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crashing

when you're gone
i can't land alright
nothing holding me back
gravity pushes me in agreeance
good riddance  
i was never apart of the blueprint
there wasn't a plan
space out and decide to implode
your immaturity exceeds normalcy

crushed
shuble 3d
have you ever felt sad? have you wanted to detach your soul from your fleshy prison of a body? if not, good for you i guess.

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and
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if you are interested in Death, please call us at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ
a little writing exercise just for fun :] wanted to make it (obviously) like an ad for an alternate universe where people have to pay to die. you're welcome to write responses and your own takes if you want :D
in the hall of harmless whims dancing in living words

Past experience is not an accurate term, as I
define its actu-
ality in my re-ality, I
see things as fine as can be, fine,
which is an idle phrase,
I often used to say,
was
not fine, to the query "how are you?".
It was a lump, tiny thing, bit of thought
coalescing scing scing sing
a bit part
in the grand drama,
like the dwarf
in the 1973
Belridger Orange Orchard Opera,

pick it up, maestro

HOW AM I? high baritone
- softly silly would it be of me
- to offer fine as a mindful reply

I often used to say, my side is winning.
Saying so sincerely, in its etymo-perfect sense,
believing, by my own leave - this

at those instances, the next word I said was leaven
intended to infect and spread, I consistently said
to how am I? "My side
is winning. "

-while deep beneath the surface of the shiny helm,
a mirror-neuronic will-ess nanomek sets ess-ential
key truth provokers to pierce the lies I belived…
In essence we sense
leaks
Bubbles of being novelize in old bottles, set upright,
too quick - cat
ch
Past experience,
knowledge gained sits idle
in past-tense, speaking
from those moments ago,
during the current experience,…

Sitting in the shade watching clouds
as the least noticed child in my life
was noticed by me, he, the middle child of five,
Sits down beside me, and says,
from "out of the blue",  I really want to be…

a marine biologist.

He just finished 3rd grade, and the real reason he is
near me now, is to ask when he can return
to X-box, for the Fortnite upgrade,
tic, it begins to emanate,
this
meta-modern
emergence in me
of the idea that experience
is what we carry, as a load,
not sin and shame and blame.

I know something of marine biology.
I watched My Octopus Teacher, twice.
I mention that, to Gabe.
I think in my heart,
Experiences don't get left behind,
they follow us
as strands of us, so fine as
to be disregarded as
memories,
until we feel the experience
of being eight and being listened to.

The fundamental mental basis of time,
to word is "same yesterday, today and so on"

Think, I know what it feels like to be a kid,
but not what it feels like to be a kid and listened to.

So, I had this experience with me,
as my grandson.
I ask him, does he think he can
"Put on the mind of an octopus"?
It is a knack all mortals have, augmented now
with knowing how to feed a wish to know,
we have the internet and our wits
about us, gathered, forming knowables,
extending curios  senses
into a common stateless mind realm
of all the gathered knowledge
in mankind's
experience
on earth
being a made-up mind, now
augmented with access
to the most complete
library and
searchable muse-repository, treasure horde
for experiences others offer
to goodness
in the future,
for our use in pursuit of peace, which
we form from days we experience and accept
as treasure offered to the gods of good sense.

Ever,
first imagine, ever,
ever when never was.
Image that, put it on the screen. See.
Ever after never ever can be,
- rabbi, where do you live?
around the next curve,
come and see, we filled never
with ever and left nothing
to be where never was, imagine that.
-------------
Today, I experienced learning how life functions
with no instruction, no post-**** praxeology,
octopi never spend a post **** moment in school,
save the dearest of them all, experience.
Octo-pi
just be, a living thing,
as you may be am-using controls
to respond to any event in your experience,
in the hall of harmless whims dancing in living words
quickened, as an octopus
grows five hundred new fingers feeling
-- you, dear reader - certainly, it's about you…
the link is to your attention, we paid in advance.
----------- blip

you learn to em-perience ex-perience to peers,
seeking some thing, interesting,
nothing learned, life-wise
experienced,

oh my god, a dear school, indeed

but a fool learns in no other. So, I say,
Live to learn, learn to live. Use the bait you find.

Another 21st century bit
of Grandfatherly insight, had I gone any other route
to now,
I can't imagine the riches that are mine,
not won, given
for aiming early,
at a satisfied mind, like my grandpa seemed to have.
A daily bid for the pulitzer consideration...
Blessed are the poorly, for theirs is the kingdom of mudflats

The dispirited streak turgid waters
sinuously, through unsettled feelings
in the wake of boats shedding
filaments of fuel,
sheen on a turbid infusion
and the cordgrass nods a resilience
or an apathy as the silt settles
on their Piscean gleam

Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see a salted heaven

Angelic Menhaden of the Atlantic,
are silvery stretches of scale,
dulled in death under a festering sun
and the retreating tide of dying waters
brined in ocean, freshwater spirited
to secret spaces, some dammed crevasse,
now  tumultuous  fate in a salted heaven

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they shall be filled

At the Tabgha of this intertidal palette
Cattails whisper beatitudes
latched onto the tails of wind gusts
and the plovers descended
in a litany of  bird song
amassed like the manna
trailing  tidal waters
as the sea swallows herself.
Blessed are the herons, the mallards,
the geese. Time is measured
in the passage of fish that
cycle themselves through the innards of birds

Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the rocks

The meek Menhaden, leaped
onto the rocks that hemmed the inlet,
escaping the hungry habits of herons.
They inherited Earth in agony    
pounding a rocky surface,
but the air I swim, had no water.
I prodded these  Menhaden of the Rock
to the fringe of retreating tides,
and they leaped to die once more
to breathe water that had no air

Blessed are those that mourn, for they shall be comforted

Blessed is the discomfiture
of my brackish tears
that streak marsh faces
as fish struggle out of dead water.
I take comfort I don't inhabit
tainted places or do I take comfort,
all places are the tint of poison,
the gleam of a genesis of sorrow
The fifth of June has been designated as World Environment Day by the United Nations. Today, in fact, will inaugurate the UN Decade on Ecosystem Restoration (2021-2030), a global mission to revive billions of hectares, from forests to farmlands, from the top of mountains to the depth of the sea [1]. Pakistan is the host country this year for the official celebrations. As we are aware, the protection of the environment and its restoration is of utmost importance given the damage to our environment. Today, helps highlight that our well being and economic development, are intricately and intimately connected to the health of the environment in that, World Environment Day, gives us an opportunity to learn more about our ecosystems, cultivate broad and enlightened opinions, encourages responsible conduct by people, their communities and their enterprises to help preserve and enhance our habitat [2].


I chose to write a poem on the Atlantic Menhaden, fish that are an important part of commercial fisher and in estuarine habitats . They are filter feeders, consume phytoplankton and zooplankton and constitute the largest landings, by volume, along the Atlantic Coast of the United States. They are found in coastal and estuarine waters like in the Hackensack Meadowlands [3]. They are harvested for use as fertilizers, animal feed, and bait for fisheries including blue crab and lobster, are food for striped bass and other fish, as well as for predatory birds, including osprey and eagles. Menhaden are silvery in color with a distinct black shoulder spot behind their gill opening [4]. It was late (November, December) last year that I spotted a lot of dead fish in the Hackensack river. It was reported then, that it may have been the lack of oxygen in the water [5] It was only in April this year that species of Vibrio bacteria were suspected as having caused multiple ***** failure in the Atlantic Menhaden [6]. In any case, high levels of contaminants in rivers, along with sediment make up for low levels of dissolved oxygen in the water in summer and along with the bacteria, are a threat to this variety of herring that are important to many other species that make the Hackensack their home.

Read more at
davinasolomon.org/2021/06/05/on-world-environment-day-beatitudes-for-the-dead-fish-that-inherited-the-mudflats/
Snipes Jun 3
It’s 5pm, I’m in need of silence
The drinks are no longer needed
I cross my legs on my board
The wheels sit while my mind rolls
Picturing all of my madness
Photo album revels past tenses
Forecasting future storm shoots
My minds a blank canvass
Hi, I’m Drew, I’m whatever
You chose to draw me as
Me, I simply describe me
As an old soul for the soul reasoning
Of bringing a dead flower new life
The rain cuts and the light shined colorizes
You’re colored eyes mix me up
It’s all good I’m moving soberly
Yet I’m heavily tripping onward with
Everyone sketching out
My mind, screaming
But my voice doesn’t shout out
My meditation doesn’t allow it
So I quiet it down
Listening to the choir now
Daydreaming on Dalí’s drawings
We rely on time just for it to melt
These flowers we plant grow far out
And in the lake water we stare at
Reflect alternative thoughts
On the shape of our existence
Dalí illustrating my insight
My black canvas emphasizes
My meditation is just a dream
Life isn’t really this demeaning
I’m caught zoning off
My eyes open to the sun sleeping
I grab a grip
And I skate it off
Layla May 31
I want to die and yet I don't
I really really don't wish to be dead
But the thoughts in my head have other plans

I can't stay here
Everything feels bad
Wrong, I can't explain it

My thoughts don't make sense anymore
The once coherent voice
Is drunk on pain and hurt and sorrow

So dim and dull it can barely be heard screaming
Far away in the distance now
My thoughts used to make sense once

No one can reach me now.
I'm somewhere far away now, unseen.
I'm gone, the old me long forgotten,
Only to be replaced by this monster drenched
In sadness and pain and tears

How can it be
So slowly fading away
It hurts so much it almost feels like

nothing at all
Had I had heart to love me, the way I loved you, I would have never been so stupid, vulnerable and misled, enough to let my heart be broken and  my soul be condemned to shatter everytime I hear your name.
Its funny how far people can change, in this cruel world all everyone sees are thier options and choices that they could make so much so that they could forget that they are free of the choice but not of the consequence. One day you are somebody they love and some day you are just another stranger that passes by.
Time passes by like a whistle in the wind. Ignored and only observed within the thickness of one's skin. The once gnawing temptation in Lula's eyes were now exchanged in kaput like a dead black swan in the lake.

It grew on her and she can only justify it by moving her legs back in forth and forward with her ballet shoes; she can only obtain her physical through the applause of everyone around her. Yet, there were trickles of blood forming inside her internal wound — as the piano strikes another note in A minor, she can only whisk in pain and undone drafts in her head. "Tis will be over", she raises her head upon the crowds heaping in excitement, she turned around and flew her wings upright and the heads of the audience once more clapped in vain and delirium nonsensical pleasure.

As Chopin's symphony were almost in the last note, she stood straight and made her way to the middle. There, she locked eyes with her forbidden lover and a small smile throughout. The intensity of another Vivaldi's winter classic can be grasp once more and another set up of white swans gathered together — formed a circle and she went in the middle. Her eyes turned black and her wings bleed another tint of jet black and crimson. The crowds awed in reverence and she soared above them. A starlet in the headless crowds and dreary sweet rustle of voices gave her another bliss.

And while she was served aloft, there were another macabre symphony that plays through the soft rough piano; it was a solemn prayer and they were the kind souls going up to the heavens.

"Go on, Salem. Play the winter magic," Salem could only look at his muse and he strike another note, passing notes two steps from their 'haven'.

Lula slowly ripped her wings for the last time and smiled to all the headless men. Her satin dress reveals her plumpy chest and an hourglass body. Lula is a goddess black swan. Men could only forward their eyes and threw her pennies once more and she could only move in her balletic conventional pose. For the last time, she flew with her black tinted wings and they were all beheaded.

The white swans began to sing in a solemn outcry until it became too remorseful. The white swans turned their heads down when they met Lula's dead eyes. Her laugh echoing the whole stadium with its own persona and it is like crawling down into waltz where it reaches their earshot. They can only sing in albeit and expensive heads started to explode.

"Two steps from hell," she sings.
You can listen to, 'Salem's Secret' by Peter Gundry. This is where my inspiration came from.
I think about you
Even when I don’t want to
I don’t think you think about me
Otherwise you’ll call me
During the most ridiculous hours of the night
But I think about you day and night
I think about you
Even when I’m dead at night  
But you won’t think about me
And that’s completely fine
Or is it?
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