Archive for the ‘Wondering’ Category

Unfocused and Unbound, staring, not seeing.

There is a distant space that grabs at my attention, pulling my sight towards it; through my Eyes my Soul flows. Out, flying Out to meet my vision’s gravity, pulled out of Here and Now drawn to invisibility.
My Eyes are magnetisized. Seeing; traveling so far out that I return through the back of my head. Always it is quicker to retrace the light years than pass through my mind. Inside is more distance than all of Outerspace, Innerspace is far more of a vacuum. So much empty area; floating, gently colliding and rebounding.
A dark maze with but one end: down the rabbit hole to the fields by the river Illeism to the mountains against the stars, the land of frost and forest to the tip top where the still lake is a silent mirror. Up here there is no wind, up here the only sound is the sound you bring with you. Shout and the lake shatters the stars and you fall up to meet the broken pieces of the sky to fall back again to a plain surrounded by cliff walls. You awake to where you were all along, the Here and Now, only you have been absent, on a journey light years away to the edge of the universe where it bends back on itself and you ended up lost in your own mind and only just now retraced your steps.


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I can feel it building, damming up in my head, ready to spill and thrill and destroy and, and, and… I was reading Bukowski today, probably not the best thing to be reading. He has a way of making a good day bad. Not the happiest of people but that is what makes him so compelling I think, here is somebody who has it worse than you, who can make your good day shit and you love him for it. Says something about you doesn’t it?

All these double letters in the middle of these words which are completely meaningless and what was I saying?

It happens sometimes, after a long period of no text, of a blank page and a full mind. It happens that all these thoughts build up and overflow into one-another. The girl I am fucking, the girl I used to fuck, the dog and her bad habits, the job I don’t have or the one I do. Till it becomes one big ball of dog-fuck-girl-job-fuck-etc. In my head and NOTHING makes any God Damned sense. She doesn’t like it when I say that; God Damn. It bothers her, as if God listened to me and would personally damn that which I condemn. As if I haven’t fallen out of His sight.

It’s spilling out of me now, into my fingertips and onto the page. A giant ball of damned thoughts and forgotten essays on the vulgarities of a meaningfully meaningless life. And if that makes any sense to you than you are worse off than I am and better for it too.

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I walked along the beach tonight, that defining edge between two worlds. Instead of feeling dwarfed by the hugeness of the ocean or the vastness of space with its myriad of stars which I could not name, instead of being made small by all this enormity, I felt like a giant, a colossus.

I felt the power of God and was not afraid for it was the same power he had given us, give to Man.

I am Man and Man has conquered both the sea and the land and one day space too will fall under our husbandry. And even if I had made a single misstep and fell to the currents and the larger predators of the sea Man would still prevail. I did not feel small, as I suppose I should have, instead I laughed, not in the face of God but with Him

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A thousand points of light blinking on and off in my mind tonight.

Drying chalk in a circle. Collected ravings in my mind.

My pen records these meaninglessness’s (whatever that means).

Words and phrases jump and twitter in my sleep confused, rest deprived brain; half-remembered thoughts, snatches of paragraphs, bits of whimsy. The flotsam of a never quite mind.

Rest! Rest! I burn with the need of it, the lack of it.

A million points of light off and on in my mind tonight. The static of space, the language of stars hisses across my brain keeping me from sleep. The questions and half-formed statements of the future taunt and dance and laugh and SILENCE! Its no use. What a small kindness sleep is.

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Poetry in motion;
Left foot first, then right.
Jaws drop and pants
Become uncomfortable
And embarrassing.
The sway of her hips
The play
Of fabric on skin,
The soft swish of her dress
Bunching and un-bunching,
And teasing.

In my mind she’s slowly revealing
All her most sensitive parts.
In my mind we’re just two
And the room is dim gloom
Slightly diffuse.
The play of fabric becomes
The play of hands.
Skin on skin,
Soft swishing becomes
Soft but slowly growing
Reaching a pinnacle
A climax.

But then she’s gone.
Around the corner
Or out of sight
And my hands rush to cover
My own
Growing embarrassment.

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Every monday it rains here
And on tuesdays it’s quiet.
Sundays are a sigh,
The calm before monday.
Fridays and saturdays are a flood
And the rest of the week is forgotten.
By the end of the month you wonder,
What will tomorrow bring?
By the end of the month you hope
Tomorrow brings a memory.
Not a sigh or rain,
Not a flood of unremembered days.

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Another airport bar, just after Christmas. A place of random open conversations; people you will never see again from places you’ve never heard of.
“Yeah? You know what I got for Christmas!? Zanex!”
The holidays always see such a rush of people. People who otherwise would not be flying. People who rarely leave their comfortable suburbanite dream.
Here is the real melting pot of our nation; the myriad of stops between “Here” and “There”, between comfortable home and, to some, a once-a-year destination. Across the bar someone laments a year they weren’t “There”, a year they missed,
“I wasn’t there… I don’t know what happened… They all hate me over there now.”
Still, there is something about these places, these never empty yet shortly lived in bar stools, these polished counter tops and harried bartenders. For as new and spotless as these places look there is a sense of use, of purpose.
“…I’ll have a Tubalow.”
“I guess they don’t want our business…”
“What can I get you?”
Well used and seldom unoccupied these places during the holidays. Everyone has their someplace to go, their someplace their from, their somebody waiting for them, their somebody to see; their something to say.
A faintly alluring feminine voice calls me, “Calling all passengers for Delta flight 95, services to LA and Hawaii, your plane is now boarding.”
I sigh, pay my tab and thank the cute bartender.
“Have a nice flight”, the ubiquitous phrase on everyone’s lips here.
I smile my appreciation, gather my things and head down the causeway. I too have my someplace to go. “Someplace”, no real home, no “from” just a destination; no one waiting for me, just a lot of people to see.
“Have a nice flight” indeed; I hate the hollidays.

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