...
I’m writing all aforementioned while sitting on the edge of the building, in the silhouette of the morning sun. A waft of breeze departs me from the dreariness, unhinged. I found myself in and out of a tidal wave, as if drowning is the only way to stay afloat.
It all serves, too difficult to confess.

In susurration, the landscape exhales something in the color of trees, the temperature last night, and the slant of daylight.

How carried I was (still am) by the unexpected field we encountered, the confidant dialogue we built, the emotional walls we broke. There is a part in my brain that grief won’t grow. Summer in Cangyuan was not lachrymose. The lyrics of Under the Flying Clouds alludes every one of those who are too heavy for me, whom I can’t let go of.

I was not ready for my unscheduled departure from nowhere to nowhere. Many were the tears shed by me in my last adieus to a place so much beloved, and to everyone who makes the place the place.

Do I continue the same, unconscious of the pleasure or regret I occasion, insensible of any change in those who walk under my shade?

{three brief acts on thinking and doing at once}

Sunday, August 17, 2025
9:31 AM

An exercise in the art of word smithing

proud prodding from a know it all to another,
persuading one the other of the best and greatest
people can pertain to, aspire to artifice goodness,
per se
this way
simple
plain step by step, processionally, professing
experience
in living many ways,
in working, functioning usefully to those paid in

bread and drink and circuses to think about, clowns
slap plays to allow the lowliest to laugh at pain,
pie in the face, shock and awe, to laugh at payback,

and gasp at the daring Wallendas, did you see that,
the fall at Detroit,
in 1962,

Did it stick with you, the awe at the folly, asking
why do performers perfect their act, and do it

and do it
and do it
until some one dies trying, first time or last, falls

and dies to emphasize the possibility, imagine
the mirror neuron rush at the crushing fall,

the vicarious oh no
the unforgettable day at the circus

bubbles up in therapy prep for dementia,
we all recall the fall…

------------------------------------------
Words alone, in context,
in your head said as read,

by whomever you imaging saying,
look,
listen, can you hear birds singing?

If you can, do you know what kind
of song, is it signaling safety, certainly,

birds of so tiny a song fret not, clearly,

I can imagine a world so quiet, nearly
any day, I can remember winter quiet,
and think of where others are preparing
cord wood to feed stoves, chain saws,

dangerous as any ax, imaginably worse,
gameland killings projected on silvered screen,

daring immersion in the projects, home alone,
adapted to the syndrome, latch key kid,
in a small desert town
on any main cartage route, welcoming
passers through to spend the night
indoors, at the Loma Vista Motel
or the White Rock Motor Court,
as listed in the Green Book, in 1954

------------------------------
Suffering Socrates
requires trusting Plato

One must, you know
suffer so, to say you know,
quid pro quo, all you know,

bet against all you call unknown,
as if for the sake of innocense,
shunned, to maintain purity,

burn the heresy, defined
blasphemous and disrespectful…

think again, mimic the ritual reenactment,

let this mind be in you, you were there,

you saw Cassavetes suffer in agony, the shame,

the shame that rightly is yours, and yours alone,
the price Christ paid, if that story were ever true,

that suffering is your just dessert, persuasion
insists, you must accept the premis, Christmas,

the whole message, Peace on Earth, Greetings,

lowly mortal sufferers under lying leader rules,
Goodwill, and final judgement, last prayer,
fear not, fret for nothing,
forgive all who have no clue what they do,
living and breathing and having being on Earth,

so far from the nearest life supporting star system,
fitted anthropomorphically perfectly as patient
in the active agency of truth freed life on Earth.

This is life. We can imagine it ending suddenly,
and we can bet it only does that at the me level,

the we I was in lives on in all the good seed my fruit has in it.

you can’t be stagnant
when there’s an ocean
outside your door.

Am I
here,
or am
I in
your
tidal
stars
of my
eyes,
seeing
your
light
in the
little
skies
joining
leaves,
they are
not far,
rather,
they
shine
near
as my
own,
the cells
of one
cosmic
glow,
a drop
of rain
falls from
the heavens
and I catch
upon it
my delicate
finger,
the dew
cascades,
I close
my eyes
and feel
the ocean in
my hands,
in silver
scales, I
dive,
in colors
of blue,
golden
and
green,
I will
forever
dream.

Bending to the moon forevermore the waves collapse against the shore,
The push and pull a rhythmic tantrum abiding by natural cause,
A sparkling realization to the infinite balance vested beyond our reach,
A tale predestined transcending script and linguistic compression,
Oceans galore.

I buried your name in the sand, deep down
where the tidal waves will not touch it.
Where it can't hurt me.

It's not the barnacles that do all the damage
Figure this out too late
It's not the destination that makes the difference
It's the freight

Everything becomes a blur from six feet away
Get used to this
Every card ever turned over remains in play
Get used to this

Not every wave is a tidal wave
Not every wave is a tidal wave

It's not the mutiny written down in the diary
It's the manifest
Forgotten cargo in obsolete measurements
Anybody's guess

Even the proud, even the very proud
Probably die on their knees
Twin masts out on the open seas
Mistaken for trees

Not every wave is a tidal wave
Not every wave is a tidal wave

Streams— relay the slumber
Tributes to— the Waterfall's Sprite.

'Twas when— the compass— Dismantled
As the bedrocks gruel— Distort the ledge,
Confronted by— tidal waves;—
Imbued the Crush— of a Carapace
That let the Visions— Sprout;—
Abandoned— With the Barriers..

So long,— I do not know..

Sights— Times— are enclosing
Onto the lost,— And the Seafloor sinks
Slowly— Diminishing— The Sirens' Call..

The liquidity of rage, swoons like a red ocean.

It is a tidal fury that rises, rises, rises.

Within its climatic ascension, exist an anxious torture.

Thoughts rush in, pacing on what conclusions will come.

These waves have come before, the carnage is extreme.

And while the destruction strikes the shore, the bastions will stand.

Ruin though, shall come, and each storm stands testament to that reality.

The walls will fall, and all will breathe a final sigh of relief, at the end.