Archive for the ‘Destiny’s Twalay (loo)’ Category

If You Had Asked

I would have told you

a penny saved is dead weight 
in your pocket  on the mountainside

that worry will keep you 
from important things
and love can interfere 
with almost all things human
(and is, sometimes, worth it)

That games are very difficult 
to win if you aren't the one 
who makes the rules
so most competitions devolve 
to rigging the game

it is important to kiss and not tell 
- word will almost always get back 
to the spouse and there will be a great fuss 

giving and receiving are not
subject to lex talionis -
a punch, kick or slight, given 
at the pinnacle of strength
will, most surely, be received
at its most inconvenient nadir

and when the days seem long
and difficult to endure
be patient and circumspect;
they will be much shorter
when you have the chance 
to look back on them

when deploying, against cavalry,
form the hollow square


Ea Ipsa Loquitur
(as we pretend not to hear)
At first,
for us,
the silence has no meaning
– not without intruded voice.

But, as recognition shapes itself
around our understanding,
It slowly develops cogency
not otherwise available…
with voice –

The Ferryman’s song,
the full arc of a great bell’s clapper,
the inhale before an agonized scream,
the dead, flat unstirring before the first lightning flash,
the hush after your question: “You do still love me; don’t you?”

Happens amid the gaping sprawl of silence.

Fun – da – mental

What do they mean "we don't know how to talk to each other."? 

I say: "how about that weather?"
 And you: "some wicked heat!" 

…and we have talked. 

Tuesday –

                (If it Matters)

Life ran bitter on my face
And mind,
Dust on wind, rain on glass
Wind in dead trees -
Only there - Only me
Blue: for her, soft summer sky
                me, a darker winter lie

She stared through me there
An empty, unfocused stare
Like looking at the distant ground 
through a dirty window pane
Or a dusty, cobwebbed screen 
from a grey December room

I remember how it was - and is
            And wished

Somewhere in the Middle

A pendulum swing from existential to conjectural...
from mind in the pants to mind in the clouds:

Still Life of A Pear

           (as the artist remembers it)

it was green, as i remember it but,
not so green that it reminded me
of bile
or avocados
but, just green enough to make me think
it was a pear of the green variety.
sitting there alone in the fruit bowl
that made the table look too small
to be suitable for taking breakfast
after one's usual Friday night doings.
i managed not to let my stomach lurch
to the green's unsettling evocation.

Re modeling

Today  we paint the room
Not the red we were promised
But a yellow we forgive
It makes us feel… wish… think
It must be good
we paint the room with it -
And we were promised the red.

The Paradox of Agreement
                     (built into the  complexity of vague)

he said “red” thinking of battlefield blood
she heard “red” thinking of sunrise presaging a storm
he: “makes me sad”
she: “and uncomfortable”
Watcher: “they believe they agree.”
i: “It may well be true!”
Watcher: “That they agree?”
i: “That too.”

Musings from the brink of nothingnessity

an inchoate blackness bled into 
the waning gray, 
cloistering the senses in its chiaroscuro brooding.
a restless sweep, its deliberate cloak, insinuating
its pallid Geist onto the remains of our precious day.
Arduous night; beguile, delight and steal my restless soul, 
with sudden attention, away from those accidental disguises. 
she, a woman - I, not;
looking together at separate pieces
up along the streaming vision of our reflecting eyes
into that half-dark mirror, slicing twain;
that one infinite, inaccessible
this one less so... 

picture the eyes as two-way mechanisms (send/receive) the 
brain taking in the input from sight, touch, smell and sound, 
adding understanding and imagination and sending out a conical 
beam of its abstract comprehension to cover all, at least to 
the edges of visual periphery, and that those abstractions and 
metaphors are constructed, as they stream, into the requisite 
detail to reflect back upon our retinas as the world around us. 
This streaming vision of our reflecting eyes constitutes the 
whole of our visual perception. Our world, then, is a 
sympathetic resonance - a distortion compounded from the 
stimuli we receive at the core of our cognition in a continuum 
of feedback moderated by the imagination.

The vision then: without imagination and cognition the 
sensate world becomes invisible to our perception. The 
world is just a flat white panoply of "noise". Kick in 
the cognition and imagination for sorting and shaping 
and a beam is projected against that "whiteness" to 
saturate and fill the entire perceptual field with our 
perceived reality.
I think therefore there is a world for me to be in. 
Everything, then, is a figment of my imagination. 

culture - not art, music, literature or dance but, 
the ingression of the metaphors, the abstractions 
that represent to us our perception of the sphere 
of our existence

reverberation, resonance, vibration, reflection, 
amplification, modulation joy/sorrow, love/hate, 
light/dark, figure/ground, i am/i am not, edge/plane
It is all about difference (after the vibrations are 
sensed that is). The edges and intersections of stuff 
that allow us to "see" the world around us (or our 
perception of it).  Draw a white line on a white surface 
- can you see it? Stand behind the waterfall and speak 
- hear it? Place the rose in the garbage can - smell it? 
Stand in front of the bonfire - feel the sunshine? No 
discernible edges: No ground against which to isolate 
the figure.

Does gravity, in fact, exist or does everything just suck? 
Is it getting old out…and sad in here?

Steven Wallace sees himself as Peter Quince not with a 
pen but a keyboard making the music that is the feeling 
that makes the story of Susanna and the passions that 
exude therefrom. So Bard writes the play about Quince 
writing the play that is the center of the Bard's play. 
Wallace writes the poem about the music that is the story 
that is focused on Susanne who's feelings help describe 
Wallace's and are central to his poem. Big fleas...

The myth holds that Sisyphus' punishment for offending 
the gods was to continuously roll a large boulder up a 
mountain only to have it teeter near the top and roll 
back and force him to start over eternally. Camus tells 
us that we should picture Sisyphus as happy. That his 
toil is an allegory of the human condition and that for 
him (as for us) life occurs in the walk back down the 
mountain to start the toil again. Life is an endless 
cycle of being driven to work and taking breaks in which 
to focus on the experiences of life.

Kafka's "Little Fable"-mouse continues down his ever-
narrowing corridor until finally he notices how 
restrictive it has become and he spots the small 
dead-end room (cum trap) on the loom. At the 
recognition of the situation he has fallen into 
the following cat tells him he has only to turn 
and devours him. Thus the gnostic "truth" of 
change in direction/change in fate to set you 
free - free to die in different ways.
"If we must fall what matters it how we fall?" 
                   "If fall is all we have then how matters!"

Remember Jerry's rule #1: When faced with overwhelming 
force - run, hide, sneak! Faced with ZUGZWANG the Jerryophile 
says: "Oh - I'm just holding this seat for the mug that is
playing this loser!"

At the point where we finally notice how restrictive our 
lives become and consider changing, death intervenes - 
which was stalking us all along the way.

We are all too willing to allow any monkey to hold up 
our parade: but, once resumed it continues on its well-
worn route.

When I consider how my light is spent
o're half my days in this dark world and wide...

..when I can look life in the eyes
grown cold and very worldly wise
life will have given me the truth
and taken in exchange my youth.

...this is the way the world ends
not with a bang but a whimper.

If you wish to live like the rest of humanity; 
follow the arrows and watch for the cat. 
Just get on the road and follow it: roads have 
but one purpose; to take you where someone else 
wants you to go. It is the easy way in (or out).

How Time’s Track is Sometimes Misplaced

He awoke noticing that the flames were starting to melt the soles 
of his sneakers. He rolled over to face Congolia and said: 
"There is no way we are going to beat this fire down the ravine! 
I think we're going to be here till its over." 

They, discussing the social significance of the rising price of 
concord grapes and fresh-caught sole, died in the flames. 

Later, when the river was dammed and the ravine had been filled 
with fresh water for several decades, a motor boat passed over 
their remains and its single passenger caught an undersized 
land-locked salmon directly over what once was their Saturday 
Bocce court. No one noticed.

The fisherman had been using an hand-made smelt lure and later 
that day noticed that his hands smelled fishy.

The Young Prolitariati

What makes this poet speak so?
“The fence throwing down a spray of shadow on which blue and orange birds parade and feed. ”
“it is a hobby of the North American to notice everything that doesn’t work.”
“the sorrow bird singing in the mangrove swamp. Slogans painted on the sewer pipe, sprayed on the mayor’s house: land and sun and ownership and God the conqueror who comes in a raised and gilded throne lifted by the children he had cured.”
“Ecstasy and rapture of the sun.”
“Hey, mister! This is a hand raised up for change: photographed, and taken home.”

what is it he sees in such detail?
the occasional missed “tock” that presages the cosmic clocks final unwind
The edge of the blackest pit of impending doom?
or just the bottom side of the imaginatrix he uses for careful self-awareness and identifying himself to himself, himself.

testing his soul to be certain that it is sufficiently numb before he ventures forth with his senses exposed.

the poet ,in his dank cellar or musty book-insulated library, looking out at the world through a long, lens-capped pipe, focusing on the unanointed, under washed, beneath-pitiful, ennui-inducing, sub-realities; to record stultifying detail in dismal abundance – enough to infuse deep subtext, ambiguity, misdirection and distracting analysis. (I weep therefore I am)

and one day, when the poet finds himself without the pebble in his shoe he will write a greeting card instead of his usual polemic dirge, bending his artful prolix to the task of making Pippa proud and mothers everywhere weep… and finish the laundry.

Another Likelihood

The Sculptor’s Word

gradually, in your mind, i will render it –
carve away all the words i do not choose,
twist your mouth into a classic irony
with regetful filling up the eyes lower lids,
and shape the full-born essence of this grand figure
for you to touch and see.

The collection of shapes
made from the whole cloth
of concepts in my mind
and humanized,
in the scope of the poet’s stone,
into the magnum opus – statuary
now forming in your imagination.

Without the power of the word
            there is no god.
without the force of the imagination
            there is no word.
without the purest sense of self
            there is no imagination.

it is imagination that creates and sustains me.
i fold back into the energy force of the cosmos but, for it.
an eddy current backwashed into a quiet continuum pool,
an incidental spark of will gradually coalescing
its latency into an accidental order,
one fundamental coherency; akin to the formation of a galaxy,
nebula, sun, planet, rock, ocean, plankton…

Not from one overbearing power but,
from one singular “Always”.
The rock-solid “never-has-not-been”
from which all things emerge –
into which all things evanesce.

Think on this!!

Where would we be if Pasteur had not invented the cow?

Consider the consequences if Poe does not invent the clapper in order to give
meaning to the polysyllabic tintinabulation, with the necessary meter for his poem.

The bell would toll for no one and, as usual, no one wouldn’t even notice…can you hear that??
The absence of tintinabulatory distraction – right there, outside the quiet sphere of my matter-of-factitude.

© 2018 What's That On the Road – A Head
Magic Vision | Design: NET-TEC of Naturkosmetik. Coding: Hartan of Brautmode.