28 July 2006

Paradiso und the Hassenpfeffer Altimeter

when will the flame break
and spare the good people it takes

Today was not a bad day, nor was it unkind or heated or many things. Many things have gone unsaid through many years, but to them whom I owe, I pay them rightly, pay them righteously. And this is not meant to be in a godlike manner, not with stiff tempest or shattering hail-like tears. What use is such effect. No, it is meant that they are to be given the grace and slow wax of true cordiality, the subtle warmth and tease. It's a cocaine abstraction, a summer phantom twilighting in the headlight wash. Such passivity is our winter, our barren gravitas blown through the green terraces.
And so they'll all build veiled little kingdoms on the petty, proper, pauper graves and they'll come forgotten to me asking for a simple hapless ray. Because I am. We all are in an eventuality, but then again there are only enough hope strings hung from the corpse that is the land. We cook our sacrifices in wars and holy, shambolic, godhead-bloodshed, like so many relieved columns pushing forward our eyes to the fronting gape of bluest lacquer, blackest ribboned, deeper vermillion gorged over each sky.
I am a plant, such silver branches are life I give to go as deep in earth as high above framing the world, this greater outer pin that I is. I am but a plant, a complex vessel full of frail tribulations, conjuring magic so scientific. I am but a plant, a tremble, treble leaf so green with vigorous pride of youth, but failing to find the converse mention of daring simplicity breathing in my stoma. I am open. I am open.

17 July 2006

Why Be Ahead When Ought Is Further South of the Sun

some things tie your life together
slender threads and things to treasure
days like that should last and last and last

The problem with aging, and being conscious of said aging, is the constant reminder and remembrance of major shifts in life that we all idly passed failing to realise just what it was we were buying in for at the time. Our very own psyches are nothing more than thinning spheres of vantages, losing detail with every spin while the winds speak their friction and coarse language of cold and loneliness and fear. All we have in the end, the small specks we define as personality, are just Monday's leftovers. This pantheon of ours is merely cast on a die, an evil wicked turn and our little lives may seem ever more poignant or featureless depending on the perspicacity of our own Van der Waals and eyes. May seem a little more horrible, a little less brilliant, a little more contagious, a little less sane. Oh, we are thriving, spinning on an edge of glass ceilings and wageless sins, how we do thrive and lie and dive and live. Odd they don’t sound the same, those, thrive being the very essence of living we think so clearly on in old morning showers of soap and lather tints. Just goes to show the lack of continuity between everything and the everything it represents, that which is and isn't being the same and not, the constant contradiction that always nudges that ol’ piece of grey matter lurching forward with every quantified leap we mark as achievement. I have achieved. Nothing great nor remarkable, even markable or marketable would be lovely, I assure you. But I have achieved, and always forget the fall of the step that left we on the sinister bank of such rubiconesque delineations, such masqueraded victories said of we. Last I checked, no one thought of me as one of them, us, or otherwise adverse fittings or stays keeping all this shite in check. My personal hell is my Holyland. Society, the vile tutor of all the chummy swimming rays. Society, the fearful republic that never thought me able to handle truth. Just the same I've long since thought truth was no different from rest of the grey din. But this is the tumbling friction, the momentary contact and exhale we lift each other from... lift like a fretful moment retracting saintly and slyly shrugging the whimper for a black and embered hmm. Lift, lift, lift, lift, lift. Even the improbable, nay, the impossible is possible, inevitable when the universe stands infinite in its infinity. How fortunate I don't care about being liked, not when falling means death and death means inevitable and inevitable means spinning and spinning means fury and losing and fading and paling and dreaming and sharing and serenading and breaking and loving and puncture and friction and heat and joy. That breathless, soft girl. Joy.