from this week in February 2013 (I was 68)
It is the imp in the bottle the embrace of leprosy
Empathy is to fade upon seeing the faded
an ability to hear the words of the dumb
It is to choke on the gasps of the dying
to smell the funeral in a bouquet of flowers
to taste the taint of mother’s milk gone sour
the regret in the burning of a flag
to disintegrate in the corruption of an idea
Obviously empathy goes a bit too far for me
January 16, 2013 (I was 68)
Tom, the Cat, Berkeley in the 70’s
Tom had a cat named Mandu
He lived on the corner of Ashby and Adeline
with Elaine whose cats were also so named
street cats as it were
She had a thing for live fur
and a claw proof water bed
so it is said a hippie pad
black light postered walls
billowy pink parachute tacked overhead
paraphernalia and junk overspread
all over the place like college degrees
and former families And they had parties
that brought out characters who knew Weed
Steven Weed and had partied with him and Patty
Clever names catch the cat’s eye
Once a bomb blew the door at B of A
just down the street as was the custom
of that day of re-invented freedom
and unconventional convention
Easy to agree what is shouldn’t be
not so to know whatever will be when they go
Both were both mathematical and philosophical
but artistically inclined they never
cleaned up the mess and distress of dissolve
Catoptrics explains the green reflection
from the feline eye I cannot
Tom gave up his ninth to a mechanical blast
Elaine knowing my indifference to pets
passed Adeline on to me Mandu
disappeared and Elaine took Ashby up another street
January 9, 2013 (I was 68)
I want TV shows and video games
that put reality in my life
I want to see
people screw extra-maritally
I want to hear them shout
when spouses find out
want to witness them caught
for whomever they shot
want them to talk filthy
when they’re guilty
want their mug shot to linger
while I give the screen the finger
I wanna cut down terrorist hordes
with my lasar swords
They scream in agony
when I drop them off my balcony
want their blood to spatter to antimatter
realistically right next to me
before I push the button to be
someone else in level three
January 6, 2013 (I was 68)
Wherever I have been I’m not quite there
there is always the place I just left
and the one I never get to
I’ve been detained in the woods
and lost in a cloud regretted the dreams
with accompanying schemes spoken aloud
When I look at them I’m among the stars
Out of sight in the daylight I find they’re out of mind
The more now to be done the less I can do
Satisfaction has no expectations it is
the now to be lost in the now to be
repeating the unlearned from my history
from this week of December, 2013 (I was 69)
The man on PBS did a documentary
to record the habits of happy people
and he determined through numerous interviews
the happiest people surround themselves
with family and friends a community of others
but he does not take account of those
who may have been very happy not
taking part in his little movie
December 7, 2013 (I was 69)
In Huck Finn like on the internet
nobody tells the truth to another
Some because they don’t know it
Some because they fear it
And never does it seem to occur to one
to be the sensible dodge
upon first meeting a probable devil
or one of his improbable imps
December 4, 2013 (I was 69)
it is difficult to be stupid everyday
I seem to forget how nearly every night
Just before I fall asleep I feel smartness creep in
I wake up clear-headed and practical
at times even ambitious and tolerant
perfectly willing to pass others with a smile
wishing them good morning as if it were mine to bestow
Soon I get to thinking change is possible
then encounter the complexity of inertia
a recollection of mindlessness at first
a low drone the scent of futility remembered
from history books and faded newspaper
the re-acquaintance with the shadow of doubt
who leans closer to whisper in the afternoon
to suggest it’s time to prepare a dinner of fatted sloth
and the recipe falls to mind step by step
beginning with a slow heat to render the fat
before stewing the meat in the amalgam of ingredients
that simmer into a singular tastelessness
I eat my fill directly from the pot in front of the TV
watching I think some game show where luck
decides whether someone wins or loses today
November 26, 2013 (I was 69)
The DELETE is the great key to success
it sends the highlighted mess to cyberspace
Errant thought and sloppy construction
erased without scar or cover-up
Physical ineptitude of fingers keyboard
mistakes that multiply in the awshit of their discovery
Gone with a single stroke
A little light above the heavy curtain of the confessional
changed from red to green upon your exit
to indicate unoccupied but to me a symbolic message Go
Proceed With A Clean Slate
even though I never believed it true
I believe the DELETE
An hour later in the street I don’t remember
the ill-conceived foolishness and there is no evidence
of damage nor inkling of wrong-doing
If in the life of bricks and blood
a touch of the REGRET upon mindful memories
could restore the mindless innocence
which preceded our momentary ignorance
I would be willing to recall and relate
every awfuck revelation that occurs to me
November 1, 2013 (I was 68)
I never could do hard work so I
did easy work. Hark work had no
purposeful end for me. Easy
work had a reason.
Something I
made would be fun later. A place
I invented could be visited again.
Hard work felt like my life was ending.
The more I did the closer it got.
Hard work required a hiding place.
Sometimes others made hard work
harder. They required an escape-
ownership of even a moment- two
breaths, a task at a distance. Easy
work defined itself, made itself obvious
without mention. Often I found myself
doing easy work with no awareness of
having begun. The tools of easy work
are very light. I improvised ways to
use them. It is hard to be the cause
to produce the correct effect. It is
easy to be the effect that wonders
at the cause. I wonder at the cause.
from this week in October, 2013 (I was 68)
The way is backward
along a mobius path
What was walked outward
forward is now the inner path
I was seen now I see
I was heard now I listen
What was scent now is aroma
I was touched now I feel
I had tasted now have taste
No where is the tunnel there from here
October 13, 2013 (I was 68)
8 days later
To come down the stairs
not of independent volition
is a demanding revelation
not whole and immediate
but of considered expansion
well after the fact of the act
The initial realization of survival
is quickly followed by truth of insecurity
The assessed relief no major damage
and a few deep breaths acknowledge the grace
of an occasion of good fortune
Then a shift of attention to minor immediacies
There are abrasions contusions and sprains
blood to stop ointments and bandages to apply
while the considerations begin to focus
The implications insistently apparent
alone in the house in the night
mobile phones out of reach if I were immobile
Then the ibuprofen and extra pillows
the ice bag moved from station to station
with an amalgam of prayerful incantation
Curses at careless unawareness
Hesitant tear of self-pity lost
in a grander wakefulness as I dropped to sleep
Night aroused the deeper pains
Aches of bounced muscles and yanked sinew
arm shoulder hip knee and ankle
presented during my dawn walk
knowledge now that a recurring concept
would wait atop every stair
June 29, 2013 (I was 68)
What in this life are you preparing to do elsewhere
What of interest but not of occupation
do you regard as unformulated pursuit
Artists in stone paint and glass define enchantment
Do you feel an inherent connection
a recognition that your presence fits
into a realm you’ve never visited
Where are those semi-familiar places
some part of you intends to occupy next time
This time team sport lost to individual endeavor
after a dedication to unity others did not share
Public dance gave way to secluded solo
I sat along borders of self-realization
watched visions pass behind closed eyes
breathed and hummed serene accompaniment
opened eyes to glimpse the sparkle of the mutable
Now I shall catch the attention of talented youth
who will become my great-grandparents
from this week in 2013 (I was 68)
The life of my wife is a grand success
she pushes the forward button
with determined persistence
moves things out of the way
or drags them along with her
She has a fear of finishing things
until she has begun two or three more
She sees the simple solution to complexity
but also draws out infinite detail
to explain nuances she has found
in any unanimous agreement
from this week in June, 2013 (I was 68)
Blunt Object
My grey T-shirt with the inscription “Blunt Object”
pictures an old standard black Royal typewriter
The tee is from the Newseum in Washington D.C.
On the paths of the sports park
I get a blunt stare from a woman with a big dog
Eyes turned askance from a lady with a little dog
Some puzzling grimaces I guess of exasperation
Of course many at their phones miss it
Someone my age passes by
eyes not good enough to read it
It would have been funnier in 1968
and if Nixon had seen it in ‘73
he would have said, “No shit.”
June 8, 2013 (I was 68)
Early on I knew I was on Earth
to learn humility
I’ve been given so many opportunities
early on I suspected
I’d never quite get the hang of it
Over the years I’ve grown to accept that
We are all limited in our talents
No matter the effort the perseverance
there are some goals
that remain unattainable
The problem is my perception
that what’s missing was of essence
from this week in May, 2013 (I was 68)
Do you own an intellectual domain
Actual real estate has become so expensive
Used to be foreigners were the only ones
who couldn’t afford to buy
Now they are the only ones who can
They bid over the asking and pay cash
We the country sell not only the land
we sell the faith in the dream we promised
our own children We fight absurd wars
of big dog belligerence
then fear every bark and yap we hear
Nothing sets the teeth on edge like fear
Diplomacy takes so much time
We can bomb tomorrow
Actually both are daily behaviors decided upon
with the false reasoning of preconceived notions
May 15, 2013 (I was 68)
Beginning the Overwhelming
Some images are iconic
portrayed in literary and dramatic arts
jumping on a moving carousel
speeding at you and flying away
catching a moving train
leaping from a horse to a stagecoach
or onto its galloping team
stepping out the door in a driving storm
making the momentous phone call
the first step on the green mile
the setting of life against powerful oppression
The gut-wrenching undertaking
always hinges on catching the momentum
a confident turn and grab-jump
doing an Einstein relatively speaking
gaining a foothold on the thought system
and a stomach for the motion
May 10, 2013 (I was 68)
Punctuphobia
Fear of being punctuated,
reduced to an appositive,
a parenthetical dashed off as an afterthought,
one of a commonality indistinguishable in series,
misquoted if quoted at all,
colonized (fully or semi-)
abbreviated, listed, compounded and diminished,
bracketed and appostrocized;
taken in exclamation, held breathless
or simply ended, period.
May 8, 2013 (I was 68). -see 3/15 above
The inquisitive soul learned to bowl
He who wins knocks down the most pins
The curious spirit could always hear it
clatter of wood that formerly stood
Attentive mind able to find
the perfect ball to cause the fall
from this week in May, 2013 (I was 68)
The Chemistry of Creativity
Much reputable research is done to discover the chemistry
of creativity. Daniel J. Levitin’s, Your Brain on Music, makes me
smarter about an artistic discipline I do not practice.
The classic, Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain, by Betty
Edwards, gave me practical insight into another artistic practice at
which I am not proficient. –Enough so, as to create a longing for
its pursuit, but also, an understanding that my artistic path lay
elsewhere.
Carl Sagan’s, The Varieties of Scientific Experience, (title
taken from Henry James’ Varieties of Religious Experience ?)
furthered my cosmic view of perceptions, perhaps first piqued long
ago by Marshall McLuan’s, The Medium is the Massage.
Poetry & Mysticism, by Colin Wilson has been a valuable
reference for me.
The forces and effects that engender creativity remain
mysterious. Isn’t that great? Creativity is not prescriptive. In
fact, one definition of creativity may be that it is anti-prescriptive,
a notion that widens our window of opportunity.
