Break an egg

Lucky to be alive, I have been.

Though, you know, it is possible

for Heroes to choose wrong.

I've seen

Chance has no memory of why 

me, or some such silly magic potion.

No body's in motion.

Keeping warm, for themselves. 

Believe you me, that which we are

we were here

filling our thanks.

The people making times I was excused...

inconsequentially

conditional

to now. 

How my mother put me on the bow of a small sailboat

in rough seas as a baby,

my father ran over me in their 1969 Camaro,

a drummer man overdosed lying on top of me, 

molested by my stepdad's badmate's husband,

while his two children slept nearby

made a bottle of Advil not enough medicine 

to take the pain away, but made the swelling ego

go down 

the tank.
Man. That was the first of many lasts.

Locked up 'Crazy', thrown out into the foster ghetto,

those taught me math and theoretical calculations.

The great earthquake tried to swallow me whole,

the small town ate me alive, diced me up in tiny pieces,

to spread around liberally until I could do no more harm

tastefully.

To be

T-boned at 90, spun into a tree while driving in a hurricane, 

broken down so many times in BFE, broke and down 

in BFE, driving drunk, or high, or unlicensed, never uninsured

hitchhiking my way around, kidnapped, poisoned, toxic shock,

pneumonias, ruptured appendix, a defunct pancreas,

weary grindstone, the corrupt gall cannot stand fat, or chit chat,

for that matter

black ice, the edges

all horizon thin,

but I keep winning, if that is what this is.

I need not know why

luck is a lady

random, like me. 

Glass making

All over the place

pour, poor women and wine,

overflown lips,

she sees her particulates

in liquid stains

held over old flames.

There is no innocent steam,

the trees that finally fell to timber

under scurrying winds collecting

clay clouds, pulling out roots

by the palmful in a disintegration of states.

She seemed mad.

That insistent sun rose its entitled torch,

humming, ho-hum-mums-the-blue iris to day, to

dew, and do the birds hone a tone in

one place, canary, and crow

cemetery or church, middle C

night and gale mocking us.

She giggles at others tripping over

stone heads

and bumping toes on crosses;

no body ever saw her,

smiling some where upon

she cried upon recognizing herself

as naked truth.

It hurts to linger too long

exposed against acclimation.

We shatter in the cold.

We were always restructuring and stacking

cardboard and compressing pixels

over old times, keeping alive,

ashes and splashes

mixing and folding us back in.

This con-trap-she's in,

clearly cracking

from such extremes

of rising and falling

body temperature.

Such is life.

Photo By SMU Central University Libraries [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Time Leapt

I vaguely remember arguing with an accountant
(or mathematician)
about reconciling the Years End with the Leap Second
(or loss carry overs and off-setting capital Gains)
which of course led onto greener pastures,
futures, and master plans
such as the old erratic Julian calendar,
disappearing days, the value of time;
since time is money, paid hourly,
benefits and salaries
traded for living richly-

But, I bet his figures are better than
all my Reckons added up, The ante:
don't gamble if you do not count
on losing.

We've agreed to disagree
semantically about 'Balance'
and whose 'books' are better,
whose red-what-
Whether time matters more
for some
time we've known is not a matter
of physically covering ones assets,
or stock splits-

And yet, this hiccup, jump,
an algorithmic appliance,
rounding off and ballpark-
GAP
brought us back around to black holes
(and stellar bureaucracy)
being the center of each universe,
resistance, gravity, monogamy, and
uneven solutions such as slices of pi
or other dark matters where time is converted
instantaneously beyond what we can conceive
in a mind, in a hand, in a life
time-any-thing-more
slips through the cracks,
between fingertips, spills out, tells
all to watch, wait, rely, count on,
change, coinage, patronage and no matter what-
we were never Here too long to be wrong.

Still, I will
deny any transpositional errors or leaping
to conclusions. Definitively:
broken down seconds were
never more
than
firsts.

All accounts have been settled.
The time is Now.


Painting by Nicolas-André Monsiau (c. 1800) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A handle on mesmerism

Just so you know, we were right

to suspect any consonant

that needs a vowel to back it up.

Quintessentially; quasi, quickness, quiet,

quarks and quantum theories,

all innocent until proven otherwise.

We were correct when we assumed

gravity would keep it all together,

but neglected to factor its distributive

properties & aggressive enforcement of

simultaneous eminent domain properties,

allegedly, stayed comfortable until ejected.

We were on the right track,

until it went-left-us

dusting prints and collecting categories.

We were seekers and askers

that could spare no time to wait

for the reply. Why, we all ready

knew, light travels by choice, fades,

in the dark effervescent legacy of We

picks its photonic path of preference or

-least resistance.

We were getting somewhere

further, expanding our reach and

grasp at the fading universe

whose tension untangles energy

by itself through kinesthetics.

We were playing with electricity

and shocked to see, we were the end

that shorted potentiality

with our beautiful brevity.

We were wrong all along

about gravity and letter pairs,

the proof was static, hanging, ringing,

crushing

all in the heavy air.

Artists conception By NASA/JPL-Caltech [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. From wiki:

This artist's conception illustrates a Jupiter-like planet alone in the dark of space, floating freely without a parent star. Astronomers recently uncovered evidence for 10 such lone worlds, thought to have been "booted," or ejected, from developing solar systems.

The planet survey, called the Microlensing Observations in Astrophysics (MOA), scanned the central bulge of our Milky Way galaxy from 2006 to 2007. It used a 5.9-foot (1.8-meter) telescope at Mount John University Observatory in New Zealand, and a technique called gravitational microlensing. In this method, a planet-sized body is identified indirectly as it just happens to pass in front of a more distant star, causing the star to brighten. The effect is like a cosmic funhouse mirror, or magnifying lens light from the background star is warped and amplified, becoming brighter.

Add ages

Don't let them tell you

You had just one job,

they always expected more.

They say, Just be yourself,

as though given a choice.

Stand up for yourself.

Don't believe enough is ever enough,

it is only enough.

The first bird and the last owl

awake

are equal aviators

afflicted with (chronic) fomo-curious-itosis.

Silver bullets and linings should help save us

before things change anymore.

We have nothing better to do

than keep busy, make haste and donate

to causes

we make no effect on reason

such as why the wherewithall has

deteriorated and became dilapidated into

three-wheeling metallic adages.

Don't ask. Don't listen. Don’t look Back.

Don't do them.

Reason is revived with hind-

sight. You will see later.

The Truth

will set you free

to follow your heart,

to do what you love,

to be mindful,

to forgive and forget

Thyself

and rest in peace

lying down.

Take it.

Your Time

is up.

Painting by Édouard Manet [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Decorating mud cakes

Apathy spreads so easily,

thriving amongst any localized

biodiversity.

Ears sprout in fields from yellow seas

of mono-cropping. The wind grinds down

our meals into muted mush, nourish us,

the sun glows, chicken,

adapting itself in ambiance to the best

propagation of pessimism and

immunology in world-wide webs.

Saturation is more suitable for delusional

desires by dreamers who water down rainbows

as casualty.

There is no wonder

anymore.

Where does the marrow go

when our spines shrivel...

Clouds cure any silly thoughts of happy

or stupid glee, i.e. beauty. Muddy skies slog unmixed 
clods and none bother asking why

Life continues this way.

Over our heads. 
We would never see any reason

for it coming

down

in all shades of brown and grey.
We wont look up. 

Painting By Rogers, Gilbert (MBE) [Public domain], c. 1919 via Wikimedia Commons.

Hand me downs (II)

The local train blares by

to cause alarm

although familiar, futility gains strength with steam.

With this new engineer at the helm from the rear

he calls *Attention* to his pressures and passages

as though he

the town crier knew the time

anymore.

This whine is the bell vibrating raw gravity-

                           hard to see

coming straight, near, far, coming, going...

All the rest is color coded for us,

              lights and trigger switches

are on the outside, green and red, black and blue

Stop and Go for Simons followers.

The straight path, as the crow flies,

is soft and well worn, even in the sky

                     drawing diameters

in his radii, he is right on a smooth track.

To make it back home for dinner, meatloaf.

To rely on regular things such as

weak forces, sympathy and cacophonies.

Painting by Frits Thaulow, The train is arriving (1881) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.