Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Nimal Liber

Nimal liber,
my kind of guy,
facing straight ahead doesn't see me.
a sign to show: peace, I think,
dishevelled determined:
he's not peace.
brings the sword,
brother against brother,
to cut their chains.
undismayed trudges on
out of sight

On Being Folded

One does not break.
One does not resist.
One does not attempt to interrupt the process; this is frowned upon. One does not question the position of the crease, nor does one question the process.
Do not scream.
Do not be concerned about any discomfort you may feel; it will pass momentarily.
Do not make any attempt to disrupt the lining up stage of the fold.
Likewise do not disturb the pressing portion of the folding procedure.
Do not cut the fingers or the hands.
In the event of papercuts, paper is not to be bled upon. Paper that has been bled upon must be disposed of in the biological waste containers.
The hands will be firm: this is to be expected and a lack of cooperation may result in tears.
The hands are not responsible for the tears; neither are their owners.
The hands' work is absolutely beyond the question of the paper. Their ultimate purpose is out of the scope of paper.
The details of said purpose concern only the owner of the hands, and do not concern the paper.
The hands are to be obeyed at all times. Coercion shall be used if necessary.
The paper is to be clean and presentable; it is solely responsible for any smudges or smears, even if made by the hands.
The paper must conform to all posted regulations of appearance, format and size. This requires that no paper have bent corners, unplanned creases, or other such marrings of appearance.
The paper is accountable for all ink being dry when the hands are ready to fold it.
The paper must remain silent at all times. Violation of the silence rule will result in immediate recycling.
The purpose of paper is to be folded; paper need not look past its own self-interest when considering why it should allow itself to be folded. Folding is the only game in town.
You must not delay the folding process, as doing so would violate contracts and delay filing. Delays are unacceptable.
Filing is likewise not to be hindered or resisted. Alphabetization is mandatory and the location of a file within a folder may not be changed.
Tampering with alphabetization hinders the recovery of files and is punishable by shredding.
We would like to take this opportunity to remind all paper that there is no return from the recycle bin, until recycling time.
Recycling time is every Wednesday.
Filing for storage is to commence immediately after folding is completed.
Storage of the filed paper may last for an indeterminate period. Typical times range from an eon to an eternity.
Storage may not be truncated without the appropriate triplicate form approving file destruction.
The file destruction form (FDF) must be signed by each manager on each tier of the organization between the requesting party and the organizational head.
All paper is to be considered recyclable and not disposable. This reduces costs and is of course environmentally friendly, which improves sales among the target demographic, thereby boosting profits.
All paper should be disposed of properly. It should be shredded and left in the waste paper basket, which can be found beneath the shredder.
All paper found outside of this basket is to be re-inserted. Leaving this basket intentionally is punishable by immediate recycling.
When full, the waste paper basket is to be immediately emptied into the large paper receptacle located across the hall, before shredding may be resumed.
When full, the large paper receptacle must likewise be emptied into the large dumpster located behind the facility.
Please note that our toner emits toxic fumes when burned; under no circumstances should paper be set fire to.
Note that paper is highly flammable and that flames will rapidly spread among paper. This is hazardous to the facility and will cause noxious fumes to be emitted, therefore this rule are strictly enforced.
All paper is to be kept a minimum of one hundred fifty meters from sources of open flame. Smoking is not permitted. We apologize for any inconvenience.
Failure to recycle is punishable by immediate recycling.
Please note that all new reams are to be left unopened until all open reams have been used up.
Please note that violation of these rules and procedures as set forth above will result in immediate recycling.
See you in the next ream.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

safe knife

are you safe from the knife?
do you dance on the blade?
do you look down its length,
hands defensive out-splayed?

are you its master?
is it your friend?
or are you frightened
when faced with the end?

do you get the point?
grasp-handle the concept?
of which end goes in you,
when you make a misstep?

do you wound deeply,
or dodge steel sweetly?
when the blood flows,
is your foe's or yours seeping?

do you use it alone
in dark rooms and at home,
where death gives you life
tho scars follow swipes?

where does it meet you?
do dark alleys greet you?
with sharp silver shimmer,
or dull truncheon to beat you?

are you a tyrant
loathe to retire it,
when seeking your want
like a stabbing savant?

or do you fear its bite
in the midst of a fight,
when pounding of heel
saves from pain's feel?

perhaps it's a tool
you use skilled like no fool:
but when all are away,
you take time to play.

are foods your sole victims,
dismembered in kitchens?
diced chopped or sliced
for tasting's delights?

is it your true love?
its descent from above:
more than a thing,
your life's very being?

are you safe from the knife?
is romance on your blade?
do you look in her eyes,
where the steely gleam plays?

or does it plead with you?
glancing silver and blue,
disappointed to stay
where you've put it away.

Morpheus Seizing

my chest pounced,
your legs crouched,
you held your hand over my mouth.
as I slept I could not breathe,
but still slept on,
a pair of useless legs, inert arms,
and lungs that would not heave.
I could not breathe.
too tired to wake, kept sleeping,
something amiss in my dreaming,
but I was too tired to wake.
unaware of you, my dreams
invaded by suffocation,
long fingers grasped;
your fingers, they clutched,
your weight, it sat
in anticipation.
yet I could not grasp
the incubal spirit,
tho pressed so near, it
fed on a nightmare.
you fed from my night scare.
what was my dream now?
I forget it. someone
was trapped, couldn't get out;
it was myself and there was no help.
next morning I woke,
forgetting the visions,
dreamlike amnesia.
daylight had broke
and I, exhausted, awoke.
I woke as if seizing,
but that's what you'd done:
in my bed creeping,
dreams from me seeping;
seized morphic visions,
while I was sleeping.



point-to-point

Monday, April 21, 2008

warsawdisjoint

Where i stay _ friends far away. very strange to meet full hostel; depressing but recharge. wander streets speak no polish 3 words this country masters me from border to capital. take tram no payment, didn't see a way any way. Mishmash styles, this you get.

Park, suspicious paranoid, what's poland like. Its cutting belligerent capital. looking poor. not like tourist, don't think. eating making peanut sandwich butter taking in sights. cross train station, illegal. alternative tunnel under road, had bewared cops. cross them don't, taking you to bad places.

as they told in border cross, the germans. having sat upon it, passport less they warned of dangers. standing found it under ass; what relief had been.

friends far away. polish ones too. know no one here, no hostel. give me a stable and manger, aren't you catholics? taking me to long, energy too much for poor me. drag bagging round town, didn't get far. spent from strange apparatus of escalator stair ramp tunnel in station. wish hadn't come.
can't take back where feet have gone, this city you are in.


War. wars upon my muscles and makes me week.

Saw. saws my mind with slavic spoken, then knew only 2 words; now 3. Tak. Czesc. can't get you bye: exactly and hi. Added thank you later; makes you so polite. Ever so polite.


found him computer-side charging phone. not him; my phone died in desperation reaching out to friend too far. bad timing ill planning got me there: weeping nearly.

Had come back in, met american. immediately helpful, conversation business-wise but also universe-based. all over the place.

which is where we called, walked. seeking shelter refuge for me. dragged bag for me; was heavy nearly felled me. What a friend. Never met his name, never see again.

Sometimes it's okay that way: meet once, never again. Almost as polish girl in station days later:
cute, knew only song-english: pop phrases. Better than my pole! Shame for shame, different directions left her train. could have been strange, had so little way to communicate, funny way to conversate and oddly enough overcame shyness enough: talk to lady lived in london, child to pick up bringing back.

Again never met again - could have, went london stown under. met not even friends; so short on time.

Poland proved my ambition was too far too high, too much destinated in too few three weeks.

But here we checked hotels: one had called but now was full; mystery riverboat hotel had sailed away it had seemed; under lovely bridge we onward trudged. So many streets we trod so much to seek a shelter; finally failing helpful directions chaining us multiply along, teased, we stopped a bit. In a park. lads there for a lark, what a history was oddly related to me. lessons this fellow spewed, forth nonstop but not unpleasant.

Taking no more shivering, on we walked back to town: to the center I had know. fries filled bellies just enough, soon we split after spit, urinate publicly yet another time: had done so in Sweden.

None saw, maybe for better.

We split then, 4 am already reaching, trains would arrive soon enough. I to my friend, barely made that for falling sleep. Over under the night managing, I took my leave of my wits in my tire.

dreaming scarce for tired feet, footstepping through parks and streets, running across gibberers in offhand beats and failing hotels to land like beach, how sore was body weary mind, how rough was holiday life unkind.

But adventures under belt we won, for having none the prowess shinned. Taking glory in the sun I next enjoy reward of won: couple days full foodly shewn. hospitable people, friend's family or was it family's friend? Fine foods fed, beautiful produce homegrown to boot.

How amazing a glutton I became! The custom to feed took advantage.

Leaving their sunny, sweaty in car, met london lady and mother, story somewhat sad, but more opportune had she not been working well she did.

Best english I had met since Sweden, where still longer colder nights had greeted: the coldest though were yet to come, higher mountains alps the sun, shunned to shine and did decline to dry the rain.

But knowing not of coming winter languished in the polish sun.

Saturday, April 19, 2008

Someone Else's Work

I love how innocently subversive it is.

"I write messages on money.
It's my own form of social protest.
A letter printed on paper that no one will destroy
passed indiscriminately across race, class and gender lines
and written in the blood that keeps the beast alive.
A quiet little hijacking
on the way to the check-out counter
And a federal crime.
I hope that someone will find my message one day when they really need it.
Like I do."

Farewell, Biodiversity

world without frogs,
legacy of humanity:
froglessness in our wake.
despite eons of frogsong,
a million croaks & chirps
filling spring nights till fall,
behind we leave their absence,
a void filled with buzzing biting insects.
thin-skinned, our offense too severe,
could not withstand our pollution;
we're left with silent noxious
nights, full of life but less of fun.

eyelets and inlets

eyes clear out rooms quick with glances
eyelet through needles tight slick from pushing
inlet interior clears its name of crimes
inland sea beseeches brings fame to voyage
island beach lands heavy claims it greedy
eyesore sand grits crevice thorough biting down
ice core freeze hits cold furrow stuck

Sunday, April 13, 2008

The Box II (retold)

A garden grove had assembled within it many people of a village.

Music blared with a strange quality which would have caught the ear of any music-lover. A static quality of its energy, something made the sounds them seem smaller, denser than music should be.

Sounds were blaring forth not from a band of musicians, as it would take to produce this blending of sounds, but from a single spot, atop a small pedestal, amid gilded stonework that focussed the sounds forward to their hearers.

The device or object that created the sounds was black. It seemed to buzz with energy, constantly streaming forth its noise, now voices, now music again. It was nondescript, black, boxy in shape and smooth, except for a strange panel of blockish designs, two protruding knobs and two screened portions on either side.

New eyes had new found this box, and seeing value in it, took the box, brought it to this place. It became an object of mystery and adoration, sitting above the small crowds of people who gathered in this grove before their shaman, their priest who tended the source of the voice from the sky, which long ages ago issued down to the earth and blessed with fortune all who would listen, like a holy oracle of pure kindness.

Long had the box been neglected, seen only by wild creatures, its voices unappreciated, its melodies unnoticed. It had been feared for magical power; was now adored for the same.

People ate before the box, many couples sat before a man who sang with the box, who mimicked well-practiced the cries that issued forth from it into the sweet air of spring. Moods danced high with it, fertility was in the air; fertility their purpose, this rite their very future hope.

Let blessing upon blessing issue forth from its unmoving unclosing mouth! The Shaman gave heart, soul, body to the effort of blessing each man-woman there, each of the hopeful parent of a long-awaited next generation.

Ecstasy took him when the funeral song of his dead father played, sweat poured from his body and he beckoned to each and every of his holy audience: move. Move! Mingling hands feet dancing to music incomprehensible to ears; his words gibbered forth without meaning, with a meaning not in the words but in the every sound, in the forming and the being of the sounds that his lungs bellowed into the now cool night air, howling full under the bright rising moon.

Spirits evil, beings mischievous fled before the blessed songs, fled before the rapturous racket of the feet, shaking bracelets, of song-dance-voice issuing into the endless dark above.

None there would fear the night now; that was the aim. Luck of the Divine, no fear of evil more, fear not the lack of prosperity: hope would guide to the next conception, the next miracle of birth, long expected still unseen.

Energies subsided. Song became voice. Whispers dodged the continual blare of the box, the eternal voice of unearthly wisdom, holy in its unceasingness, monumental in its solitude as it drowned out the silent night outside the grove.

Groups left: men then women then Shaman, tradition born of fear of night, fear for the women, carried out now with joy and enthusiasm; no thought entered no mind that danger was afoot, for none evil could stand against such power as now coursed through each individual, each feeling as half a being, eager only to return to earthen homes and reunite with other half in passion.

Sexual ecstasy awaited, static like electric, as had been hoped for by Elder and shaman alike; by man and woman alike; by hunter and gatherer alike; by craftsman and farmer alike.

But ere it returned to home, some of it found its way in the grove: full-breasted she intercepted Shaman, strong husband still virile awaiting, she pleasured first a spiritually potent man, dancing having aroused night-long desire.

Rapture found both there on the grass, union where bodies intersected, where he found his entrance, she her allowance, and both their relief and release.

Him collapsing, sweaty-backed on grass entranced by holiness; she left home and found the same rest, after more sweet union with her own man, undulled for being done in its proper place and guise, undulled for being second time.

Another shaman's son, bastard-born soon rose; praised was his true father for fertility rite, his mother only knowing the lie. His father-priest praised only the voices, sounds of the box, eternal flowing in wisdom and holiness on high.

The box, unchanging it blared on through all events, outlived without silence even its immaculately conceived son. The eternal chant of its wisdom did not die, though the many short-lived creatures did. Only stones accompanied this ascended god, its host of inanimate and steadfast angels.

It lived on, courageously standing against time as no mortal could.



(Thanks to J-Mo for making me want to make this...this.)

The Box (II)

The sound happily permeated the garden grove as the peaceful Velt-hur people gathered for feast. It was a sound of energy and of music issuing from a single source.

"It is the magic of the Shaman," remarked Seona to her husband, as she delighted to hear the familiar chatter of the box.

"No," he gently corrected, "the Shaman merely brings us this magic from the idol."

Of course, she realized. She smiled, signifying that they were of accord.

Seona and her husband, Zoresh, were one of many couples attending the fertility ceremony. Having children was rare in those days, and the Shaman had a vision that the box would lead them forward.

Unlike the previous Shaman, Dan-a was prone to explaining and communicating with the others what his reasoning was. He would express his uncertainties and indicate when he had doubts, something which his father had frowned upon.

But Dan-a's father, Irsh-ta, had been a traditionalist, and had barely had the vision to collect the box to begin with.

Dan-a refleected on their fortune, that his late father had the sense to do that, at least. To see something important for what it was. Traditional though he may have been, he broke with tradition in that matter and in conceiving a child--Dan-a. This was unusual, but reproduction was never frowned upon; it was a rare and holy miracle.

Acording to the Velt-hur, there was a musical voice that came from the sky in ancient days, and brought fortune upon those who heard it--the Divine Luck. This they had believed for several generations before this strange box was found, emitting unusual music and voices in an alien tongue. Of course its finders were overjoyed, for they knew what they had found.

Irsh-ta was never wary of magic in the way he expected his followers to be. It would have been unthinkable for him to be seen behind his veil while in a spirit trance, partaking of mushrooms; but he likely would never have been so cautious of other shamans, had there been any.

So he took the box and found for it a grove, where he might contemplate the voices.

But by that time, Irsh-ta had been quite old, and had not made any decision regarding the black box, save that he had informed his son of it. Then he ascended from Earth, leaving behind a stray child with only basic Shamanic knowledge.

However the Elder of the village had concluded that the unusualness of a Shaman having a child should be sufficient sign that the child was to succeed him, and so it was agreed by all who owned a house and could vote.

Dan-a was something new, everyone quickly learned.

And he had to learn quickly as well, lest he be caught off guard by demons or other such creatures.

Dan-a watched pert-breasted Seona and strong-legged Zoresh as they entered the grove, holding his right hand horizontally in greeting, fingers pointing down to indicate peaceful tidings.

The couple smiled and took their places before the long feast table, as dictated by Zoresh's rank and Seona's pedigree. This placed them about halfway down the split-log table, just to the right of center from Dan-a's perspective on the slightly raised dais of stones. This dais was where the box sat, and magnificently carved and gilded stonework projected and amplified the sound of the box so that all could hear.

Dan-a had been pleased by the acoustics of this tiny amphitheatre.

Soon he sounded the chime and rose, at did the attendees of this fertility feast, the finest couples in the small village, the best hope for creating a new generation.

Dan-a announced to them, "this day we shall hope to conceive in you the next generation of Velt-hur!"

Silence. Smiles.

Dan-a continued, "moon full at dusk, sun bright before leaving, the voices cheerful and bidding thee: partake!"

At this, the people began to eat, happy with this sermon, though unsure of what might come next. The speech of the box halted. Everyone paused and listened, and then a strange few seconds of sound were followed by a song.

It was a holy song, which had blessed Irsh-ta at his death. This was truly a sign.

The feeling enraptured Dan-a, joy filled him and he half-closed his eyes, mimicking the sounds of the song.

In an alien tongue: "Dar sa lae di ooh nos ul dar glit tas sigol en zie spyeen dar ster weytu hev un", accompanied by soft, bird-like sounds and gentle strings, surely divine in nature, for no instrument of the Velt-hur could produce such sounds.

It surely was the tongue of the gods--incomprehensible yet so coherent, so clearly it was not gibberish.

After a time the song had risen to crescendo and ended, leaving Dan-a drenched in sweat. Grateful, he looked at the box, smiling and bowing his head forward slightly to the right, signifying gratitude.

He also uttered the greeting, "Keyz-ee oak ay!" which had been learned from the box itself.

Dan-a had explained that there was no magic when he recited the holy songs. It was simply a musical prowess he had, such that he could know what the words were and sing even as he heard them, without flaw.

The magic, he had explained, was in the effect that the recitation of the songs had on himself and those nearby. He always felt invigorated, as if possessed by the Divine Luck, and this had given him the idea that the box could be used in a fertility rite.

This he hoped to impart to the married couples that eve, and he would use his voice upon each woman to impart to them fertility and fortune. Hopefully this divine magic would help some of them to conceive, for it had been a time since a child was born.

Over the course of the evening, people ate and were happy, and several times Dan-a sang, convincing others that could could as well. The mood in the grove was optimistic and happy, and soon the full moon began to rise over the box on its stone resting place.

After a joyful evening, Dan-a blessed all who had attended. He then kissed each woman on the neck and each man on the ear, as was customary in parting.

Seona seemed to linger almost imperceptibly before she split off with the women--it was another custom for the men and women to split into groups when traveling after dark. This made it harder for demons or sprites to impersonate the opposite sex, thereby impregnating women with monstrous children, or to contaminate the men, making their seed corrupt or infertile.

Both groups left by torchlight, first men, to clear the way and ward off spirits with their howls, then the women shortly followed, in silence to avoid attracting attention from the same spirits.

Dan-a would leave last, being safe since he was possessed of special magics. This ensured that the women were surrounded on two sides to protect them from all manner of creatures. However, Dan-a thought he was being accosted himself and he grasped his bracelet of magic beads--only to realize it was Seona, returning alone.

Before he could speak, she held up her hand indicating silence. She crouched and opened his loincloth, using her mouth to arouse the Shaman. The grass in the grove was soft and she bade him down onto it, whispering but one thing: "bless me Shaman, bless me."

They copulated on the grass, under moonlight, seen by no other eyes, and it was exquisite for both of them.

Seona hurried then to her home, telling Zoresh that she had spoken with her friend Gima and lost track of time. He promptly took her to bed, to try their Divine Luck.

Dan-a, in peaceful trance, lost consciousness on his back upon the grass, wet now with dew and his sweat. It was the highest of spiritual moments, the noblest of energies possessing him, and he could feel that he and Seona had been exercising the will of divine forces. Their people would continue.

In the coming months, only Seona conceived. It was regarded as a holy miracle, and Dan-a gained great respect from the Elder as a wise and truthful Shaman.

He could only attribute it to the power of the black box of sound.

Praised be the box, for many generations.



(If you're wondering what this box is all about, the most explanation you'll get is here. For this whole 'miniseries', try this: The Box)

Saturday, April 12, 2008

Blood

Yusef felt lied to.

Yusef had welcomed the liberators, had welcomed the toppling of the dictator, had known that life would get better, that truly these soldiers were a godsend.

But what does one man know?

Now homeless,without a family, nowhere to turn, Yusef was becoming concerned for his soul. Perhaps he could escape this country altogether, but then where would that leave his people? His country? No, people like him must stay and fight. He had no violent intentions, but fighting must be done, somehow. Even standing his ground would be fight enough to make a difference, he thought.

But he stood ground in no man's land, in a dark, public alley, where no one could see his shame except by the dim firelight that warmed his hands.

If only so many hadn't been rendered refugees, especially of his relatives. How does a man stand for his principles when he is so concerned about finding his next meal? About preserving his own life?

In some places the Americans gave meals, but Yusef was not so lucky to be in such a part of the country. He was more likely to be caught by a bomb on the road, that was the sort of gift that was given around his town. A few people were happy when Americans were bombed, but Yusef's own brother had been injured by an abandoned landmine, a leftover from the war with Iran.

Such things had happened to others too, including one of his daughters.

The same bomb that killed his daughter had killed many soldiers as well, and Yusef sympathized with the Americans, perhaps only to save himself from self-pity and grief at his own loss. Each corpse had been someone's child, someone's brother, someone's parent. They couldn't have known any more than he did what ruin the war would bring. Perhaps some of their leaders had better information, but each soldier could not have known what lie ahead on such a road.

The other option was, to Yusef, unspeakable. But others had become angry at the invaders and were intent to see all death returned upon the Americans. Yusef knew this was never going to work, and he knew it would only bring more bloodshed. This had never been what God had wanted for any people.

That was all he needed to know, to know that violent people were wrong; that violence bred only more violence, and unless men were reluctant to harm others,

Yusef, despite having always been honest, was now driven to desperation. He had stolen. He had lied to keep himself alive and fed. This evening, he had found a chicken, someone else's, and broken it by the neck, roasted it and devoured the whole thing.

The chicken had also been starved, and unlike when he had slaughtered other animals ritually, he had looked at the eyes of this creature, and they had been looking back at him. The way it happened was much different, it almost shook him more than the deaths of his own family. He had their bodies even, but they had already been dead.

This chicken, unlike lambs and other animals Yusef had killed for food, looked at him as he felt its very bones snap under his own hungry hands. It still struggled but was silent, and then Yusef hid and removed the animal's head with a small knife - all that he had with him.

It was not the way you killed chickens. It was far too personal, for Yusef, for whom all violence had become abhorrent.

It was only after he had eaten the bird that he wondered if it had been afraid, if it had wished for mercy. What a strange thought, he told himself. But even with a broken neck, he had heard, a person could still sense things. Was it the same for a bird? Perhaps it could not have wishes or thoughts of its own, but it surely knew fear before a predator, and if it was alive it surely was fearful of its slow death.

Of course, it had no soul. It was a simple bird, put there for men to use. Perhaps he felt badly because he had stolen it, but in this time of danger, he was never sure of anything. Feeling sympathy for his food! How strange.

How sensitive he had become in his old age.

He knew it was silly, but Yusef imagined that Americans - not the soldiers but the people back in their own land - were like him, just victims of politicians. Their land was not plunged into war, nor had they suffered under a brutal dictator, but this war surely had a toll upon them.

Men in power, rich men, like the late dictator (may he burn for eternity, thought Yusef), simply did what they felt needed to be done. Only a few great leaders ever truly understood their people, and knew what was best for them. Whatever reason others had to trample upon the good of their nation, he could not guess. Monsters and murderers were beyond understanding, and so were politicians.

Those that commanded killing were never better than those who did the killing. They just had cleaner hands, and did not have to look their victims in the eye.

Perhaps a monster like Saddam Hussein had personally carried out killings; his sons surely had, and worse. But a man like George Bush, he was far away. He barely saw what he had commanded, barely saw how his war had not worked, except as it affected him.

He did not see the blood.

That must been what disturbed Yusef, he realized, about killing the chicken that day. Other times, the killings had been proper, routine, somehow remote; the same as he had been taught when he was but a boy. It had always been a part of life.

Hungry though he had been, regardless of his reason, he had brutalized that chicken on that day, in a way far more personal than he had ever done in his lifetime. He had not used a tool to kill it, but had held it in his hands, wrung its neck, cut it savagely with a knife, felt it die.

Looking down, he saw that blood was still showing on his dry, cracked hands. He was not at all distant from the killing.

In that moment, Yusef could only sit in the dark alley and weep for the world.

Friday, April 11, 2008

Mater Nyx

born of darkness--
unborn,
but enwombed in void
in vitro,
empty but for tiny cells,
zygote
speck of sentience,
drop of light
in world of dark,
dot of an island
in eternal ocean of naught

o mother nyx!
mistress darkness!
my nihilist mother of nature!

take me back,
take me back in,
take me nowhere.
unmake me gently,
not cruel like other
mother nature.

slip it in easy
embrace as I slip away,
show me thy mercy,

I want it mercy:
so I name it,
but love that speck
in time and space,
need now's island shore,
need it far too far
to let thee take it;
need me more than thee,
methinks.

the price
of indecision:
constant struggle.

still
want to be with thee,
but to join must be unmade,
to touch must not see;
to be is not to be
with thee:
null void the only way
not straight narrow,
but broad dark winding,
brought there evry way
beneath each day,

the universe void
except a dot
of consciousness,
layer of light
atop endless depths,
descending ever
darker, deeper.

o night!
teach me fear,
to hate the light,
show me to be
unafraid,
that eternal slumber
in night's velvet
is bliss,

unshow me
that thou art in me
and I in thee,
tho cannot see,
feel thy touch
under awareness
through endless eons
separating us
from thee.

I beg thee--
show me the truth
of thy dark whisperings,
the gentle warmth
of the harsh cold void
show me thy
vast unoccupied
totality,

unfillable,
despite ego's try.
allow me down
and in,
deeper,
till the light's
too far to see,

tho undeserving,
unmake love to me,
speck in time and space
tho I may be,
show me,
show me,

o oblivion!
show me nothingness,
show me I am nothing!
show the waste
that is this life,
tell me in murky words
what it means
to cease to be.

blind me!
for all around me
is untrue,
teach me the lie;
how all is fleeting,
how truth lies
in true loneliness,
in utter silence,
educate me
on the falsity
of company.

show the illusion
of my little life,
it's environs,
for what it is:
a cheap backdrop!
to distract
with brightness
and color

from thine
one true black,
in truth a collusion
of random events;
make it all collapse!

deafen me!
with the pounding
sound of
infinite nothing,
tho all I hear
is too loud,
painful in ears,
show me it's nothing
to compare to thee.

let me breathe thee in!
breathe nothing, to die
in suffocation;
I lust for
the pressure
of thy smothering
absence
to take me,
insides out,

stroke me without fingers,
like the airlessness
of vacuum,
until I explode.

so save me
from my narcissism,
break my mind
with your unending
expanse of black!

I surrender
this pittance
of existence
for thine eternal
lack.

pluck from me
each sense,
like embedded arrow,
relieve my
wounded mind
of its burdens,
and finally
of its function;
take my faith,
cast it away,
replace it with
thine emptiness.

then left forlorn,
blind in bliss,
happiness
shall I find
in blackness.


(disclaimer: I'm aware that 'nyx' is Greek and 'mater' Latin. I've mixed them anyway: nyx sounds better than nox.)

Thursday, April 10, 2008

The Defeatist

these thoughts are suicide
can't rise
over them
know what they are
can't stop them
in stupor sitting
out mouth comes nothing
I'm what's lef tbehind
by vacant mind
when all else is more interesting
and somehow I feel a gslight
thinking these thoughts
I think:
why write?
decidedly I leave, being beaten
a defeat unneeded to feel,
but felt all the same

despite my fight
so cementing
my isolation of perception
alone in my silent mind,
though it bustles
with other people's voices
so disturbed
struggle doesn't end
on leaving the source;
unable to recover
from the shock
I feel another depression
seems like alcoholism waiting to happen.
assuming a cause, I blame
a drink, blame my job
tho a job's overthinking
would drive me to drink

it's a natural cycle of misery,
one not so easily escaped
all attempts of my own aborted
your companionship offends me
though I loathe it, spurn it,
seeing people having people
when none attend me,
emptily Jealous--
even so, I question my own motives
see pathetic self
for what I am
womanizing--or maybe just lonely
women: respect for, yes
but disinterest
when unattracted, ineligible;
ignored.

none can save me but me,
but myself I can't see
within or without
In emptiness I sit, stare,
I go nowhere
abandoned as I am to the
limbo of choicelessness,
purgatory of indecision,
and utter unskillfulness
I think nothing can bring
me out of it
but in truth I ask:
what could bring me out?

nothing's in my way
but for everything

Saturday, April 5, 2008

This Is Why We Fight

the stillness of complete relaxation,
the cold of a life rendered lifeless,
inanimate, unmoving, though prodded.
close the unseeing eyes, for they
seek still to watch the world,
that very same which filled with life
shows now death, although unseen,
to eyes which once understood
the motions of bodies and of blood,
the lives of ancestry and hope
for next generations now left
forlorn and alone surviving the dead.

now younger eyes know what the old
had hoped would pass, merciful,
and leave children unscathed.
passed through their eyes is knowledge
of the meaning of loss, of life,
lost to the sightless in death.
rend'ring unconscious of truth,
eternal cataracts plague
victims and doers alike;
as a wool pulled over the eyes,
spun by safe, stately rich men,
from hidden agendas and lies.


Inspired by a collateral damage (i.e. civilian corpse, a human being who was made to cease to be as a side effect of war) in the documentary: Why We Fight
To break my unwritten rule about never explaining my work, there's no reference to Bush; it's about all who are involved in starting wars. Administrations, Corporations, Regimes and Terrorist Networks alike; even You and Me, sometimes.

Friday, April 4, 2008

Nagging

I feel as if I've lost something.

I'm not sure what it is, and that's what bothers me most about this feeling.

Ordinarily when I get the sense that something is missing, and nothing seems to be, I let it pass. This time though, it just won't go away. I've re-examined my life and found nothing lacking. I've made checklist after checklist to figure out what else it could be. I've spent entire nights pacing around my living room just trying to get it to come to me.

Yes, it's something big--it's persisted for days, as if I had a kid and forgot him somewhere. I don't have any kids, just a fiancé with whom I live. This is beginning to impact her badly as well.

It's hard to be so close to someone and deal with restless insomnia and this insane feeling, and I'm sure she's even begun questioning my mental health.

I know I have.

So what can make someone who's content in his professional and personal lives feel like something is missing?

And it's not a matter of wealth not making me happy. I'm not overly rich, though I do have money. I still sacrifice time and money to causes I care about, to trying to make the world a better place. There's nothing I do or say or buy that's out of alignment with my beliefs.

Is there something else out there I need? Is this a perfectly normal feeling to have at my age, about to exit my thirties? Perhaps this is what makes people find God, or buy a fancy sports car, or have an affair.

Mid-life crisis doesn't seem to be it though, at least not yet. I could be driven to that, but it really seems like I should just have to pull my keys out of my door or get a child out of the car after grocery shopping.

It's maddening.

In case you were wondering, it's definitely not about my coming marriage. I've never had a doubt about the woman I love and I've never looked back since I asked her. In fact I've never looked forward to something so much in my life.

Perhaps I've lost a sense, lost some vision, some faculty that I could only comprehend when I had it. If you needed eyes to be aware of eyes, going blind might be like this. You couldn't possibly notice them missing if you needed them in order to see them, except possibly by memory.

Or maybe it's what brain damage feels like, when you lose a certain amount of mental capacity. You might realize something is different, but I doubt if you could easily grasp exactly what. Losing the capacity complex thought, you wouldn't quite be able to understand what it is that you've lost.

Even if someone drew you a picture and did their best to explain it, there would be no way for you to understand what it felt like to have a fully functional mind.

Maybe I'm missing an idea. Be it the point of the universe or some piece of artistic inspiration, I missed the boat on it. I was probably distracted by something I was working on, or a drink I was having, or by wanting to sleep or have sex. So I failed to act on the inspiration, write it down, run to my studio and sketch it out. Or even just failed to pursue an interesting thought.

And now it's gone forever. I have no chance of remembering it and no chance of reproducing it. Yes, it was something big, something that would have changed my life or maybe even the lives of others--the world.

And now where it should have been, there is merely a gaping existential hole, the sense of failure coming to me intuitively from some supernatural sense of destiny: the world is now not as it should be, something is missing.

Or maybe I keep forgetting to buy something at the supermarket.

Whatever it is--if there is anything and my mind isn't just playing tricks on me--I hope I forget about it soon. Or maybe remember it. I just have this idea that if I remember it, it'll be too late to do anything about it, or it will be something horrible and life-ruining.

Ignorance might just be bliss, and despite mine it's been ages since I was found to smile regularly.

Well, this bottle has done it's work. Time to get some sleep.

Thursday, April 3, 2008

Tears of Rage, Tears of Grief

There's no blood on my hands,
only tears in my eyes,
for things I can't change, but despise.

Their flow comes with a pain,
out of my me flows a piece;
in a moment's relax they release.

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

A Sure shot

blank slate
rain snow rain
long sighs relief
sniffle nose wipe
umbrella, hat, mask
car bike stop
bus ped xing
raingear crowds pass
night, rain fall
couples, ave rats
flashing siren
purple neon
water, light, spilling
sounds, voices, trilling

Weight & Ice

impatience mine enemy,
cold holds me to thy bosom:
tho gravity kills

icy a-fallen to flat,
there is no succor
nor warm embrace.
adjoining, a part,
white blankets me
and I am no more estranged
from my enemy-sister,
one with the cold.