The story teller writes
For a naked character
On a bare stage.
The one character,
One line play.
Profound, all encompassing;
A brief run,
But a blockbuster
With opening nights
In all the capital cities.

The visualist
Could use one brush stroke,
One lump of unmolded clay,
An unchiseled stone,
Weathered driftwood
Or a piece of glass
To display in the great museums
For our interpretation
Of the exposed truth.

One note could orchestrate
On string, wind or skin,
And the composition would be complete.
The maestro could bow and walk;
No encore could repeat.

I want one line of verse
To embelish my yearnings;
To explain the cosmos,
The meaning and crux
Of this place,
Including us.

Venomous slithering silk gown
Adressed the chandeliers in the
Marrakesh's dusky evening, just
To outshine the simmering glass

There were gentelmen and ladies
Chit chating politely, uninterested
Awaiting on a dinner to be served.

He noticed the scarf, she thougt to
Herself. Unending in memory are
Hoffman's grand thrilly fairytales.
I wish he'd gather the bold pirates
Of his conquering intentions and..

in the head.
go to bed,
wake up and wed,
have some kids,
then you're dead.

I cherish no dreams of sand..
My head aches... my glass thoughts collide.

A ticking bomb... my blood turns to lava and i cook inside my skin...

drowning whispers lick my mind clouds...

a sour taste of discomfort sends a sickening twitch down my beating limbs.

Ejected into a timeless void between worlds..

Where planets eat one another...

A silent witness to the end of all things...


decolorized  and stripped of mortal chains

the sigh i have become...


I hold no dreams of sand...


But when life shows its fragile side....

I have no choice but to cherish the obsolete purpose...

Of our futile human lives....

I'll not be wanton with fecundity,
Nor superfluous with beauty.
I'll provide between the images,
Not breathless by the finish.
It's a dustbowl without the wind,
And starry, not star-filled night sky.
I'll have allusions crowd my head,
To keep husbandry on the pages.

Look It Over**

I leave behind even
my walking stick. My knife
is in my pocket, but that
I have forgot. I bring
no car, no cell phone,
no computer, no camera,
no CD player, no fax, no
TV, not even a book. I go
into the woods. I sit down on
a log provided at no cost.
It is the earth I've come to,
the earth itself, sadly
abused by the stupidity
only humans are capable of
but, as ever, itself. Free.
A bargain! Get it while it lasts!

Now I am "okay"
It can change without warning,
Inevitable

A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.
      From: *The Notebooks of Lazarus Long

David Foster Wallace told a tale of three fish. A large old fish and two young fish were swimming toward each other. When they met, the old fish said to the young fish, "How's the water. They swam on. Finally one little fish said to the other, "What's water?"

This is as important a parable as Jesus ever uttered.

While none of the fish can escape the water, the crucial thing is to be aware of it. We can't escape the water of usury founded capitalist consumerism, but we can become aware of it and change how we swim.

Minimalism is a way of saying ******* to the water. It is a way of saying, I may have to swim here, but I will consciously choose how I swim. That's huge.

A minimalist says I will live on as little as possible. I will participate in proletarianized labour as little as possible. He says to the usurers, I will not feed you through debt. He chooses to live (well) on the cast-offs of consumer society. He says I will not watch your lies on TV. I will avoid the State as much as I can. I will fly (as much as still possible) under the radar. I will live my life. I will live my truths. I will be me.

This cannot be done perfectly. It can be done in many ways and to many degrees. The trick is to realize how it suits you and then do it. Learn to swim as you wish. Be your own fish.

These former treasures
now transformed into
anonymous junk.
Where did their history flee?
I stroll this flea market
with 10 dollars and no plan.
How many lives held these items?
Like mute Zen Masters
each has found its original face;
the desire that attached them
to life has evaporated.
They are only sad things in boxes
waiting for new hands
holding disinterested dimes,
seeking meaningless curiousities
to gather dust on lonely shelves.
This is what stuff comes to.
   - mce