Dude, where's my car?

The usual parking spot
taken again!
It shouldn't bother me-
since these arrangements are all
temporary.
A reminder of routine,
a barb to burst the bubble
feathers to rustle and I was flustered
as I looked around to make sure I had
everything
worth stealing,
holding nothing of value but the health
to walk,
I locked the sad car
a block down the street
by the Montessori school-closed on Sunday.
I tried to shrug it off when looking behind me
I see history-
blinding me-
replayed out-a memory
in bursts of heliographic signaling.
The old apartment with an ex,
the sun glinting on the front window
of the dark living room, the two
fields below, the
dark stairwell in the middle,
the figures fighting blurry...
I know I am seeing too far
too vividly.
So I walked the other way,
               don't look back
again, I tell myself.
Turning the
corner
home
I wish I could forget such trivial things
such as where I am parked
or how I have lived elsewhere
too close to home.



Photo By Härmägeddon (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sere

Sere
see here,
it was hot.

Hotter than sin,
at November daybreak
and the swept sky revealed
traces, as wind,
Saint Ana blew through,
while the inferno loitered along
the way gathering a static, cult-ish
hung as tense air, sacrificing
the people clung to silence.

And as the details,
our stars bartered
over-night
over our dead bodies,
see here
some slept all the while
some wept themselves barren
and some became swept up by isms,
enrapt in labels, and role playing,
naming and claiming knowing,
the game goes on.
Rock.
Paper.
Scissors.

Sere and silent,
dumbfounded,
surrounding the crackling air-
This is where we
do not care
about whom you cannot touch
person-ally.
Such as the trim horizon
off in the distance,
taut sharply to keep apart
certain matters, reactions
into lumps of coal, carbon-copied
canaries as luminaries
See
we sing while we may
hear, cause for flight.

Somewhere over there
the water danced with a veil of flames,
the ice smoked with dramatic intention,
the clouds caused accidents low and high,
the land split open its molten chasm, hungry
to matter more.

See here
the red in the sky
is just a reflection...
Starting over.
This is how
Saints from below
wave their victory flames to Autumn.

Anew, we feed Prometheus who fumes immortality
burning his precious people
in the name of Pandora, igniting
fauna and flora to flee
anywhere less sere,
less here
threadbare and awestruck
like lightening.


Painting by Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Cosmicomics mesostics

                                     

                                        he with the papers blaCk and white

            way space was when the galaxies were fOrmed and

                                                                           Space was then through the point Space

         undeniable in the glow whereas events coMe

                                                                    flowIng down without

                                                                          Cement

                                                               being pOured 

                                                                    coluMn next to the other

                                                                     withIn

                                   the other seperated by blaCk

                                                    and incogruouS headlines

                                                                          ☼

                                                                unconscIous is

                                                                            The

                                                                       oceAn

                                                      of the unsayabLe

                                                                            Of what

        land of language removed as a result of anCient prohibitions

                                                                   he wAs carried away by that mania

                                                      of the storytelLer

                                                               who neVer

                                                            knows whIch stories are more beautiful the

                                                                         oNes thay really 

                                           happened and the evOcation of which recalls a whole flow of past

                                                                              ☼

                    the pages of the space was wen galaxIes were being formed 

                                                             space was Then with 

                                 corpuscles by emptiness contAining no

             destination or meaning and how beautifuL

                                                                 then thrOugh that to

                     draw lines parabolas pick out the preCise point the intersection

                                                                            spAce and

                                      time where the event wouLd spring

    undeniable the prominenence of whereas now eVents

                                                                    come wIthout

                                                                 like cemeNt being

                                                                              pOured column next to other one within other

                                                                            ☼

                                                                            seCond 

                                                          industrial revOlution

                                                          unlike the firSt does not present us

                                              with such crushing iMages as

                                                                          rollIng mills and molten steel but with bits

              in a flow of information traveling along Circuits

                                                            in the form Of

                                                             electronic iMpulses the

                                                                                Iron

                                                                          maChines

                                                                                Still exist but they obey the order of bits.

                                                                               ♦

The stanzas above were created using the Mesostic Poem Generator and quotes by Italo Calvino who adamatly denied being a any sort of a poet. For formatting alignment this poem is best read on full screen.

Image by Frank R. Paul, A jagged beam of flame (1932) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Naturally Resourceful

            Foggy today.

Not outside.

Expecting nothing

of this Sunday

that cannot be named,

securely crated and/

or mass produced.

Must everything be ahead of schedule

in such a small time?

At least our brains are stocked up front

for processing and Random Access
Memory.

There are no explanations for this,

but go on...

Name what you need.

Struggling to say, 
assembly by poetry is perhaps 

helpful to visualize intangibles i.e.

physics and such phenomenona

as aspirations...try.

It could be, most simply, 
about physicality-

that my nose is out there, 

too far to see transparently
or cross-wise.

I do feel exposed, but that is not it
either.

The dull light doesn't care about mood

or money. Funny how we do...

A penny for my thoughts.

O yes, it was reconciliation.

Counting the change

in the air.

Painting by Friedrich Preller the Younger [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

(unnamed)

It is magic
and you cannot stop me
from saving myself
from a worn out hex
bestowed onto to me.

It is energy (also chi)
and used methodically
to end this mean curse
in-heir-antly placed
I may live
by breaking.

It is healing,
helping myself,
or magic.

It is not about you.

It makes
me better.

It is the art
of magic.


Artwork credit By Internet Archive Book Images, Ladies Home Journal 1948 [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Day

That was the day

the day we won't forget.

Why this day, they may ask.

This was the day that marked a change.

Back in the day, we used to say

Earthquake weather, which means Danger 

or Forgiveness.

You could smell it sometimes, 

the magnanimous brink in the air,

yet the ground remains stoic so we are lucky.

Like the time we lived, when we shouldn't have.

When we fell into the chasm of misery only to fly out 

                                                   with Joy.

That was the day we never went back 

the same way.

It tasted new but felt like always-

                                         even if just briefly. 

Art by George W. Joy [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Civil War: the sequel

By milk and money, gluttony we have made

The Hero and so much more ground to cover

to fight for

By now this calcified, meaning mummified idealism

hollows in its armoured vest-ments

The Wars never end, unjustly change coordinates

Artwork By Cobb, Darius, 1834-1919 (artist); L. Prang & Co. (publisher) (Flickr: Civil War trompe l'oeil) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.