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Wednesday, February 21, 2018

Baby Steps

Eventually, when you emerge into the world
find your two feet firmly tentative, shuffling
muffledly, Unleash your desire into the world recklessly
"walk", you think. (did you just command me?)

Your body, inexorably, acquiesced to motion,
your shoulders still stiff, ready to slump.
Pinpricks - like needles, accompanying sweat beads,
accumulate, accessorizing your neck hair.

Two hundred and six goodish bones, so many
specialised muscle tissues (find out which, yourself)
Limbs, skin, face hanging in the periphery,
won't let on the secret workings of their machinery.

Yeah you can learn lessons of what lies within
collect stories of how we work, when you observe a
cadaver, getting the royal dug-out treatment.
Innards laid bare, a post-person's ultimate unwitting surrender.


So I haven't made a journal-like entry on this blog for a long time. At some point I had decided to take off on a journey to 'live' my life and not chronicle it. I'm gonna refer to the entire intervening period as the Lost Weekend.

I used to journal before because it gave me a space to come into myself. To stretch within my skin and focus my vision through my eyes and breathe through my nostrils, etc etc, you get the picture. 

I clearly did not want to make the connection that I had lost a part of this peacemaking process w/ self during the Lost Weekend. One hell of a long lost weekend it was. Lost my mind, my money, my self, my way, started finding some things again. But I think I am finally ready to make that admission and that's why I'm here. 

Of course I revived this blog while I basked in all that internal turmoil (because, whichever way you slice it, fucking yourself up is the best way to stay right in the middle of the drama) and wrote poetry. Now, I am told by some people that this poetry is good. But of course, I have to remind myself that the people who reach out to tell me that it is good are the ones who liked it after reading. Not that I want or think it is even possible that *everybody* likes my work, but I would like that whoever likes it, has legit reasons for doing so, and identifies with it resoundingly. Just a few things I'd like, it's not too much to ask is it. 

So, while this will continue to be the place where I journal I want to move my poetry into a website. 

I don't want to stop, now that I have guided myself into this place where I can look at a revival of this space where I carry on my sometimes inane sometimes important, perhaps, profound dialog with self. 

But I only have myself to turn my head away from the distractions and look at the empty white space and cursor, and type. 

Here's to making your mind and body your friend. 


Sunday, November 26, 2017

Every House

Every house I ever entered
whether to live in or breathe of -
- awhile, I would keep trying
To find the cornermost corner,
At the angle furthest from
When you enter the door.

And then when I encountered
each such corner, I sat down
in the comfortable darkened edge
yet to see the light of knowledge
-That usually pervaded a house -
of who I was, when I entered it.

Yesterday was different.
I had set myself up to fail,
And found that my last corner
Had in turn, turned upon me.
I turned back from my corner
To face the rest of the room
And I was awash in light.

Wednesday, August 09, 2017

The Somersaulting Heart

I think of leaving all this behind

but the furthest that I’ve got

are peremptory boasts (a wish) that

my heart lies somewhere better.

Still, slow retreating steps’ll do;

hold me in better stead I guess

than going forth where I’m never true

a penny-counting half-witness.

A few days ago, a stab of jealousy -

like a poisoned dart - enveloped in me

a nice, deceiving warmth, you know

almost what they call ‘inner glow’.

It was at first, a fling with Art;

tho now I’d like to be committed.

The asylum’s not far, but my heart is flung

somersaulting away, all song and drama.

Saturday, June 24, 2017

Spud Piece

You enter the room

there are two chairs

one has a potato

you sit next to that one

you don’t happen to know,

what it’s for, how it’s this

Phenomenon (but just before

you said that; I stopped you).

The potato is alive.

no boo - not in the realm

of the Possessed, you just know

the vibe a living thing has.

But the truth is, the potato,

it’s me. I wish I was only

aloo-ding to a piece of fried me.

But i’m just a spotty spud.

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Roundabout Truths

If we can – freely –
admit to ourselves that the
Underprivileged automatically
lead more virtuous lives
and the righteous follow in file:

then we might suspend this
acting out we do in difficult ways;
misdirected (almost) always
on unsuspecting souls & elbows
[it’s a privilege to be unlovable]

Then we might even find ways
to answer the oldest question ever posed
How to pass the time? This time, with fewer scars;
who knows? We might even make ourselves

There’s virtue in being useful; mostly
it’s honest and has constructive results -
- usually. When I sit with my grandma a while
I feel I have been of some use.
And I pat my own deserving back for it.

Thursday, January 19, 2017

Witchful, Watchful

There she sits, always across
The room from me, distant
Enough that I can’t really tell
If she’s looking at me and smiling

Or if that wily smiling fetching
flirt is someone else’s to tackle,
for the moment. I gather, only
to disperse, my thoughts and fears.

Just so, her legs aren’t impossibly
Long; hair tousled in a fashionable way.
Smidge of ennui flickers on her face
I sigh; I rise to take her hand.

A dubious idea rather dismissed
ere I destroy her charmerie.
In my mind I blow her a kiss
her eyelashes acknowledge me softly.