Blind i

Losing one's eyesight is the prelude to
insanity,
indirectly.
The words lie there, lined and
blocked,
and the Brain knows what to do,
but can no longer sharpen
the peripheral
imagery with ease.
Poor lighting perhaps
not more than denial
that it was all a blur.

My grandfather had Alzheimer's,
I used to think it was called 'Old Timers'.
My grandmother got glaucoma,
we don't know when it started,
nevertheless
we never saw each other's point of view.
Makes me wonder which is worse...
I think up and makeup
for fading memories, visions,
and finally, recall, I remember
what I came here to say-I now see
Time erases All



Image credit By Internet Archive Book Images [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Hot thick air

One cannot, or should not
argue with Stupid.

Or is that a bad word-too-

the argument proceeds as follows:

Mountains may-be moved one grain at a time,

Rocks don’t roll,

alone, but may-be take a tumble

for a slide.

Downhill,

they had brain damage, self-induced,

how to be mad from up here?
It is supposed to be sad, but they are not
missing
what they never had. 

They can no longer help themselves

along. I wish I could, sometimes

I am livid with stupidity,

it makes me mad.

Before I recall-I predict.

It was made-up
of all short-term memories,

cluster-plucked

for the littlest of minds

for the tiniest of bodies,

for the biggest disappointment

of intellectual potential or IP,

as in A.I., a.k.a. Artificially Inherited traits.

I’ll take it from here-

I have built my own family, twisted the DNA

around counter-wise.
A mutation is the adaptation of one

alone.

 “The decrease in instincts which are hostile and arouse mistrust—and that is all our ‘progress’ amounts to—represents but one of the consequences attending the general decrease in vitality: it requires a hundred times more trouble and caution to make so conditional and late an existence prevail. Hence each helps the other; hence everyone is to a certain extent sick, and everyone is a nurse for the sick. And that is called ‘virtue.’ Among men who still knew life differently—fuller, more squandering, more overflowing—it would have been called by another name: ‘cowardice’ perhaps, ‘wretchedness,’ ‘old ladies’ morality.'”

— Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols

Painting Master of the Female Half-Lengths, c. 16th century in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Lie Claim

As far as policies go,
Honesty was the one underwritten in blood.

After all the lies and liars,
both black and white,
I read-in plain ink
that the selfish gene-takes over
all of us.
Altruistic illusions of gene-rosity
have delusions of granduer, like Welcome signs
in kingdom come.

Lies lead to more lies like
mitochondria and kudzu.
Entanglement and estrangement are different versions
of the same (k)not.
As an only child with given chromosomes from unknown
x’s,
I feel more than a tad teal
in a pond full of swans.

They all lie and I recognize these
traits. We learn to float.

With two eyes, ten reasons,
heads or tails,
what was mine is yours,
two cents for a back scratch.

Do animals lie? I asked him just
yesterday. He says they just don’t
tell the whole truth.
I recall the fox, the raccoon and he smiles,
conceding
finally, my point-even
when there is nothing to gain.
There is always an angle he adds.

Nice girls never finish anything.

I wanted to get around to
telling the whole thing;

I smell it all over him, breath and body,
under all the covers
I see the disappointment in my daughters' eyes,
I should have been more-
I see my sons deflective shield,
I should have protected him more-
I see my mothers obsession with self,
always wanting more-
I see a step-and a push-
a trip, and fall.
I gather things, gingerly, trying to lose my place,
because these truths were below me now-
I find myself
dancing around the pyre of pants
like the moth
I am drawn to be.

Those genes look as if they were made for you,
he complimented me.
But honestly, he knows
they were handed down this way,
ripped with holes
and a little too long.



Painting by Edgar Degas [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

“Beam me up, Scottie!”

He was changed

in more ways than they will say.

A year away will do that to a man.

Genes are the conditions we share,

more than hand me down denim.

It seems seven is a stellar symbol

to mark the rate of change.

(Inspired by forthcoming study and official announcement by NASA)

Photo credit By NASA/Robert Markowitz [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Bare witness

It was miraculous-

the way life gets to see itself

Change

genetics 1-oh-1

the children brought here

with great struggle

and left to die

without effort

holes on hearts and all

last names

shorter than

last words.




Watercolor by William Blake c. 1794 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Elementary Watsons

Is it possible to have a predisposition to being irritated easily, is a short fuse hereditary, like being hairy? More probably-
it is a terminal condition of impatience with symptomatic rashiness,
hence the genetic reference.

It makes sense to source all flaws, same as weeds,
at the root. And again, this is more akin to original sin than I have ever been.

Ring around the Rosey, duck, duck goose, and the movements in musical chairs, the play of blame games...

We offer colorful complaints, abstain refrain and cherish precious twirled excuses,
tangled nooses for those ties that bind us back to our Pollyana
new Cleo tides. Skipping generations like stones on shallow surfaces,
convenience has been woven in.
In stitches of fabric-ated fusion by base pairs.



FOTO:FORTEPAN / Gál László [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.