Every thing

It used to be about Other Things
It was always about 'other things'.

The more you think about It,
the more It thinks about more.

Stare long enough at any thing
and you lose all light discrimination
inside those black-hole pupils.

It has been said things couldn't be worse-
something about change, smaller
but felt the same with more things
and blame.

It was cluttered with chatter,
static, white noise, white holes
and light bounces off rubber words.

If you blink now,
it will never change.
Time wiggles out of every thing.


Painting by Thomas Wijck (c. 17th century), Alchemist in his study with a woman making lace, uploaded by Chemical Heritage Foundation [Public domain or CC BY 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Benefits of Oatmeal

Murder with breakfast, a sig alert for a fatality on the 5

before noon, then murder at dinner, leftovers again

as my heavy head hits the pillow-

Murder one-more time-a crime scene.

Alibi? Where was I? Lying low, while racing through thoughts,

I can feel my pulse-and stop and start-and I wonder,

am I feeling empathy? Guilty? Ceaseless. Peaceless.

Is this some sort of social

conditioning or mental shampoo?

We have all been too close to death

by now to tell each other Murder is not new News.

Another full round moon awaits

ahead. Some body’s namesake, a chunk off

The old rock.

There is a natural selection, population control,

denizens of indifference, disinterest, in de-

sensitizing the kind man.

Now Brand New! Tried and True!

Oatmeal is good for your heart.

It’s better with bananas-if you do not mind starch

All day strong on mushy trails while mixing

Cement for filling ruts.

Routines, like rituals, are set-up hopefully.

Warm and heavy, we live despite ourselves

simply not wanting to die.

The rest is bleeding out,

One drop per second

or all the mushy stuff

That caulks our gaps and seals our

fate, satisfied

Until tomorrow.

Painting by Willard l. Metcalf, The ten cent breakfast, 1887 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.

First things Last

Attracted to the outfit at first,

we eat with our eyes first,

we taste and extract flavour 

from smell first

Impressions last.

To start, somewhere, set up things outside

and around your space.

In the end, what comes out

all started inside with

No-things.

The words, the scene, an act,

the play, will write itself

when it is right.

When emulation is enrapt with

blending in

costumes and charades

fade to black back in.

Practice makes no promises.

Barefoot, one can learn to feel the heat,

through the sole.

Headstrong and radiant,

the title will fit the work.  




Painting by Rembrandt, 'Man in Oriental Costume' (1632) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Time upon a Once

Progress by definition
has no placement, is no place,
no locale to inhabit, no direction to aim for,
shortened sight, trendless, segmented to an incident
on a banded ray, a spot and notch,
and they still say
'walk this line', don't trip
despite all the circular patterns and
symbols you see, dashes and
overlapping and Venn
diagrams likeness and loveless
line segments that define outcasts and
all the infinite otherness of else.

The atom and Adam were the building blocks,
it was no coincidence that all heavenly bodies
are round,
potentially the more microcosmic the cell,
the larger the body can be.
Conversely, the more macrobiological
cells seem to align and connect
the more progress
feels familiar
this
Eve-
ning

thru

crystal eyes-

ation.

Progress was just
beyond the horizon

as if it were somewhere we could

sea.


Painting By Florence Vernon (Flickr) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

small hands grasping

Felt in the;
rising waters, smelt the burning bridges,
and earth shaken, we stirred.

Even with
all the experiences compiled and stacked up
neatly, labeled by section Gee through Oh
led us to speculate that all evidence was in,
led us to believe that the climate was changing
from what it was,
relative to our great-grandparents,
who lived through some such seasonal disaster
which meant-unpredictable-like problem children
also called
the worst disaster ever (recorded).

And happily after, we can only guess and check
the proofs, taste them for saltiness and watch
the dough rise after we kneaded so much bread
we leave crumbs from the crust
and consume our dumpling mid-
holes
with famished greed, a need to know more,
they add whine and tears.

The ocean was here,
the forest was there
the desert underneath
the seas in skies,

all knotted together with time holes
meant to entangle
flapping gills and arms
but we cannot move
we can no longer breathe
in this sphere
where we pivot one side
of day, the metronome counts down
impressing the wait
on Archimedes lever, impressing the significance
of the date, history made an impression
never remembered the seine before dusk.

The lines have been drawn and tossed out
on tiny planes with too small hands

decades tick us off like second helpings,
we root around for origin, more meaning
ungraspable, unfathomable in Astronomical Units
where impossible came through like starlight
and the concept of climate,
they way things were and should be
for-ever,
as if this were a personal experience
that could;
assure us, prepare us, predict, proclaim, four-
warn, shadow, ground, father, runner, tell-
For
all time,
from no presence of permanence
nailed down.

None could
"handle time on a grand scale."
One would only
assume the worst.


Painting by Claude-Joseph Vernet [Public domain], 'A storm on the Mediterranean coast' (1767) via Wikimedia Commons.

Plea bargain

Their life’s journey is a treasure quest,

tough to solve for any X

with all the mortal obstacles.

They hunt for hints by feeling

for warmth on fingertips, and continents.

Not coming near a single solid clue

that was graspable within 

the fingered seams of coast.

Their tokens stacked tall,

They have amassed considerable ease

and yet

Nothing seemed more natural

Than making maps with more

movable lines, theoretical angles

and following the footsteps before

like ants

Inevitable colonizing, war was natural.

The wrong place at the right time.

Mountains make them move another way,

the learning left no trace

Of the gilt progress. 

Image credit(ed) By Jacob d'Angelo after Claudius Ptolemaeus[1] Nicolaus Germanus (www.polona.pl), Cosmographia , 1467 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.