Sunday, January 22, 2017

Shrinking Heads


They used to call them shrinks in slang.

This was a term when I was little.
And couch time or psycho-
analysis, psyche-ologists, undoctors with talk shows
was all the rage this term, shrink, 
made me think of voodoo, a secret serum from
head doctors. But nowadays we have BRAIN,
and the human genome project, AI and h-3

And thankfully,
someone just told me
something is happening to the frontal cortex,
of the human being-being busy;
because busyness wrecks
real concentration.

It could be fake news, you choose.

Once upon a time,
I remember memorizing phone numbers.
I remember every license plate
on every vehicle in my name,
but those were just a labels

like shovel and couch, doctor or woman
and I dug in deeper and found it is true. All of it.
It is frightening.
This cannot be happening, it must be only temporary.
What does it matter if we forget-
this too shall pass as short term.

I don't know anymore.
Always being right
tends to make one go in tiny circles.

Fear was all the rage.
And instead of screaming Fire, or Liar,
the roof began to crumble under
the weight of the clodded up canvasing
sky gathering clumps in furious spouts
of dirty watercolor,
meant to stir us.

Iron bars,
lashing at the trees and they scream.
It Is
eerie, some never heard it coming

or understood what it said.
(SH, RBTL, SITD?)
Terminal. The terminal. Terminus.
Communication was the key.
And oration from alabaster towers of babble flow,
throwbacks, boomerangs and borrowed times,
did not fit all skeletons.
It is a combination lock anyway.

Radical is bad, gay is not happy, no mo FOMO,
do NOT wear a hoodie or hijab,
protest and appoint, Act Now, undemocratically,
incivility as seen on TV versus Reality,

no need to worry.
Temporary occupations are hiring the easily entertained
or unemployed tools, oft utilized by
tightening nuts down to nationalism,
and their infallible dependence.


I forgot why I came in here, I forgot these are all names.
I forgot all the names. I forgot my name. I forgot this was the same.
I forgot to go. I forgot my place.
Then it came to me,
only temporarily.

It should be powered down, rebooted, then defragged
down to one, for focus. Ahead, and swollen baubles or egos,
ergo,
what does it mean to grow smaller
over time, we cannot even wrap our head around
astronomical units, lightning years.
or by electro-therapy injections we become
shorter, shorting out, shrinking from commitment
to deep time.

Slang was just another name
for small.
All the time
shrinking.



Image By Paul François Arnold Cardon, Photograph of the French psychologist Pierre Janet (1859–1947) by Paul François Arnold Cardon a.k.a. Dornac (1858–1941).

Saturday, January 21, 2017

Come again? (Hi-Q/Haiku)


You know noise is more
(sound disturbance wave signal)
than you need to know?




Photo By Scan by NYPL [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Duel-ality


Make me.
                You’ll see.
Better than
                 what you had not fantasy
or yummy treats for Pavlov’s complacent puppy.

I will sit 
             and stay-for you-master-full.
Why-I want to make you happy-
                                                     all over
ecstatic insanity. Conversely, this is pretty
good for nothing worth trading
souls, 
          never do I say.

To be
          told you I won’t, you don’t,
I can’t help it always
feeling this way, 
                          abraded when edges
won't fit, 
                   the smooth cliff beckons
my plunge.

We were
               not trying to hold on
to each others exposed roots,

loosening further what has eroded
off the bark, 
                    exposed
sap dries the heart-
                              wood.

More about
together, alone.
We could be both those

Some days plays well
                                    w/ others &
always wins 
                     by cheating.
I let him. 

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

Working up to it


We had hopes
And held on
To air
Imagine this, delicately, with your fingers.
Tell me,
Is your faith strong, rigid, cold?
When we close our eyes, nowadays,
our metronome is muffled with backfire.
It is still
So busy so
We try to think
Optimistic, or up,
But that is not doing
Anything
For lift.
We had work to do, we all knew
Sweat
Yet, we hoped it would all get done.

Painting by Paul Peel [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Monday, January 16, 2017

(forever) Haiku




particle & wave
Light like Love; impossible
to keep-in one place...


Painting by John William Godward [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Saturday, January 14, 2017

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. 

Friday, January 13, 2017

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.

(Bone pile)

My lips are sealed with  The caulk of deaf ears. Born for this. Lessons to be learned as chapters Turned  Over, like how to read our bodies ...