iliveinyourhead - Hello Poetry

Breathing in, I dwell deeply in this moment Breathing out, I know, it is the perfect moment Breathing in, I see it is an only moment Breathing out, a moment that's truly one of a kind For appearances may delude one into thinking "This is nothing new it has all happened before" But the discrete events of THIS "now" have never happened before in precisely the same way and they never will again and though a moment may be filled with pain or anger or despair Just like the moment itself these will also disappear So too, a moment may be filled with rapture, bliss, and joy but as with the moment again these will also disappear Breathing in with this in mind to what is there to cling? Breathing out with this in mind from what am I repelled? Breathing in with this awareness, I see each moment is a miracle Breathing out with this awareness a smile sweeps across the face Breathing in, I'm here Breathing out, I'm now Breathing in I don't desire Breathing out I'm free

0

Feb 24, 2022

Feb 24, 2022 at 3:16 AM UTC

iliveinyourhead

Here and Now (for Thích Nhất Hạnh)

Breathing in, I dwell deeply in this moment Breathing out, I know, it is the perfect moment Breathing in, I see it is an only moment Breathing out, a moment that's truly one of a kind For appearances may delude one into thinking "This is nothing new it has all happened before" But the discrete events of THIS "now" have never happened before in precisely the same way and they never will again and though a moment may be filled with pain or anger or despair Just like the moment itself these will also disappear So too, a moment may be filled with rapture, bliss, and joy but as with the moment again these will also disappear Breathing in with this in mind to what is there to cling? Breathing out with this in mind from what am I repelled? Breathing in with this awareness, I see each moment is a miracle Breathing out with this awareness a smile sweeps across the face Breathing in, I'm here Breathing out, I'm now Breathing in I don't desire Breathing out I'm free

36

Well, green WAS my favorite color. . .

0

Sep 8, 2021

Sep 8, 2021 at 1:28 AM UTC

iliveinyourhead

Sinus Infection

Well, green WAS my favorite color. . .

6

As the curve flattens the pockets will fatten with 500 thousand now deader than Latin how many more will die before our jubilant July? When we all can get our jabs in and say "well now, I guess that's that, then"?

0

Mar 20, 2021

Mar 20, 2021 at 10:14 AM UTC

iliveinyourhead

Dead Americans

As the curve flattens the pockets will fatten with 500 thousand now deader than Latin how many more will die before our jubilant July? When we all can get our jabs in and say "well now, I guess that's that, then"?

10

There once was a boy named Gimmesome Roy. He was nothing like me or you. ’Cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do. As a kid, he sat in the cellar, sniffing airplane glue. And then he smoked bananas –– which was then the thing to do. He tried aspirin in Coca–Cola, breathed helium on the sly, And his life was just one endless search to find that perfect high. But grass just made him want to lay back and eat chocolate–chip pizza all night, And the great things he wrote while he was ****** looked like **** in the morning light. And speed just made him rap all day, reds just laid him back, And ******* Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back. He tried *** and THC, but they didn’t quite do the trick, And poppers nearly blew his heart and mushrooms made him sick. Acid made him see the light, but he couldn’t remember it long. And hashish was just a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong, And Quaaludes made him stumble, and ***** just made him cry, Till he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high. Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat who lived up in Nepal, High on a craggy mountaintop, up a sheer and icy wall. "But hell," says Roy, "I’m a healthy boy, and I’ll crawl or climb or fly, But I’ll find that guru who’ll give me the clue as to what’s the perfect high." So out and off goes Gimmesome Roy to the land that knows no time, Up a trail no man could conquer to a cliff no man could climb. For fourteen years he tries that cliff, then back down again he slides Then sits –– and cries –– and climbs again, pursuing the perfect high. He’s grinding his teeth, he’s coughing blood, he’s aching and shaking and weak, As starving and sore and bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak. And his eyes blink red like a snow–blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat, As there in perfect repose and wearing no clothes –– sits the godlike Baba Fats. "What’s happening, Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I’ve come to state my biz. I hear you’re hip to the perfect trip. Please tell me what it is. For you can see," says Roy to he, "that I’m about to die, So for my last ride, Fats, how can I achieve the perfect high?" "Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats. "here’s one more burnt–out soul, Who’s looking for some alchemist to turn his trip to gold. But you won’t find it in no dealer’s stash, or on no druggist’s shelf. Son, if you would seek the perfect high –– find it in yourself." "Why, you jive ************ screamed Gimmesome Roy, "I’ve climbed through rain and sleet, I’ve lost three fingers off my hands and four toes off my feet! I’ve braved the lair of the polar bear and tasted the maggot’s kiss. Now, you tell me the high is in myself. What kind of **** is this? My ears ’fore they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kind of crap, But I didn’t climb for fourteen years to listen to that sophomore rap. And I didn’t crawl up here to hear that the high is on the natch, So you tell me where the real stuff is or I’ll **** your guru *** "Ok, OK," says Baba Fats, "you’re forcing it out of me. There is a land beyond the sun that’s known as Zaboli. A wretched land of stone and sand where snakes and buzzards scream, And in this devil’s garden blooms the mystic Tzu–Tzu tree. And every ten years it blooms one flower as white as the Key West sky, And he who eats of the Tzu–Tzu flower will know the perfect high. For the rush comes on like a tidal wave and it hits like the blazing sun. And the high, it lasts a lifetime and the down don’t ever come. But the Zaboli land is ruled by a giant who stands twelve cubits high. With eyes of red in his hundred heads, he waits for the passers–by. And you must slay the red–eyed giant, and swim the River of Slime, Where the mucous beasts, they wait to feast on those who journey by. And if you survive the giant and the beasts and swim that slimy sea, There’s a blood–drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards that Tzu–Tzu tree." "To hell with your witches and giants," laughs Roy. "To hell with the beasts of the sea. As long as the Tzu–Tzu flower blooms, some hope still blooms for me." And with tears of joy in his snow–blind eye, Roy hands the guru a five, Then back down the icy mountain he crawls, pursuing that perfect high. "Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone, Facing another thousand years of talking to God alone. "It seems, Lord", says Fats, "it’s always the same, old men or bright–eyed youth, It’s always easier to sell them some **** than it is to give them the truth."

0

Feb 28, 2021

Feb 28, 2021 at 1:55 AM UTC

iliveinyourhead

The Perfect High (Shel Silverstein)

There once was a boy named Gimmesome Roy. He was nothing like me or you. ’Cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do. As a kid, he sat in the cellar, sniffing airplane glue. And then he smoked bananas –– which was then the thing to do. He tried aspirin in Coca–Cola, breathed helium on the sly, And his life was just one endless search to find that perfect high. But grass just made him want to lay back and eat chocolate–chip pizza all night, And the great things he wrote while he was ****** looked like **** in the morning light. And speed just made him rap all day, reds just laid him back, And ******* Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back. He tried *** and THC, but they didn’t quite do the trick, And poppers nearly blew his heart and mushrooms made him sick. Acid made him see the light, but he couldn’t remember it long. And hashish was just a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong, And Quaaludes made him stumble, and ***** just made him cry, Till he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high. Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat who lived up in Nepal, High on a craggy mountaintop, up a sheer and icy wall. "But hell," says Roy, "I’m a healthy boy, and I’ll crawl or climb or fly, But I’ll find that guru who’ll give me the clue as to what’s the perfect high." So out and off goes Gimmesome Roy to the land that knows no time, Up a trail no man could conquer to a cliff no man could climb. For fourteen years he tries that cliff, then back down again he slides Then sits –– and cries –– and climbs again, pursuing the perfect high. He’s grinding his teeth, he’s coughing blood, he’s aching and shaking and weak, As starving and sore and bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak. And his eyes blink red like a snow–blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat, As there in perfect repose and wearing no clothes –– sits the godlike Baba Fats. "What’s happening, Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I’ve come to state my biz. I hear you’re hip to the perfect trip. Please tell me what it is. For you can see," says Roy to he, "that I’m about to die, So for my last ride, Fats, how can I achieve the perfect high?" "Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats. "here’s one more burnt–out soul, Who’s looking for some alchemist to turn his trip to gold. But you won’t find it in no dealer’s stash, or on no druggist’s shelf. Son, if you would seek the perfect high –– find it in yourself." "Why, you jive ************ screamed Gimmesome Roy, "I’ve climbed through rain and sleet, I’ve lost three fingers off my hands and four toes off my feet! I’ve braved the lair of the polar bear and tasted the maggot’s kiss. Now, you tell me the high is in myself. What kind of **** is this? My ears ’fore they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kind of crap, But I didn’t climb for fourteen years to listen to that sophomore rap. And I didn’t crawl up here to hear that the high is on the natch, So you tell me where the real stuff is or I’ll **** your guru *** "Ok, OK," says Baba Fats, "you’re forcing it out of me. There is a land beyond the sun that’s known as Zaboli. A wretched land of stone and sand where snakes and buzzards scream, And in this devil’s garden blooms the mystic Tzu–Tzu tree. And every ten years it blooms one flower as white as the Key West sky, And he who eats of the Tzu–Tzu flower will know the perfect high. For the rush comes on like a tidal wave and it hits like the blazing sun. And the high, it lasts a lifetime and the down don’t ever come. But the Zaboli land is ruled by a giant who stands twelve cubits high. With eyes of red in his hundred heads, he waits for the passers–by. And you must slay the red–eyed giant, and swim the River of Slime, Where the mucous beasts, they wait to feast on those who journey by. And if you survive the giant and the beasts and swim that slimy sea, There’s a blood–drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards that Tzu–Tzu tree." "To hell with your witches and giants," laughs Roy. "To hell with the beasts of the sea. As long as the Tzu–Tzu flower blooms, some hope still blooms for me." And with tears of joy in his snow–blind eye, Roy hands the guru a five, Then back down the icy mountain he crawls, pursuing that perfect high. "Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone, Facing another thousand years of talking to God alone. "It seems, Lord", says Fats, "it’s always the same, old men or bright–eyed youth, It’s always easier to sell them some **** than it is to give them the truth."

66

**** if I know. I scarcely understand much anymore. I am but a puddle of coherent reminiscences oozing across the floor into decoherence and diffusing into maximum entropy. We are in Hell: all is Maya, all is Mara, all is Dukkha. Yet, we are slaves who love our chains. And I am a lifeless, fetal, **** economicus, mortifying de rigeur in the ossified skull of a long forgotten **** sapien. If only those kinship instincts could've survived the havoc we've wrought. Look at what we've done. Look at what we do. **** for money. **** for oil. **** for land. **** for 'justice.' **** for God **** for 'the cause' **** for the sake of killing, and pave over what's left. Leave a few trees and bushes for our dystopic terrarium. 'Our Synthetic Environment,' old Murray[1] called it. Now, walk into the forest. Be there. Stay there. Do you feel it? Any of this nonsense we call 'civilization'? Or is it that you feel something more. . . poignant? More true? To a point where our heated debates appear as no more than frivolous diatribes? When do we stop all this narrative solipsism and get to the ******* point? None of this is real. Our thoughts are not our own. Have they ever been? The Spectacle [2] reigns supreme as we idle spectators speculate idly upon it. Borges's fable of the cartographers [3] has reached its apotheosis, and we are its unwilling and unwitting victims. . . .

0

Jan 13, 2021

Jan 13, 2021 at 2:01 AM UTC

iliveinyourhead

Ask Me a Question

**** if I know. I scarcely understand much anymore. I am but a puddle of coherent reminiscences oozing across the floor into decoherence and diffusing into maximum entropy. We are in Hell: all is Maya, all is Mara, all is Dukkha. Yet, we are slaves who love our chains. And I am a lifeless, fetal, **** economicus, mortifying de rigeur in the ossified skull of a long forgotten **** sapien. If only those kinship instincts could've survived the havoc we've wrought. Look at what we've done. Look at what we do. **** for money. **** for oil. **** for land. **** for 'justice.' **** for God **** for 'the cause' **** for the sake of killing, and pave over what's left. Leave a few trees and bushes for our dystopic terrarium. 'Our Synthetic Environment,' old Murray[1] called it. Now, walk into the forest. Be there. Stay there. Do you feel it? Any of this nonsense we call 'civilization'? Or is it that you feel something more. . . poignant? More true? To a point where our heated debates appear as no more than frivolous diatribes? When do we stop all this narrative solipsism and get to the ******* point? None of this is real. Our thoughts are not our own. Have they ever been? The Spectacle [2] reigns supreme as we idle spectators speculate idly upon it. Borges's fable of the cartographers [3] has reached its apotheosis, and we are its unwilling and unwitting victims. . . .

55

Spectacle! Spectacle! Spectacle! Upon thee I feast as your willing receptacle thou art my bread's yeast! Fill me with fear and with grief and doubt Fill me with joy and with hope I may shout From atop a tall mount of my own dissolution And lull me to sleep with your grandiose illusion! Spectacle! Spectacle! Spectacle! DEAR! Help me make sludge into mead, crystal clear! Tell me my roles and opinions and thoughts! Sell me that which makes my deep emptiness naught! Oh, you our greatest omnipotent seer! Spectacle! Spectacle! Spectacle! CAUGHT! See what you've so serendipitously wrought! See how so boldly and wondrously you've taught! For without your guidance, what would be bought? What would be sold lest the gold you have brought? Spectacle! Spectacle! Spectacle! FRAUGHT! What would become of mass cultural trends? When means for themselves would desist and come ends? How could we possibly live without you When you are the arbiter of all that's True?

0

Nov 5, 2020

Nov 5, 2020 at 12:50 AM UTC

iliveinyourhead

Spectacle

Spectacle! Spectacle! Spectacle! Upon thee I feast as your willing receptacle thou art my bread's yeast! Fill me with fear and with grief and doubt Fill me with joy and with hope I may shout From atop a tall mount of my own dissolution And lull me to sleep with your grandiose illusion! Spectacle! Spectacle! Spectacle! DEAR! Help me make sludge into mead, crystal clear! Tell me my roles and opinions and thoughts! Sell me that which makes my deep emptiness naught! Oh, you our greatest omnipotent seer! Spectacle! Spectacle! Spectacle! CAUGHT! See what you've so serendipitously wrought! See how so boldly and wondrously you've taught! For without your guidance, what would be bought? What would be sold lest the gold you have brought? Spectacle! Spectacle! Spectacle! FRAUGHT! What would become of mass cultural trends? When means for themselves would desist and come ends? How could we possibly live without you When you are the arbiter of all that's True?

35

After all, it has come to this as our Laughter falls dumb and a mute glum persists while A once gorgeous flower now reeks of rank **** in An **** of power that seeks to dismiss that A siren song hides a great serpent's grim hiss in A dire long ride to a fervent abyss, but A glorious hour now seems to persist as A warrior throng's rising insurgent bliss Is igniting wrong's righting, with glee THEY RESIST In a fight long and tiring they refuse to desist In the night they stay strong as abuse gives its kiss But they KNOW what is right and must make it EXIST and when new order comes: THE OLD WILL NOT BE MISSED

0

Aug 23, 2020

Aug 23, 2020 at 8:11 AM UTC

iliveinyourhead

Pessimism/Optimism

After all, it has come to this as our Laughter falls dumb and a mute glum persists while A once gorgeous flower now reeks of rank **** in An **** of power that seeks to dismiss that A siren song hides a great serpent's grim hiss in A dire long ride to a fervent abyss, but A glorious hour now seems to persist as A warrior throng's rising insurgent bliss Is igniting wrong's righting, with glee THEY RESIST In a fight long and tiring they refuse to desist In the night they stay strong as abuse gives its kiss But they KNOW what is right and must make it EXIST and when new order comes: THE OLD WILL NOT BE MISSED

15

. . .(and the narrator asks:) Can someone tell me, where did all these basketball sized mangoes come from? Why is the sky purple, and who is the debonair, pinstriped, feather-brim porkpie hatted man in it, twirling his diamond handled cane and puffing his pipe into clouds, raining splotches of incandescent dark matter? See how it congeals into forms. Watch how the forms animate . . . . . . **** how many cigarettes is that, now? Could swear I'd quit months ago . . . LISTEN: Now they are communicating! "Zeepa Dappa Doppa Dooba Dooba Dee Dao!" The ghosts of deceased jazz musicians? Louis! Is it you? I'm not Dolly, but it ain't no folly of mine! D'ya wanna puff on this here ****** have a swig of this here wine? Wait, wuh-wuzzat? My FEETS' too big? FATS!!!!!!!!!!! IS IT REALLY YOU?!?!?!?! Cuz if'n it be, I must confess, I HAVE been misbehavin' S'pose that's why I'm here, after all.' This world is dense and immense and it makes less sense than a fortress guarded by an inch-high ironclad fence (. . .and 3 days later the narrator awoke and aptly asked:) **** Where did all my money go? Where is my left kidney? Why is there a tattoo of Icarus on my forehead? Why am I in Colombia? Where is my passport? WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS?!?!?!?!

0

Mar 22, 2020

Mar 22, 2020 at 6:33 AM UTC

iliveinyourhead

Scopolamine (Felt Cute, Might Delete Later...)

. . .(and the narrator asks:) Can someone tell me, where did all these basketball sized mangoes come from? Why is the sky purple, and who is the debonair, pinstriped, feather-brim porkpie hatted man in it, twirling his diamond handled cane and puffing his pipe into clouds, raining splotches of incandescent dark matter? See how it congeals into forms. Watch how the forms animate . . . . . . **** how many cigarettes is that, now? Could swear I'd quit months ago . . . LISTEN: Now they are communicating! "Zeepa Dappa Doppa Dooba Dooba Dee Dao!" The ghosts of deceased jazz musicians? Louis! Is it you? I'm not Dolly, but it ain't no folly of mine! D'ya wanna puff on this here ****** have a swig of this here wine? Wait, wuh-wuzzat? My FEETS' too big? FATS!!!!!!!!!!! IS IT REALLY YOU?!?!?!?! Cuz if'n it be, I must confess, I HAVE been misbehavin' S'pose that's why I'm here, after all.' This world is dense and immense and it makes less sense than a fortress guarded by an inch-high ironclad fence (. . .and 3 days later the narrator awoke and aptly asked:) **** Where did all my money go? Where is my left kidney? Why is there a tattoo of Icarus on my forehead? Why am I in Colombia? Where is my passport? WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS?!?!?!?!

35

Hoard the **** paper, I'll use rags or ties, but **** with my milk, and I'll shank out your eye

0

Mar 22, 2020

Mar 22, 2020 at 5:30 AM UTC