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Sep 1 · 28
pulse
PuLsE

pULse

because,

I mean,



dripping like a wet set of waterworks, I cry

to express my own ****** analogies

on a sidewalk where no one will

ever stop to give a ****,

unless it's in order to call

the authorities

because

it's true.

What the ****

IS going ON

?
(use your words,

not your fists.)

Written on September 1st, 2019 at 12 PM in Victoria, BC, Canada.
Jun 8 · 241
Wind-Water-Mill
you don't terrify me
as you once did,
death.

the tidal waves lose mooring
slipping closer, sipping closer
to my toes.

hidden, as they are,
beneath loose, easily
wetted canvas (no socks).

I have no company,
and thus sip Company lager
to hwhet-the-hwhistle

(just a little....

just a little).
Written Monday, June 3rd, 2019
at Dallas / Fonyo Beach,
Victoria, BC, Canada
softcomponent May 26
25 years into life on this planet. A quarter of a ******* century. I've attended more friend's funerals than weddings, a sad typicality of the generation I arose in beautiful concert with.

This strange fact reminds me of the opening lines from Allen Ginsberg's Howl:

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the ***** streets at dawn looking for an angry fix."

I too sought this same angry fix, but removed myself from the clutter once death stalked the corners of my own addled streets. I too was destroyed by this madness, but given the gift of a second chance upon which to reform... and the guilt that stretches its legs so cavalierly, so callously, across the resting stool of my mind reminds me of this every day I do not practice sobriety as a dogma (just as I simultaneously recognize I should never accept it--or anything else--as dogma).

It's been two strange years since Anton passed, and he still haunts me as the interpersonal ghost of the relationship we had together which, with his death, has become embodied as said ghost sans the need for either of our particular presence. Perhaps this felt phantom of our collective essence will continue to waft throughout our globular strangeness we call the Earth until all observation becomes impossible for lack of any remaining observers. I loved you once, and I will love you always, and thus will always love you until "always" becomes as relative as "once upon a time."

"Early 17th century: from Greek exēgēsis, from exēgeisthai ‘interpret’, from ex- ‘out of’ + hēgeisthai ‘to guide, lead’."

I read myself and "it's" or "him's" reality like others read scripture itself.

I am neither hetero nor homosexual. I am bisexual, and many (even within the tight '***' community) do not understand this when I give an attempt towards a definition of a monogamous relationship, despite it's polyamorous-ness in its long-term oprative-ness, ability, and identity.

A monogo(mish) identity. Something which proves it's loyalty and is only taken in as an operative contingent of oneself thereof. Couldn't be more favor in their flavor, so this is simply a translation of my multiplicity of romances in my monetary destitution (not that anyone has to pay me for anything lol).
May 26 · 38
Samsung notepad poem
softcomponent May 26
The self-imposed comma
Has eluded me
For decades.

It eludes me now
To this day
And I wonder:

When will I be given a chance?

Or will I take it myself
Hoping not to repeat
Churchill's attempt
In vain glory
To conquer Gallipoli?

But first off,
How do I correct

My own mistakes?
Sep 2018 · 156
(sic)
softcomponent Sep 2018
there really is no necessity to go on living. don't treat it like a duty, treat it as a gift. and don't for a minute think you have to take it seriously.      the point is, if you really want to check out of this experience,            

                                       you can.                    

                                        








                          
                                                      you just don't have to.
softcomponent Jun 2018
Twisting my own arms backwards,

heaving myself to the pavement

to let it all go,

let it all out

and become a

self-same sense of

sensation as sensation,

just so I can be

happy with all these

thoughts, at the very least;

it's all I'm ever

asking for.


It's all any of us

are ever

really

asking for.
*dedicated to no one, because it's still 'someone' too.*

Written Monday, June 11th, 2018 at Fonyo / Dallas Beach,
Victoria, BC, Canada, around 6:30 pm.
softcomponent Jun 2018
it feels like
I can be nothing
more than a
recurring burden
to others.

They all say,
"Get well soon,
friend; let's get
you back on
your feet,"

but my mind
keeps whispering

"It's all too
much, & it's
all too late.


*You might
as well
get
gone
for
good."
"Hang me, oh hang me, & I'll be dead & gone,
wouldn't mind the hanging, been
layin' in the grave so long,
poor boy, I've been
all around this world."

Written Monday, June 11th, 2018,
at Fonyo / Dallas Beach, Victoria, BC,
Canada, around 6 PM.
Jun 2018 · 107
Reckless Peninsular Abandon
softcomponent Jun 2018
Three people
stand upon
a peninsular
rock revealed
overnight from
beneath the
rolling waves
looking out
towards
Port Angeles,
each absorbed
in their smart
-phone, save

for rotating


photo opportunities



with the entire



           planet


                              itself.
Written Monday, June 11th, 2018 at Fonyo / Dallas Beach,
Victoria, BC, Canada
around 5:53 PM.
Jun 2018 · 117
Pineal Disassociation
softcomponent Jun 2018
Both my inner

& outer companions

cannot accompany me

any further.



Each have their

own lives

to live.
Written Monday, June 11th, 2018
at Fonyo / Dallas Beach, Victoria,
BC, Canada around 5:45 PM.
softcomponent May 2018
Strange artists;

even we wish

to marry the

sentiment. Marry

the "factual"

C.R.E.A.M

or "CASH

RULES EVERY

-THING AROUND

ME."


But if it truly

rules over us,

which, in fact,

it does,

then let's call

its neurotically

quantified

condescension

for

what it is:

"The Divine Right

of Kings."



And we already

beat the living

legitimately-validated

****

out of that narrative

a long, long while

ago.


"Hello? Are you

human & have

you been listening

for the past

100,000 years?"



Rhetorical

question.

Yes,

you have.
Written Monday, May 20th, 2018 between 5:10 & 5:16 PM in Sunset Park, neighborhood of Wildwood, Powell River, BC, Canada.
softcomponent May 2018
Tell me of the mystified Isle's,

the dampening subheader

splotching itself upon

a concrete rug

that calls itself

"AMAZING.

SO PATHED, SO SMOOTH, SO GRANITE,

GRANDEUR, AND GRENADE-THROWN

   A      M     A    Z     I     N    G   G   G  G."
Written Saturday, May 19th, 2018 at midnight to 12:30 AM in Cawston, BC, Canada.
May 2018 · 133
Oil Rigs at Bottom's End
softcomponent May 2018
Solvent catechisms

dripping thru the ashes

of complacency,

like a burnt-out cosmos

weren't enough to convince

a high-ender like me

not to dance along

to the beat

of my own

sordid

drum.
Written Saturday, May 19th, 2018 at midnight to 12:30 AM in Cawston, BC, Canada.
softcomponent May 2018
Collecting lonely moments

while not technically "alone,"

a recipe for bite-the-bullet recovery

from on high.


The bonds between I & "Other"

seem to strain

to the point that they

ALMOST snap...

whether in collapsing disconnection

or the simple anxious pulse

of "all" in disassociation,

like identity

was nothing more

than a summer lawn

adorned in trampolines,

with ideas of ID's

bouncing up & down

like an ambivalent parade

of helium balloons.
Written May 13th, 2018
in Powell River, BC, Canada
softcomponent May 2018
this town is a skin

I thought I shed

like a snake

in the grass.


But sitting above

my old haunts

as if a vault

of old remembrances

dipped in a soft coat

of nostalgia

has made me find

it is much deeper than that:

it still sits in my

muscles, my irises,

and burrows

down

into

my

bones.
Written May 7th, 2018
in Powell River, BC, Canada.
Apr 2018 · 104
scratch-bloody indifference
softcomponent Apr 2018
someone once told me

to purify fire, one must

wash the flame

and sit in darkness, thinking:

"finally, it's the Brand New Testament

                                              I'm reading."
softcomponent Apr 2018
Tell me everything,

but—hey, wait!!—as you do

start way back at nothing,

*** it's still 'something' too.
Apr 2018 · 179
i AM the consumer!
softcomponent Apr 2018
A life seen in wide-angle

is a floodlight

chewing away the collective cataracts

of ignorance

only to spit them back out

and make a stew

with the sloppy remains.

(please,

                     just promise you won't eat me

                                                             ­           'til I'm dead.)
Apr 2018 · 108
Last Call, Casanova!
softcomponent Apr 2018
Sad cars stream down/up/down/up highway

like a two-way waterfall

full of salmon Neal Cassady's

and

Sal Paradise's

on their way to the

spawning sanctuary

to give birth to a strange

bleeding

fever // dream.
written Sunday, February 4th, 2018
in Rock Bay, Victoria, British Columbia.
softcomponent Apr 2018
AS IF
the curvature
of the
earth
were enough
to let me know
there were another side
to this great continental shore,
a side
long
distant
at which you will soon
find yourself
clasping
the base
of infant trees
and gnawing them
deep
into the soil floor
as if finally
wage-labor
employed its own services
to stave off
the further destruction
of our single biosphere.

"Does distance
make the heart
grow fonder,
or
does distance
cause the heart
to wander?"

All I can say to this is:
I hope that while your body wanders,
my heart will be beating
alongside yours
beneath
the soft blemished skin
of your chest
and as
they hold each other close
below your rib-cage,
you will hold
mine close
as you freeze
and ache
at the end
of an abandoned
back-wood
workday
as if

we can


never



truly leave


each other's

orbit


so

long

as



gravity



persists.
dedicated to my darling, Hannah Clark.

the ocean of land between us can't keep us apart--because we've built our love with our own brick & mortar.
softcomponent Apr 2018
having a seizure
is like
having the rug
of
basic familiarity
in life
entirely
tugged out
from beneath
your mental footing

as your perceptions
whittle themselves
into
sharp
sensitivities
and a
strange penchant
to mistake
the place
you find
yourself
in

for
... another ...


or start
mixing memories
and
perceptions thereof
as if both
must
have always been
one
and the
same

(which,

granted,

perhaps they are.)

This proves
there really is
no difference between
the observer
of the universe
and
what is actually observed

...except relative to the ubiquitously shared
sobriety of the
rest
of the
human race
reinforcing
its own
cognitive-perceptive bias
through a never-ending
feedback loop
leashed and tagged
with a label that reads:

'Radio Normativity.'

"Tune in to have your bias confirmed!"
softcomponent Apr 2018
so everlasting love was what we wanted,
a universe that sank into a
self-same
observation
of itself
like a child
into the pages
of a
well-written book.

but in wanting it,
we admitted to our
great
                    collective
                                               dissonance:

we didn't have it.

and so,
as we sought,
the copious

bLeEt-ing

of our
sheep-like

humanities

repeated

the very same
angry

mantra:

"   serendipity
                                          has really got me
                                                                                          by the *****.   "
Mar 2018 · 500
existence hurts
softcomponent Mar 2018
there was never much left for me to say,
insofar as I didn't know how to articulate it or,
if I did, I no longer possessed the energy to do so.

Hope comes stranded, like a helium balloon
left to wander the skies once released
at a city parade.

A child not yet wise to the knowledge
that helium
is lighter
than air
imagines she can let go
to weave her little shoes
into secure knots with
both hands,
so by the time she looks up to find this renegade bulb,
it's nothing more than one of what could be
ninety-nine red balloons
floating in the summer sky.

In this sense,
it could be said hope comes
from all angles,
regardless of whether this
little drip of serendipity
is gifted by accident,
intention,
or
simple curiosity.

Existence always hurts.
But it's our challenge to choose
how it hurts:
will it be a chronic sickness unto death,
inspiring moroseness and jaded apathy?
Or will it feel like gym pain,
as if liquid gold has pooled
into every open crevice
of bone marrow
so the ache is nothing
but
a
friendly reminder
of our living vitality
through having
expended
the body,
mind
and soul
in satisfaction?
"The opposite of depression isn't happiness, it's vitality."
softcomponent Feb 2018
Far too often the past few years I've felt as if I were C3PO dragging my robot-feet through the parched, endless dunes of the Tatooine deserts in the opening salvos to A New Hope.

"Oh R2, it seems be our lot in life to suffer."

The past 2 years, though it would be impossible to say each and every contiguous moment was terrible, has, in the aggregate evaluation of retrospect, been the worst 2 of my life so far. Two good friends have lapsed into the realm of death as a result of drug overdoses, I've slogged through episodic epilepsy which has precipitated a full return of my anxiety and major depressive disorder, seen the end of the longest relationship I've ever been in after 3 and a half years following which my ex-girlfriend (probably legally a civil-union 'spouse' by the point of departure) immediately leap-frogged into the newly committed arms of someone I thought to be a best friend less than 2 weeks after our termination as a couple, my compression-of-self to manically pursue academic ends, some of which would never reach fruition regardless of my best efforts, Donald Trump's election to the highest office of political authority in the United States and all that is contingent on this terribly seminal event, my manifest inability to accept that I am perhaps affected heavier by the loss of these two said friends than I often actively feel myself to be within any given moment, aaannnd.... where has it all lead?

This is perhaps the $64,000 question. I feel it is most certainly the reason I write today.

I have been, on many levels, classically defeated by forces of life known to human experience since the beginning of time. I am emotionally, intellectually, and physiologically exhausted.
I desire nothing more than the ability to take a period of hiatus, to retreat and regroup for a few months, let all bleed to paper, a catharsis permitted as energy levels allow. But I'm afraid because I don't have the money to support such a retreat despite my knowing exactly what I need. Rent will still rear its **** head to guillotine my unprepared neck and truly substantiate a hard, physical contrast between the 'body' and 'mind.' This being said, it is only the dissonant forces of economy which maintain this illusion as a practical necessity.

If economy can't let go of me so I can let my soul soar to express, I often begin to contemplate yet again the only third option between a rock and a hard place: that of suicide, the ultimate and final release. The 'greatest' final "Great Escape."

Just let me go, or I'll do it for me.

Please, convention. Give me the space I need. Because I know, I know, I know I need it.
Written early November 2017.
softcomponent Feb 2018
Castles in the sand, or
Castles in the sky.

There's a whisper of tentative potentials
wafting thru the air like mill smoke.

It keeps us withered and wondering,
starstruck, mutilated in spirit & empowered
in mind.

We chant, "I don't mind. Terror
is an error but no error stems from
a terrified wolf,"
simply reacting
to the terrain like a Ghost
losing the ghost of its mind
in these very same whispers
as they morph into a melody,
a whistle, a beautiful problem
ready to be solved.

(ready to be solvent.)
They asked me what life meant.
My reply was, "Life is meaning itself,
embodied in a compound unity
with no center."

"And we are seamless expressions of this
same strange mystery, this same
absurd dance
where the point
is the point,
and the point
isn't sharp."

Not anymore, anyways.
Jan 2018 · 118
Prefixed in Picture
softcomponent Jan 2018
Test the prefix, nasty "the,"

"the end," "the task," "the mannequin's

freakishly piercing magenta gaze";

What's the MaTtEr?

is matter the MaTtEr?


Don't twist my arm

like a twist-off beer cap,

twist & shout, perhaps

because the void needs us

to scream.


We exist as the amplified feedback

of the Universe-At-Large,

& if sound isn't made,

there can't be consciousness,

or confusion

without the screeching feedback

loop of time.
softcomponent Jan 2018
how much easier it might be
to type these words, not
write & swipe with the
sword-tip of a pen across
the canvas of a page
mashing buttons on a controller
swifting for a combo ****
conclusion to an aperture
of computer "consciousness"
rearranged in form of pixels
with every maneuver, shift,
& dodge across the canvas
of light emitting diodes on
your television set / computer
screen.

Macroeconomics, on the DL

(down-low), meticulously

controlled as an experiment

on nothing mellow,

nothing easy,

*nothing soft.
softcomponent Jan 2018
If only there was a way
to explode into an aperture
of terminal ecstasy, massing
an army too small for invasion
at the borders of a conflagration
far larger than our individual bodies
crafted of flesh, bone, and water. Sort
of like oatmeal rising with the addition
of a liquid, expanding to become the last
thought you'd imagine you'd ever hear
spoken aloud in a busy thoroughfare strip
mall lost in the sprawl of cityscape snowed
over in light sprinkles like icing sugar across
the soft top part of our holiday muffin.

Location,
location, location!


Look at those palisades
of rock, ice, and tree,
evergreen (  maybe

FOREVERgreen   )

Soak the fire!
we're all about
to spot a light
at tunnel's
end.

Flashlights off.

Eyes closed.

And with your
eyes closed, close
your eyes
tightly.

-  -  -

*Thank u
for the
chance
to
once
again
dream
big

(again).
Jan 2018 · 341
The Strait of Georgia
softcomponent Jan 2018
The wind is a slack freeze billowing
across the low structures of the ferry
as it floats indelibly towards the coastal
island landmass once known as Quadra
and Vancouver's Island, now maintaining
only the former prefix as if either dub of
the landscape was a 'fix' at all. There is a
Canadian flag tangling with itself in the cold,
wound around a metal cable wire on the top sun
deck reserved for smokers avoiding the crisp air
for the formaldehyde devil they already know.

Waves ripple through the fabric flag above and
the fabric water below, both tossed by the same
heavenly forces forever wafting throughout the
globe as if all the steam ever boiled never truly
left the biosphere nor converted back into liquid
but instead became yet another one of many
unforeseen
byproducts
of our
oh-so human
participation
in
existence;

yet another
one of many
unforeseen
consequences
left to ring in
our ears til we
cease as observers,
thus ceasing to
observe.

“It is above as it is below”
and
“there is no difference between
the observer and the observed.”
Not my thoughts, nor I doubt
anyone's thoughts
in particular.

Snow dusts the caressed peaks,
valleys, and crevices of the
Pacific Coastal mountain range,
each geological mound standing
shoulder-to-shoulder looking
across the withered liquid mounds
in quicker motion atop the Georgia
Strait below as if watching a child
relative playing with new toys
received on
Christmas morning.

I have no words
adequate enough
to express all this
beauty.

All I can do
is help you
read my mind
and hope
my
wordless words
equal
poetic telepathy.


The wind is still a slack freeze as I exit the ferry.
There's no one here but all of us,
*hello!
softcomponent Jan 2018
I did nothing today as pertains
academia. I AM  a mess of a
man. a mess of a manly manly
man. not that I need to be a manly
manly man, but I would like to be
at least moderately successful in my
ventures (I have too many dreams to
hold silent in a space as small as this
skull of mine). Dance with me in this
awfulness, like a she-wolf lone in the
wilderness with nothing but a collar
to tell it that it was once a dog. Tell me
your wrongs and I'll tell you mine.
Together, we'll make it
"right."

Together, as I said, we will make it
write.

Lost in an unmapped maze, we are
forced to draw our own from the
narrow chinks in our particular
caverns. Unique in amazement
and pain. Unique in the colors
our blood takes when converted
to paint. Unique in the ways we
slowly **** ourselves. Unique in
the ways we slowly work to build
life's very meaning from nothing
but a blank canvas always declaring
that "tomorrow never comes."
But I think you understand
as well as I do:
**this was the point all along.
softcomponent Nov 2017
bird **** plummets onto the roadway pavement as pedestrian traffic moves through the crosswalk intersecting Johnson and Douglas, vaguely luminescent from the bright of the sun until they transit beneath the awning shadowed canopy of a downtown tree planted on the sidewalk and disappear around the sight-block of an old redbrick corner building now refitted to host a Burger King, its windows grimey with human sweat grease and fast-food fast-life apathy.....

// // ... // // ... . and as I open my eyes, I realize it for the visceral memory it is; a waking memory-dream of the job I once held at a smoke-shop downtown. A job obtusely abandoned with no more than a crisis-ridden "sorry-goodbye-so-sorry-*******-goodbye." These strange internal replicas of days spent in hours sitting, waiting, small-talk drenched in my own irrational impatience at everything-at-once, habitually referencing death as a way out from the hollow auditorium in the back of my head where all my thoughts lose themselves amongst their own reflections in an endless hall of mirrors. These are the only souvenirs I possess from the end of an era.

Life has simultaneously come and gone. Death and birth manifest in every moment. Dapper conventions leave a framework in place while I peep through the wide open margins where walls and windows should be, wondering if the jig is finally up.  

Long before both my birth and the birth of Christ, Heraclitus wrote:
"No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man."
and just as it is in life experienced, so it is in the grand rivers and overlooked tributary streams of memory quite the same.

And though it may not be the same river nor I the same man, the flow of both is contiguous with all. This I know for certain.
Nov 2017 · 200
TL;DR
softcomponent Nov 2017
all those

who lock their gaze

on the study of this world

are the personifications

of confusion, servicing

walls of text to summarize

so you don't

have to.
softcomponent Sep 2017
a friend once told me that I talk too much. always click the 'get directions' button in cases where I'm completely unsure of the water beneath my feet and wait for the next exit to bring me to wherever I've decided home is going to be for the next moment in space-time. I glare at the flashes of sparkling light in the sky and wonder why I haven't thought of this more-- why I haven't placed myself above the pain inside my lackluster lungs and questioned every spoken pettiness for its lack of asking directions. not all those who wander are lost, and not all those who are lost, wander. it's just hard to tell whose who when we're all blind marbles rolling across a flat board-game edition of the earth, bouncing off one another and forever altering the confused matrix of life with our verbal skirmishes of love and hate, *** and war. all the lines blur and static white-noise gives me a chance to listen to our origin on reality TV as I wait and wait for the next notch in the stairs toward the door. I wish I was rich in spirit, and poor in mind.. alas, I'm poor in spirit and rich in mind when I actually find it in myself not to drop it like a heavy treasure chest full of sweet and sour nothings I could use for little more than bragging rights-- "everybody, look what I found!"

sitting on the number 6 bus toward work the other day I had the panicked thought of children-- "will I ever be a father? am I sure I want to live long enough try?" I've always dreamed of eventually settling with kids, a life-partner, and a modest home in a quiet whereverthehellwefeellike.. books tower on every wall and beg the question to be asked and it's all a joyful redundancy if you realize it only results in more questions, and that's okay. I'd read Alan Watts to my kids and show them how we are all just God playing hide-and-seek.
Sep 2017 · 218
The Battle of Aboukir Bay
softcomponent Sep 2017
everything withers on a vine like
                                                         grapes
                                                                ­      to
                                                                ­           raisins.
Seeking the power of sublimation,
I grasp the ghost of my sadness
by the scruff of it's ghostly collar
and look it in the ghostly eyes to tell it,
as resolutely as Horatio Nelson
                                             screaming
                                                                ­  commands to his fleet to attack
Napoleon's assembled navy
at the mouth of Aboukir Bay
two centuries
and
19 years before the meanwhile write,
that I can't breathe.
I can't breathe.
I really can't breathe you
sonuvabitch.  

*but in the end, my victory is as
assured as Napoleon's eventual
defeat. I will route my demons at
their own little Waterloo...
and even if they return
from exile to rule one last time,
they will find their second attempt
much
more
fleeting.
Jul 2017 · 377
"what is a poet?"
softcomponent Jul 2017
as the air slithers thru my barely-opened window,
and the lisdexamphetamine begins its pulsing thru
my veins, I think of my abrogation of poetry for
manic intellectual pursuit at the highest academic
degree. The pace of an angry, deletrious, passionate
mad gift of insanity that will always leave me with
un-relieved pressure in the mind, migrated to the
solar plexus, where it builds and builds and builds
until the steam must exit lest I explode in the trapped
heat and experience a heat-death perhaps not unlike
that predicted for our universe, billions of years from now.

And I asked myself a question I recognize someone has
already asked and answered for me.

"What is a poet?"

Hello?

I asked, "What is a poet?"

Soren Kierkegaard glances up from his study in the office
I've established for him in my mind. He repeats the question
for clarification, and declares:

*“What is a poet? An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music.... And people flock around the poet and say: 'Sing again soon' - that is, 'May new sufferings torment your soul but your lips be fashioned as before, for the cry would only frighten us, but the music, that is blissful.”
Jul 2017 · 322
the you in you
softcomponent Jul 2017
songbirds twitter within the acoustic enclave of my mind.

only when I've galvanized myself with the looming shadow
of nothingness,
a dark initiative,
something life-denying
and yet
spoken loudly to be spoken away
do I learn the language of redemption.

only when the darkness is embraced
can one gaze beyond its shoulder,
ready to climb the next mountain
and descend into the next valley
with no recrimination
towards the you in you
that's hurting
**you.
Jun 2017 · 528
self-anthropology
softcomponent Jun 2017
I sat behind the barricade between the street, the bar, and the park overlooking that glistening pause-asteric of the water... my phone was clamped closed at zero battery life so I was alone with the city and the city was alone with me. as subtly as I could, I pulled my pipe from the bottom of my over-encumbered backpack satiated with 6 books (and they tell me knowledge is power, but they'll probably just drive me insane with question after question after question because the study of the world is one in which the brain falls victim to exponential growth 2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128, 256)

MY SKULL ISN'T BIG ENOUGH

I couldn't find my grinder, so I tore the bud by hand. More than half a nug was spent, pushed solid in place like a **** mound about to reach apocalyptic ****** thanks to the soft clitoral bonfire of a red Bic lighter.

blaze, set, and fade til you rise again
little stoner boy.
softcomponent Jun 2017
pain, pain,
regardless of the pain
i will be here in the rear-view
skating past and saying
'hell-ohhell-no'
to the passerby's in Jeep's and Prius
and Camry's
and Adidas shoes
all tattered and bled along highways
and back-roads of life.

when Robin Williams died by belt self-suffocation,
i was back in the dark of a previous mind and i cried
*** i saw myself in his suicide.
i saw my darkness colored in with pitch-black pastels,
*****,
grass-stains,
and infidelity..
toffee from a homeless man
and
i hand him a cigarette.

my lungs were never my life-force - -
my lungs were never my life-force - -

all the blurry peripheral city lights
dancing in my withheld tears
as i marched from Douglas to Yates
and the old Korean karaoke bar
with the silent tv
dancing asians moving mouth-muscles for nothing
as the song sings someone else to sleep in Seoul..

the unwashed windows 3 floors up the office building are the strangest thing i noticed in this delicate flood of hopelessness, seagulls screeching from spider-men perches
on street-lamp,
power-line,
construction crane

"I want to be a man again
*I want to be a mannequin."
Jun 2017 · 365
the numberless takeaway
softcomponent Jun 2017
zero in on that second when gravity
takes a small dive into the contrast
that is nothing.
you are left comparing what your
senses still reveal to the soft blanketed
blankness of no-thing at all.

an absence only apparent because
it has been
defined.

the numbered becomes numberless
when there's nothing
to
count.
Mar 2017 · 300
stock poem
softcomponent Mar 2017
insert reference
     to famous artist
                   drinking chardonnay
        on expressionist rockface
  dreaming of a better
                                       madder
                                                          sadder­
                                                                ­               gladder
                                                                ­                                 world.
Feb 2017 · 358
InCoGnItO
softcomponent Feb 2017
part of me
wishes
there were something more
lighthearted
to a super-sonic boom.

something muted;
not another
concept
to be scaled
by the
rock climbers
of
rationality,
in one ******* ear
and
out the other.

it's valentines day,
and I miss her.

there's no plainer way to put it;
what this day
represents
is my
drooping
solar plexus,
and the tightness
of my totality
when I try to
focus in
on the feeling;
or, conversely,
when I try
to turn myself
away.

And so I must accept it
in minor tidal waves
lapping
across my tired eyes,
just to get caught in the crevices
of my always-bleeding
lips.
Feb 2017 · 475
uphill both ways
softcomponent Feb 2017
take off like the bird you are;
beyond the horizon,
looking toward Port Angeles,
lights
in the cold,
lights
in the night--
the sound of chat and crackling fire
wafting across Dallas Beach
as we use the
lights
on our phones to navigate nature's cragged stairwells,
up and down and up and down;
the relief,
the respite,
came from the snowblind-white patches of
light,
that we would then soon decline and hop to softer sand below.
There's a relief in going uphill when
physics
means you must come down;
tho I think of these remembrances,
spasmodic, fragmented memories of 3 and a half years together
I realize you and I had faced a bigger battle
---one that terrified us both--
as to whether we should
part ways
as if it were perhaps
long
overdue--

but there's no relief in an incline like that.
We'd have been walking uphill both ways.    

and now we  are
in the dark
with nothing but the
lights
of our phones

walking uphill
*like we had a choice.
softcomponent Feb 2017
there are times
when the thoughts
float through my head,

of you,

and I picture your face as it glows
but from a place of distance
---like it wasn't
less
than
a
week
ago
that we ended almost 4 years of love in close proximity
--- instead,
it's been 6 months,
and with some distance on the pain,
rationality has processed all aspects of the break
and twisted the Rubix cube of my life back into its
solid reds, blues, greens, and yellows.

however,
as my concentration slips in the early evening,
this distance is replaced with what feels like a soft,
slow-motion punch
---not just to the gut,
but through the gut,
twisting my intestines into knots of withdrawal,
my eyes drooping from
AlErT
to
"why does it feel like I've had a death in the family?"

it's like clockwork;
I have a window to work with
each and every morning,
but by 4 PM if I'm caught mid......
-sentence..... in my....
textbook.....
"A History of the Modern Middle East",
my stomach dropping
like
global oil prices
in the 1960's
under the tutelage
of the
Saudi King
Faysal,
every word I read bounces off my irises
like they were tennis *****
and I'm playing squash with the pages.
softcomponent Feb 2017
you're not going to read this, and why would you?*

it would be either
naive
or
stupid
of me to expect even so much as a text;
as if our separation implies the ******* of a proverbial
Berlin Wall* between us,
where less than a week ago we were the same *country,

our landscapes of rolling hills,
city skylines,
and forests
so overgrown
that only
slices
of sunlight
could parse the ever-greened canopy,
phasing into one another seamlessly.

We may have been our own provinces,
but aside from small street signs declaring
Welcome to Jen
and
Welcome to Kyran...
aside from separate cognitive centers of self-government
between
your shock-blue eyes and fleek eyebrows,
between
my navy-blue irises and grey,
sunken sockets,
we were a willing confederation of persons,
impulses,
                dreams,
                             ambitions,
                                              anxieties,
                                                              lo­ves,
                                                                ­        and betrayals---

In our past, and provisional separations,
it was your betrayal that pushed us both
into the doldrums of love-lost confusions
and self-hatred;
not that there would be much value
in assigning a blame
with hurt still attached,
because the point,
it seems to me,
was that we somehow made it through everything together.

There wasn't a personal adversity we didn't learn to conquer
---until I began to fade away from you--
lanky, thin, often broke, and depressed,
I retreated.

I cocooned myself in studies of the past and the present;
for some reason, despite my overwhelming love for you,
despite the unspoken commitment I had made
to you
in my head
so long after your second infidelity
when I realized I was finally over it
and that I loved you more than I'd ever loved anyone before
--and in ways I never could have foreseen--

I backed-off,
I fell back,
I disengaged,

and

I essentially abandoned you.

After your impulsive infidelities,
when you admitted you hadn't been
nor were you in your
"right mind,"
you promised you'd get better.

You saw councilors, therapists, psychiatrists,
and psychologists... and you did.

You really did get better.

You overcame all that had been pulling you so low and so far into the darker vicissitudes of irrationality.

And yet, when it came to my own faults,
inadequacies, and disengagement,
I lacked your courage.

I didn't even try to overcome them.
In my self-imposed screen-gazed solitude,
I often thought of how much I loved you;
of how I hoped you might just wait out my confused disengagement
like I forgave you for your betrayals which had,
in their times,
hollowed me out emotionally for months on end.

The thing is, you wouldn't have blamed me if I'd left you then.
You would have understood, and let me go,
regardless of the heavy pain in your solar plexus
and the hollow feeling in your heart.

Though it never came to that,
I now have the chance to do for you what you'd have done for me.

I don't blame you for leaving.

I understand,
and regardless of this heavy pain in my solar plexus
and the perceptive hollowing of my heart,
I will watch you as you go,
        I will wave,
I will live with the weight of regret and memory,
and remember what you wrote in a poem once
when we parted ways after your first infidelity.

Sitting in the university library, reading on Moses,
what went thru your head was

"closure feels more like i can go on without you, i’m glad i met you, however an emptiness drenched in self-regret will always remain."
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7pHzJVfGCDw
(Bu Ert Jordin by Frida Bark--listen while reading for added effect.)
May 2016 · 651
amethyst earbuds
softcomponent May 2016
Add another desire to a blacklist marking the names
of each of your failed ventures, as if being broke at a 5-star
restaurant were the worst thing that could possibly happen in
life.

The soft intimation of a legless dove, way above
the solar system and about to exit the gravity well to
enter warp-speed, presages itself with an advertising campaign
claiming there are never any slaves in the making of a planetary
settlement; but is it really because there was nothing there?
Is it really because there was no one to force into *******?

Or is there more to a story that can't be told?
softcomponent Jan 2016
it's a winter with a drop of
sun next to the pudge-smudge
artwork sweatily traced on the
window, reading: I <3 WINE
with a phallus extending from
the lower W and past the I N E
to limp dejectedly rightward and
down as if the weather were so
beautiful it caused conceptual
******

*or, perhaps we like it rough,
the rain, let's get those rocks
off
Oct 2015 · 220
verdict
softcomponent Oct 2015
if you really think about it

I've spent my whole life

dodging cars, every time

I cross the street.
Oct 2015 · 317
pretty mind, kid
softcomponent Oct 2015
take another laterday

and remember I annoy

you.

I felt like I was expected

to expect, "I, exception."

I don't believe in special

chances; just deadmens

hands, a lot of painful

ambition

and a place I can't call

home

(but still

rest in)
Aug 2015 · 626
Humble Murder
softcomponent Aug 2015
You come out of the dark, and a young Japanese schoolgirl--couldn't be any older than 19--is standing in a heavy-lit archway, the blinkered 'sort-of's' of her eyes only visible in corners due to the convex glare rebounding from the heavy light and onto a parked Miyata windshield, right back into the bloodshot lower-left cleft of each eye, sleepless veins like miniature pipelines slogging her fossil fuel blood to the energy markets of her face (but it ends in death, hopeless economy! it begins in death like OPEC!)

There's concrete, and there's stone: the former a collection of synthetically compiled chunks of the latter. In either regard, it might just be the end of the World, tho just an intermission during an afternoon matinee for the world. There are a lot of things you don't understand. There is plenty more you do, and yet you believe your own humility when it whispers, "You don't," tho you are entirely unaware this is delusion and not humility, but some unconscious form of ascetic worship of WONDER!! You're going coocoo for cocopuffs WONDER! We can remember what J.B.S. Haldane once said: "I have no doubt that in reality the future will be vastly more surprising than anything I can imagine. Now my own suspicion is that the Universe is not only queerer than we suppose, but queerer than we can suppose."

I was born at the edge of the Cold War. 4 years after America's Operation Just Cause deposed Nicaraguan dictator Manuel Noriega using heavy metal music and heavy metal weapons, loaded to capacity with heavy metal bullets. 4 years after the slow-dissolve tablet of the Berlin Wall finally faded upon the German palate. Brian Mulroney was my Prime Minister at birth. I was also alive (tho not 'conscious,' per se--intellectually conscious, that is) during the Prime Ministership of Canada's first female Prime Minister: Kim Campbell (she was only leader for just over 3 months and thus I cannot give her time in office the full credibility it would have deserved had she been a fully elected candidate instead of an inter-election Prime Ministerial appointment; when, for godssakes, will we have a Fist Nations' Prime Minister? I would like to believe the only reason there has been none is because the indigenous people have categorically rejected the game-fantasy we have stomped upon their land and the world and self-righteously crowned as 'realistic, sober, objective;' tho maybe I'm wrong, whispers Humility: "I don't know").

There is the endless and omnipotent consensus that the world's about to end. For those who study history, they will often notice that when 'then' was 'now,' it was often and always the end of history. 'Now' is the always-result of 'then' and it will never change unless we neglect its consideration. That's really all theory takes to disappear: stop thinking about it. (as if that were possible, ha!)
Because the impression has been one of pollution and confusion, our wide un-thought idealization as children has often led us to emulate all the bad habits we witness growing up, even if at one point we cloudlessly rejected them because the damage didn't seem clear, it was clear.

I was 8 years old when I took my mother's cigarettes from her bedroom while she slept, and proudly announced to her the next morning that I had thrown them out. She had become furious, tho I had done it out of a militant concern for her well-being. During my years of primeval arrival on this planet, mom had almost lost her life to breast cancer. I can't remember understanding much as it happened, nor do I recall fully understanding the implications of death until my grandmother died and I watched my dad fight back tears as he read aloud her eulogy, recalling a story I can pick through scattered memories stored in grey matter to resurrect only one fact about it: they were on a boat, pulling up to shore. My grandfather--the cheeky Briton-optimist he is--made some silly joke, and my grandmother pitched in. The rest is somewhere else in space.

However--regarding death-- I feel that even then we never understand the full implications of death in witnessing another's death, but only through dying ourselves. Which is fine. None of us need to understand these implications until the time comes (and even then, it may just drip away once you've reached the Light. Which is fine).

Returning to the cigarettes: I had absorbed the common knowledge they were awful for you. 'Death-sticks' indeed, just like that scene in Attack of the Clones. Tho I understood nothing of the chemistry, a box or a video or an authority explaining their potential 'results' or 'consequences' was enough for me to righteously desire to save my mother from her own acquired vice.

14 years later, I skulk through the streets of Victoria with Chris, high on ******* and chain-smoking Export-A Gold on the subconscious condition that the world will probably end soon enough for none of this to matter. Tho as I said: For those who study history, they will often notice that when 'then' was 'now,' it was often and always the end of history.

History is comprised of an endless succession of losers who sincerely believe they've figured it out. The only redeemable characters in this Human Odyssey are those who have realized nothing in particular. The people who think, believe, and conceptualize as an infinite process; something without a result. Something with abstract 'goals' that only fit for awhile, not forever.

I'm nobody special. Tho, at the same time, I am; and at the same time and in terms of my relationship to this greater Human Odyssey, whether I will matter in this giant plot is in part up to me (should I write a book? 10 books? Relentlessly pursue the arts, whether that be rapping, writing, music?) and in part up to sheer probability (if I do write a book, will many notice? Or will it be swept under the Great Rug of the Present-Into-Past and be forgotten to thought?), and regardless of all this: the rocks will forget. The trees will forget. Both space and dark matter will have already forgotten what I am doing and what I may one day do.

But life can't be approached on a basis of personal impact; honestly, who wants to pursue the writing of 10 books or the creation of albums in the same way the capitalist approaches economy, for sheer attention and accumulation? Those desperado's, those who chase-the-game-of-success, they have already lost. They lost as soon as they tried to win. There is nothing to win, no award great enough to keep, no person you love or have loved who you will one day depart with for the very last time. But to depart with a personality may be tragic, it is only a true void in concept; when one removes the individual (both themselves and the one they love) from the eternal context of the universe--the ebb and flow of tides to the movement of the moon, the soft breeze supplemented by a fan placed next to an open window, how your hand--when clapped to the surface of a wooden table--is one with the matter in that table regardless of how transiently you perceive such a touch as an interaction. In essence, it's all still here; it always was, and never won't be.

tho maybe I'm wrong, whispers Humility.


                                             *"I don't know."
Jul 2015 · 639
Cleopatra's Boom
softcomponent Jul 2015
Cleopatra's Boom, as worn as earth as economy, salivating stone-head medusas turning Hercules to stone mending torn shirt-sleeves as it's posterity's sign of decay when nostalgia melts like an old bucket of icecream, not empty—but gooey sticky sugar-salt in mist of phosphene glare from a quarter of the deserts heat. You can see 64% of the picture. The other 36% is forever lost in the splattered blindspot dots of your diamond optical nerves, an eternal mismatch eternity—the parts you won't notice when your stomach aches after three consecutive cigarettes for breakfast. **Cleopatra's Boom, belittled like oceans, always so alien tho it makes up 71% of our global entirety—thoughts find external storage on disc drives, in water—there's a mouth out there with a saltier kiss than the Pacific, one that caws like seagulls in exodus, announcing to the Peace Arch: “I American. I need a greater space to spread my legs.”
May 2015 · 494
he's like a daughter to me.
softcomponent May 2015
it's like the fuzzy streak left across a shut-closed car door window on a "Goodbye Jane," perhaps a "Goodbye Forever"

where the sadness—blank, distant, muffled innermost I-already-miss-you's—it's all there and we just hug the phantom between us: one last joke

before

      the      wheeelss

roll
    away.




*(my 4-wheel drive
parked in neutral
greeting inconvenience
like the credits
at the end
of an hour)
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