree’s our skyscrapers, and the clouds our spirits, drifting along in breaths of wisps upon the summer’s breeze. The hours slowed, relaxing their grip upon our existence. The planet slowly moved through the astral plane, and time was no more. Our time was only the present, our position in this oval around the sun. The endless progression of the present was our escape from the future, and our homage to the past. And the sun sank low, filling the forest with golden beams of light, stretching across the vast distance from the horizon and to our eyes. We knew the reason, and we felt the meaning, and with a somber acknowledgement of our only link to society, the engine roared.
We passed the unfamiliar places, and we began to see the faces of the ones we had successfully forgotten. We stared at what the world knew as existence, and marveled at its ignorance, and at the secret we had discovered. The world could not touch us now. We were not above them; we were gone altogether, living in a world which they would never know. The stars hung above society that night, and only we could see our secret in them . . . and only we could see them . . . . . . .
Concord
Delve into my waters. Lose yourself in my wavering mirrors of expectations, As you flail towards my secrets. Survive in my gales, My crushing pressure, And the consuming dark. Dive my trenches, Panic in the solitude, Squirm in the caress of my tide. Spiral into my depths . . . Lost wanderings in a dense surrounding.Give yourself to me, In my deepest cavern. I will feel you writhing, Total and numb consumption. Tempt yourself to touch the mouth of this flood, The tendrils of my heart reach deep beneath this sea. Submit to my enveloping form, The brutality of our embrace . . .
These frozen depths, your anesthesia . . . Your submission . . . My deliberate intent . . . Ravage, embrace. Your utter defeat . . . The endless fissures . . . Swan dive that pool . . . and make it look good.
So there I was again, lost in those eyes. She fluttered them and glanced back into my own, I was done for. I knew this place, between a cliche of any two undesireable choices, well, i suppose, not exactly. At least one of my options was everything i've ever wanted, it's the action of doing it that has always been my concern. So much to think in just a seconds time, how is any man able to judge the situation that quickly. My greatest fear has always been acting the fool, and as irony has a way of doing, acting the fool has been the story of my life. So what to do now, go all in and taste her sweet breath, or was that glint in her eye just another of my misinterpretations? If only the mind had a kill switch.
Her glance skewed sideways, I had waited, and, no suprise to me, she conceded no clues of her thoughts towards what was, unfortunatly, another passed moment of no event. For being such a smart guy, I sure had no clue what do now. The longer I wait, you see, the more I think, and all that thought eventually manifests itself into the voice of reason, screaming either/or choices in my ear, chasing away the already fleeting moment . So which will it be? The decision isn't the hard part, that comes easy, I had seen the answer in her eyes, it's how you go about it that's always eluded me.
Our eyes back in each others gaze, another pause, another moment. Where are my words? A language with so many expressions cannot possibly be this inadequate. What is it that every other man says in this place that wins him a trophey of the night, while i can't even muster words worthy of a consolation prize? "Look at you" i think, "you're amazing," if only i could figure out the right way of following up with what i really want to say. But what do I want to say? I'm not here for conversation am I? The only hint i have of her silence: maybe she's already made this choice, and given up on words for the same reason I cannot find any, there are no words to say, only lips to be touched.
Words spit from my tounge, just one more second of delay, just one more second to think, to amuse myself with this unbearable contemplation. The words are empty, cold, base. Letters jumbled together, no sentance holds meaning here.
But oh how hard it is to move into that space just beyond this moment of contemplation and into the region where what will inevitably happen happens, the results so elusively unpredictable. If only I had stitched a conversation towards some assuring sign from her, conversing is beyond me now, i'm faltering and i know it.
I throw it all away with a blink and reassess the situation in that blunt methodology of logic which always reveals the obvious truth. I glance the moment, her body, her hand in mine, it all tells of door number one, but there, in that darkest glint of her pupil i see my own humility, my own illusion which this could all very well be; door number two can never be tossed aside so easily.
Our hands search within each others, again, again. Its time to put an end to this mangled attempt of my conscious. That glint in her eye; I can only hope that all of this has ammounted to a shimmer in my own.
Her breath so near, those persistant eyes, there is no choice now, only the adreneline of carrying out my scheme, my hope, my last dying chance at her heart. Her eyelids bat shut, my own take a second to realize her lips calmly parting, her breath held in equal suspense to mine.
The sweet caress of her tounge.
Sissy and the Partial Cause
View My Guestbook
Sign My Guestbook
Email: dyrdex@hotmail.com
