Data and Dust

Be real.
Do you see yourself-
or is that too close to
the source
of your own breath, body
and a-scent
afloat
and uncontainable-

Yet you try.

What do you mean
by that, when you say
portrayal in lieu of betrayal?

Whose idea was it?

Could we share this notion
like an opinion?

Whose line is this one
with no name before the semi-
colon?

This audience participates
and encourages
the foot-notations.

Closed quotes leave no
space for interpretation.

Where have all the dial tones gone?
Open lines have all been taken
for granted.

If we pretend we appreciate
the little things,
will all the bigs things
call our bluff for the
precarious positions
we attempt to balance
all our collected hopes
upon and continuously
adjust our appearance for
others real life,

meanwhile,
erosion is always itself,
revealing.





Painting by Odilon Redon, c. 1696  [Public domain].

A turning of the Blind I

It would be
an act of empathy
if only
we were able to turn a blind eye
inward
when feeling
our way around
soft dirt
and sharp diamonds
with only our bare hands.

We focus
on bettering ourselves
Daily
instead of making ourselves
feel
better
daily.

From the first mud pie
we are taught to make
to the first brick of the fortresses
we build around our heart
to keep out
more than intended
being
the eager makers we have made
ourselves
to be-

merciful

we
wage battles,
venturing outside our dwellings
for a time
feeling our way
a-round
the perimeter
tempted to go
as far as the I
can see.

Eventually,
we arrive with new visions
and
without any tangible evidence
of our travels.

Painting by Paula Modersohn-Becker, 'Self-portrait with hat and veilt' c. 1906-07 in [Public domain].

Episodic

My dreams had something (important) to tell me
last night.
And on the rare occasion the
Sandman sits down,
crosses his legs
and heart,
promises not to take more than a
Soul, tells a story, and
I get up
before he can get to the point-
of dreaming...

You know, some people believe that dreaming
is reality and the Real World
is make-believe,
comprised of the stories we tell
Ourselves-
True enough
to imagine.

Have you noticed that some people
live for their dream
even when they don't understand
its language.

If we dream we have it All
and get it,
would losing it
become a dream?

Between shades of light and dark,
shadow and body,
we collect impressions of what time it is,
subconsciously we know
all the has been dreamt before.

The point of the dream
the Sandman said is
that it never ends with
Us.

Painting by Franz Marc, 'The Dreaming Horse' c. 1913 [Public domain].

Diurnal disbursements

Two night
terrors in a row
and one begins to feel the mixed reality
of day-dreams, what seems
light,
the photosphere,
assembles into bands of time
where body temperature correlates to color
and we are confined to a range,
endlessly scanning.

It seems the sensual burdens never cease,
perpetually sentenced to fixed perception
without the proper nouns, one feels
naked and utterly unequipped to resist
wishes and wherewithals,
comfort zones and one peace of mind.
In our comas, we can only succumb
to this and that-all
that we tell ourselves about infinities.

One often feels a strong momentum,
as if taken
on this ride around the clock, resigned to
eternally count our blessings.
All the nearby ember bodies are following us
and one feels curses, radiant heat, distinctly
a gravitation toward the bonfire sun
where horrors have no dark bodies
in which to hide.

Although, it is never the same as being awake.




Artwork (drawing and watercolor) by Odilon Redon, c. 1903 in[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Spies like Us

Confess?
Yes, I made it all up.
All of me that is-
whom I thought others could see
who I was
supposed to be, it was all me.

I suppose I owe
a debt to society, hand
manmade anxieties, cultured milk, hormones
and other treated things thought to help
growth by imagination and fermentation.

I coincide with these memories relived anew, you know
dwelt on the detailed fantastical, adorning
all embroidery and embellishments, lacy
fine threads that make pretty.
We are all make believe
and under cover, ourselves in hiding.

The body still
occupies us.

Painting by John Downman, Robert, Duke of Normandy in prison (1779) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A big mouth is needed to swallow the multiverse

Is the multiverse unlikely, meaning unlikable to us,
because liking multiples of the same things 

seems all too impersonal?

Do you ever get the impression that we all concoct alter egos 

because these creative blends of us, 

seem more colorful, more pleasing as when we put on airs or

our Sunday best?

In the spirit of good versus evil, 

it is in the realm of dreams that that wishy-washy haze happens
to occur to us naturally, like swirls, repetitively, relevant, fractal and

speaking to us in a language we have forgotten
but makes perfect sense.

While conversely, 

the domain of fright lurks in the mulberry shade, 

she had red nectar dripping from yellow teeth,
thick with motive 

and a mare, a black unicorn
rides across the endocarpous venom of night.

Aha! By chance

what ever shape it was, a light shone on Idea, 

inhabitants of both Inverses,
yet you are the only connection
to Brilliance.

Fear- as in pure concentration on failure,

shall break focus of the glass eyed many, 

the multitudes, multitudinous, 

appear as a collective blur, 

there must be just one
that blinks...

Inside,  

i seek connection and likeness in this

one way reflection. From inside mind shells,

these walking souls on water wheels,
were still

spinning too fast
and wet behind the ears.

Painting By Alice Bailly (self-portrait, 1917) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Believing in Ghosts

A nice break 

to heal...

The real world awaits

-our authentic attention-

not to mention

(Your) Life is not on(the)line

& is most simply an Alt. identity; 

salty audience driven arrogance

boasting and posting 

egotistic in-

significancies

(please)

 

Pixelated phantasies thrive

in social (media) circles,

round and empty 

vacuum souls.

Dive deeper into delusion,

alternate versions of you illusory

packaged for others to see,  

so-Pretty-are all empty (boxes),

apparitions inside avatars

for show.

Friends, 

Floating in your mainstream

is not what it may seem

carried with the flow

surface deep on Lethes 

and Styx. 

Not only ghosts 

pass through doors

of intangibility.  

Painting by Théodore Chassériau [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Impression: Make or Take

There is what we see
                                  externally
And what we think of what we see
-internally.
Indivisible, one
Being
shaped by exterior circumstance
molded into our interior meaning
Livelihood
Will we survive, we Will.
Pursue. Ensue.
For a time, from this view,
from here you see-
Not the same as I do.
cogito ergo sum
Visualize wisely then,
this becomes more vivid
clearly
one Beings
                   eternal reality
fixated to fill in focus.



Painting By Anna Palm de Rosa (1859-12-25/1924-05-02) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Imagination

Fractals, for example,

are the most simplified demonstration,

visually

of why we Science

and by social connectivity via

organic growth

by presenting pixelated predictability

and also string theory

we try to collect the dots.

Overlapping these

is closer to any

one point

in Reality

or limited by spatio-temporal 

relativity.

I agree, conceptually, anyway.

It is wise to fantasize

about things like

algorithmic altruism

and kosmic-karmic-knowing-ness.

                        Besides, it feels good to stretch

and probe those idle lobes

and reach with our soul, consider, ponder, wonder

and flex our potential realities

Into conceptual theories or infectious ideas

ad infinitum.

Wouldn’t you concur-

Nothing is better than momentum. 

Animation image by By Biajojo (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

This Tragic Lovelife

Because I love my life,
all my secret dreams are shadowed in my reality Now
and I see This-a secret I keep,
I feel its loss and know This solidifies This sentiment.
I cherish the fragility
manifest in created destinies, like these
small acts greater than one's capacity,
to acknowledge
-This is Happy-
and Then
there is little me in big denial
smiling from year to year
at the missed opportunity
of being present-ly and ceremoniously
single.

Because I hate myself,
all my good intentions rot and fester in Dis-regard,
and I see that I am not alone in this,
that makes me yearn for more silence
and To Be Better
than I am
to me
We should agree to disagree
like both sides of me
in equality.


Image By Currier & Ives [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Little big things add up

You count the ants,
I will count the stars
The sheeple will graze in between.

The sun will highlight
optical illusions,
as color-wheel real.
The moon casts shadows
on our little delusions,
fear reigns supreme
in dream.

Our being
Here
while pointing to a view
too minute to see audibly
too vast for me
to grasp without the imaginary,
makes dreams with my reality.




Image credit Popular Science Monthly V. 29 (1886), thru telescope image via Wikimedia Commons.

Lucid Lines (Tanka)

soft edges dream state

pretending you are the star

behind the curtains

your understudies perform

the lead in reality

Image of painting by Edgar Degas, Four Ballerinas on stage (c.1885-90) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Seeing the forest for the fantasy

I have watched like an arrested witness,
                                                   I have observed, from inside the bubble,
silenced from interruptions,
                                                   the echoes of my thoughts reverberating,
muffled and bouncing, hollow all around me.

A slip, a fall, down a tumultuous trail that unwinds,
                                                  sucked through a straw of destiny's tube.
If you can conceive it-
                                                  you should believe in burst bubbles,
suspended amid weightless fantasy
                                                  land, ushered by passing spires,
reality-threatening a poke
                                                 around the rocky fables.
Wishes evaporate into splashes,
                                                  hope heavy plummets,
hydrogen bound heavy,
                                                 drowning in carbonic dead wait-
Oh, if you could see the view-
                                                  if you only knew...
Up the boughed birch the searcher barks,
                                                 mocking today while dangled legs,
pins pricking shins begins,

                                                 Dreams fall as rain in bulging bursts
drop-
lets,
where mystic wishes, with thin traces leave wisps and wishes,
                                                  elements evaporating before my eyes,
rolling on and back.
                                                  Walking on wine,
Turning truths into tales,

                                                 Deep, in the fabled forests of immaculate youth.

Composed 6/7/15.
Image By Ida Rentoul Outhwaite (From: 'The Enchanted Forest', 1921) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Waterfall Fairy, from 'The Enchanted Forest', 1921.