My soul is ancient.
And it is not mine.
In darkest reaches of my heart I am told I do not own it.
I am impermanent.
I feel interminable.
My soul reaches to those around it,
But finds little kinship.
This soul and I are locked together
Out of time and place,
We are anachronisms.
You have seen us before.

The concept of a whole person is an enigma that evolves within a culture . Often it is not a transitive concept and can only be conjuncted within it's social setting . In fact the realities of social fragmentation make most all concepts of a whole person universally inapplicable .

Literature is often a good tool for developing an understanding of a culture and it's inclinations . In a cultures folk tales , plays , and fictions you find authors making a deliberate attempt to portray the basic dramas of their society .

Greek myths are a vivid example of this ; they are literally frought with characterizations . In their development these multitudes of characters weave into an elaborate tapestry that depicts the developing Greek moral ethic . The intricasies of the analogous content are brought across in a multitude of forms . Names were very important and a major force in clarifying the concepts being presented . The multitudes of characters portray a multifaceted understanding of the human psyche . The chauvinistic banality of their culture and it's gods is graphically depicted against the backdrop of their developing ethics .

It is difficult for a modern man to construct a vision of a whole person from a strictly ancient Greek point of view . The obvious anachronisms envolved make such an attempt partially ludicrous . Contrarily the bulk of their characterization paints a vivid picture of their primative social state .

Of course while the Greeks were muddling through the multicolored quagmire of human frailty many societies where learning to master the powers they had developed through centuries of strict adherence to religious and social mores . The development of their socially biased realities make many Greek nuances seem decadent anachronism . Rather than deitizing their baser natures as the Greeks had thay had learned to master them and turned to new paths to clarity . Spiritual pragmatism and lack of comunication nullified the social attributes of many of these extrapolations on positive orientation .

Jung preaches that man has an innate need to assimilate all external sensory perceptions . I find this untrue . In fact I find it self abortive . Human beings have a complexity factor that is individual and must be protected from overload ; man's moral ethic is a tender and deludable feeling directed by empathy . In the hectic world of modern mass media this tender individuality can become dwarfed by the percieved need to obtain social acceptance . Whole civilizations have become deluded by the flow of their complexities into an outright denial of their moral ethics .

I find this partially estranged condition prominent throughout social history . Children are brought up to respond to a vast realm of presupposed social ideologies and are not allowed to venerate themselves until much of their conscious matrix has been established . This of course makes self evasion an easily attainable goal . Sometimes politically speaking the actual goal . The mind satiated by it's social framwork is the ideal tool for a socialistic or tyrannical government .

To me the value of social history lies not in it's application as much as it's illumination . All the fragmented pockets of human coalescence should instill an understanding of man's posibility factors . Man's inability to supersede his developing anachronism may well be the cause of his annihilation .

Modern man has learned how to use tact in instilling the acceptable social mores . Solviet psychiatrists have spent years on perfecting these social sublimations ; children learn how to make their personalities conform to the accepted mean . I think that the true nature of a well rounded being lies in an ability to reject the fragmental nature of these instilled mores and develop a more universally acceptable social orientation . Does the son of a ku klux **** member have to hate blacks ? The obvious answer is no ; contrarily socially acceptable orientation is a product of environment . This is the pitfall of man's evolution as a race ; his inability to rise above the quandary of his immediate surroundings with all of their overwhelming complexities and demands to become a cognizant and empathetic being . There in lie the keys to his future .

This does not necessarily define the well rounded person . A well rounded person must be able to cope with his immediate surroundings withoutan abject denial of his empathetic being .

I believe well roundedness lies in thoughtful orientation and a well centered understanding of self . One need not be socially active as long as they are thoughtfully cognizant . Obey the golden rule ; you can not allow your objective orientation to supersede your subjective empathy . You can't allow yourself to be thwarted or overcome by your peers into being something they might want to make you because temptation may overwhelm them and you will become a transient tool in their succession .

What is a reactionary?
They seem out of place to me,
Some people are reactionaries,
Their beliefs are futile isms, you see,
Out of place, out of time,
Anachronisms spring to mind.......

Butterflies in my head

like percolating coffee suds

i walked a little faster

to catch up with my mind's anachronisms

future like a prism in high def

building castles of cotton candy vapors

smoky salt tears whisper out loud

like a hot knife through butter foam

dancing in enraged twists of prophetic cyclonic squalls

shindig of cobalt's eclectic leaves storming fiercely down

wading in puddles of refractive delirium's trippy next dip

Learn to write again
learn to type right
first time in 3 decades of life

I want to write closer to when I think
speed time, to slow it
make it feel like I do more
like I was in my teens or early twenties
****, these days 3 go by and it feels like one

I count my blessings to build confidence
Life grows more cruel but
I might win if I act like already won
Chaos magick, nay we do not speak of it

You forgot to pretend
to suspend quests for rationality
No longer moved by a book or film
We conditioned to be unconditioned
only to realize we ought to been wistfully in the herd
the whole time  
We're the Bodhisattvas forestalling enlightenment
to get drunk with the butchers
after decades of sober high ground
We're the over-analyzers
lamenting our anachronisms in self-assuring
new philosophies
Either fully embrace one or drop out of being smart at all
the only tolerable choice to start to enjoy life again
No, no it's a false dichotomy
I want to be the eternal well-wisher
no matter the decadent displays

The shared dream of a soon to be future
We scavenge and defend
through pockmarked streets
make shelters amid crumbling concrete
We forgot how to imagine a secure society
Measured expectations and social safety nets
they took it all away along with our balanced serotonin
I used to get all jazzed up over a library book
but now the images promise us much more bliss
right around the corner

But it never soothes
never comes close  
We cannot buy the contentment you claimed to offer
so we'll get it in collapse
We'll be sniped, starved, and deranged
but the thought of that life
makes us whisper excitedly to ourselves
"finally something has happened to me."

I, the eternal well-wisher
will wag no more fingers at preachers of death
Neither will I become them nor pity them

Let’s make this our night.

Let’s kick our good habits
and grow our bad ones in neat
rows of dandelions
and ponder what marks
**** from flower.

Let's fill a jar with memories
and dash it against the ground
when it's full so we can play
with them once more.

Let’s empty our brains
like a register full of quarters
chase them along the pavement
and roll them into neat piles
to trade for pennies.

Let’s cut holes in our pockets
and fill them with time
until the last echo of
a tick splits our emptied skulls
and drains out the nothing.

Let's rob a jeweler
and give diamonds to the homeless.
Their babbles are endless
and they've earned something for that.

Let's ink our pens with the clouds
and write odes to the sea
where they meet and watch them turn
orange then red then purple then black
then dissipate with wind.

Let's read tea leaves and palms
like books written by wise
old men with wide smiles
and wider minds.

Let's blow out the city lights,
dance with the stars,
and apologize profusely
for stepping on their toes.

Let's wash our hands with acid
and leave empty fingerprints
on likewise glasses
staining breathless lovers'
heaving antipathy

Let's play to lose
and throw the pieces
about the floor when
our plan goes awry, smiling.

Let's slowdance to anachronisms
while the ether whispers
around and between us and through us,
until it settles in us.

Let's watch the clouds
from atop a sinking city
and marvel at how the water's
lovely this time of year.

Let's fall in love
and drown together
in whichever order
the universe decides.

Let's make this our night
It may be our last.

Who knew our spirits would be so easily broke? Who knew our past loves would come crawling up our legs to meet us for dinner? who knew the joys of rhythm and melody would stand and stare us down for hours and never lead with the first move. Who knew the catacombs of my fearing mind would desecrate the innards of my only wantings. Who knows why the big ones reel in after dusk. Why did things turn out in the season of so much anger? How can one overcome any proportion of ill intention to an honest living. Where are the street-grit-fighting-fearless godsends of our time. Where are the nights of comfort among the towering plagiarisms of sonic inequities. Why am I stone in my own mirror? And how often shall I have to shave off the transgressive anachronisms of the jesting majority-unjust. Will I ever see a cannon with a name other than "jesus the king" around the barracks of quen anne burrows? I am cold and engrossed with my feelings. I am the youth's catch-all phrase for re-new-all and desperate tendencies. I am the unconscious objection to that censure of my own old crowning. The way i was held like an infant again. I mustered and mangled and derived that only in my free gliding could i roll down the soft hills of my fervent dreams. I can smell and sense the rays of jubilation i reach when drifting in tangent with the innocuous verbiage of my unbridled soul. Bringing the bleak toned honesty I once and always devote my sincerity towards. and alas my mind begins burrowed in the melting tin of bleeding doves. Not to be confused with other obscurities We Speak Wandering. Pleasant by night,

Rap at those enraptured under fears of the bacterial,
as children try discerning ethereal from material.

Drowning in the oceans of history, since repeating
these anachronisms trumpeted a fracture fed imperial.

Curse the brittle bones encroaching faster by the minute,
while the sinners broaching laughter couch a ghost within a cynic.

Living flesh against a ghost.
Spoken word against it's host
Who's the zombie here,
between a thread of hope and varicose?

Who's to know the line approached?

Serve the rabble in our throats?

Turn the table in our notes.

Learn the fables from the jokes.

Arab scarabs
wielding scabbards
staggered with hilts
laid waste to
idle Cherubs in
garments
embroidered
like quilts.

They're off kilter,
with no filter, and
wear stilts where
leaves wilt, sir
please lilt yr
tactless

anachronisms
through fractured
refractive prisms
to help the mind
unbind from
shop, office, and
factory prisons

Listen:

there's a
penitent androgyne,
speaking
sentence in pantomime
as though rhyme
were no longer
a kind of
berated
creative crime: But

who
the
hell
CARES?!?!?!?!

There’d been a factory here once,
Squat red brick structure
Suffused with too much noise and too little ventilation,
Built for the purpose of making typewriters,
Unwieldy, cacophonous clanking anachronisms
Whose time, like the town it occupied,
Had long since come and gone,
The only businesses on the sad little main drag
Being those shabby, tattered concerns
Which flower, improbable and cactus-like
At the intersection of the vagaries of memory
And the ascent of decay.

Nothing sits here now,
Simply an empty lot returning to Nature,
Although half-hearted attempts
To accelerate that process have not taken root,
As the soil, fouled by metal shavings, solvents,
And only God knows what else,
Has proved less than amenable
To anything save weedy shoots and scrubby boxwoods,
So it sits empty, impossible to build upon
(There is liability in every spike of crabgrass,
A potential lawsuit in every patch of clover)
And wholly impractical as parkland.
The firm which owned the site erected a fence
To keep whatever was in there in and everyone else out
(In their final addition of injury to insult,
The check they gave to the fencing company in payment
Bounced higher than a child’s rubber ball)
But a generation of winters and general inattention
Have left the chain-links a patchwork affair,
And though the “POSTED” signs remain
(Their original angry and officious red
Having faded to a benign maroon),
Enforcement of their edicts is spotty at best,
So we sit, unbothered and alone,
On an odd little mound at the back of the lot
As the dusk begins to take hold,
I, in an act of mad optimism, the peculiar positing
That there are good things yet to come,
Grab your hand, intertwining the fingers with mine.

The lie, the rhetoric, the cruel deceit
In mask of benevolence the public meet
So wars, for oil, be sanctioned and supported
Whilst dictators of the west remain unthwarted

In new Baghdad the last king gone
But barons maraud with tyrants key
While soldiers dumped on streets, help gone
Turn to ISIS and pledge “we”

Pacifism, love anachronisms
Conflicts rage the world around
Forging a graveyard of innocent souls
And so humanitarianism bears a wound

I pray this prison we transcend
Put our hearts back on the mend
And treat foreigners as a friend
And so to brighter day we wend

one day there won't be an edge kids
just a hole in the ground for the suicidal
do a bacteria count of your spring water
while tossing down a few useless conventions
why do anachronisms live so long die so hard
and cause no embarrassment he mused
musing had become his compulsion since
the holy ghost serpent handling incident
their medicine man pronounced him dead 7 times
his own ancestors sent crows to peck out his eyes
the fortune cookie antidote worked off and on
then hell ascended under his smoking feet
their vanguard toes now on fire
one thing is sure in the lust for truth
contemplation will not buy you serenity
but yes your life can be lived
without a prison cell oath of allegiance
if the universe demonstrates intention we’re it
the battle between sequence and simultaneity
may be good for another 10 squared generations
in this hypnotist hunch monger demolition derby
where a legendary and enormous ignorance
complicates matters for no apparent reason
well maybe for the following reason
all explanations have been oversimplified
in a panorama of benign efficiency
arise you yuppies and management level trainees
you have all the tools of cognition
you will ever need right in your head
every act begins with an estimate
let's put Humpty back together again
feel relevant that's all there is to it
since a monopoly on endless pleasure
is yet to be fully achieved and moreover
the Great War in Heaven is officially boring
and furthermore the iris is a sphincter
just thought you'd like to know
sorry a lung obstruction makes my voice whistle
one ******* homophone after another
making the undead radar in on me
my wings have been clipped so many times
they fall off at the sound of grinding teeth
thanks to the dogs of innuendo and pantomime
we anthropomorphize absolutely everything
no beanstalks on the horizon he noted
just a marsupial orphan with an Aladdin's lamp
charmed into the gesticulating arms of Venus
by the secret patty cake handshake
then a magic thing happened
there is no magic
only unknowing

Being of strong mind, and capable thought;
another lesson is heaved into the bubbling
cauldron. Mixing race with culture, and
calling it class. Resulting in a flimsy
structure of many long centuries painfully
remembered.

There’s an ear shattering creak, as rusty
fulcrums scream under the weight, under
the burden of opening, no longer obstructing
the way.
Portraits dangle on walls without eyes;
the pictures appear appalling, appealing to
a morbid sense of understanding their
meaning, while the slippery remnants of
recollection leak their way through crevices
cut naturally by adaptation.
Cupped hands lead upward to sip the
awakening water, to quench sleeps
invasive thirst. Lips pursed in anticipation,
but finding nothing.

The hallways are long, narrow, and
ominous. The script sewn into the carpet
remains guiding, luring eyes to an inscription,
a proposition, a base formula, a base
acknowledgement of it’s traveler’s plight.

“To whom it may concern,
A ****** watches without being seen,
it’s the danger of being caught that makes it
so exotic, or so he thinks.”

Like an added post script
the construct continues,
“To whom it may concern,
…agitating festering wounds bleeds
one of incurable diseases, but open to the
elements infection is unavoidable,
is destiny.”

Breathing deep, the wall’s rows of names
seem to bicker with one another. The last
feeling passed over by the next, but so
goes memorials to the fallen.
Wonting hands laid upon recessed text, feeling
remorse, appreciating the context, but
portraits of humanities wars are better left
forgotten by promises of a brighter future,
darkened by the shadows of even more
visitors.
Each one feeling betrayed, their words
are anachronisms for life, each a piece of
memories that puzzle.
Reflections seen in pools of water, wine,
and blood. They set themselves at the table
of divine intervention, consecrating the partakers
in the challenges of wisdom, folly, and atrocity.
The wandering eye of fellowship focuses all
too often on the flock, not it’s proceedings,
and the floor reads,
“To whom it may concern,
Hubris is the elixir of apathetic fools
too self conscious to doubt their integrity,
and too mindful of appearance to check
their arrogance.”

Maybe they’re wrong, maybe constructing
theories of bigotry into philosophy is
democracy. The branches serve as perches
for vultures eyeing the fatigued mass of
flesh, hair, and fingernail. Lost in an unrelenting
question better left to the professors of entropy,
consumed and propagated, used to nourish
the whole, procuring fate.

The dimly lit corridor rises, then falls. An
immense sense of fear rifles through the body,
for the first fallen sojourner is found, clutching
tight to a book, as though the worst to come
was locked inside, locked within his grasp.
The books titled, “Fleeting Souls”
struck by irony, and fueled by suspicion
the first page reads,
“…and after me another will come to see,
but before death must be victory. In these dim
lights the only way out is the death of struggle; the
psyche’s want for identity.”

Vaulted ceilings, artistry slaved over for
centuries. Looking up, consuming the
craftsmanship he has no clue where he’s
going. The floor remains guiding, the
portraits appalling, but it’s the ceiling that seems
so supported, reminding him of his own
demons, his own hand crafted cages.
One foot after another, the journey’s long, and
sadly disappointing, but this is after all
a social ladder, a climb for status, a birth
right to die before witnessing the awe inspiring
vision life has procured for those whose hunger for
definition remains insatiable.

In the distance the door booms closed.
He grasps the past sojourner’s mind entrapment,
and takes another step forward.
Whispering to himself,
“I’m in here somewhere.”

This and my next two posts are in reverse creation order,
this is the last panel in a tryptic of three novel scenes.
------------ this was Feb, 22, 2024

Used to be, as we were
used to become, repeatedly,

time sensitives using time
as using any used concept, used
by users
to bring use to usefullness, in time.

As we are used, our complexities
crease our faces with wrinkles
we use to make smiles.

------------------

Thousands, now millions,
then billions and trillions, too much,
unhoned use, dull use, dishonest use

-busy work to earn right to life
-breathe,
-hard parts's over, let it roll....

so we stop counting hours per dollar
and marvel at the cost of being
obligated to share the debt,
owed gravity,
giving minutes where seconds are plenty,
about a dollar each…
converted on the exchange
in  second thoughts.

------------------

Right use,
righteous, right.

The ideal right. Never wrong.

Like sunshine, or stars…

and gravity, and contravening winds,
laws of temperature
and pressure, pre judged within tolerance
too minute to contemplate, indeed,

as with the inner working of everything,
once done, duration makes no sense,

to mortal sensibilities, our assisting intell
sources leak inside information, gut level

response to provocation, my vocation
manifests, yes, blurts

stop.
This is insanity, and I smile to myself,
aware,
I aimed at totally insane, and hit it,

on the spot, nailed it where up and down
cross left and right, there it was,

or is, more precisely, insanity. Stopped.

My self imposed duty done. I stopped it.

I am the monkey wrench. For a second.
Must mean...
-------------------
...
my tools include
sentient wrenches,
sentient plumber tools,
used artistically as the
monkey wrench
in the works
with an Iberian,
artist at café, in tiny
John Lennon glasses,
callouses on his *******...
real deal, pre Adobe Illustrator
whose pen and inks I think I saw,

but in another course through time,

historicity, in fact, is a material invention,
a feminine fullfilled mind's inspiration,

we exist in no time at all, from historical
perspectives exalted to points of view,

from which opinions as to how worth is
weight of something, relative to another.
Balance life in time on instants
in prayer, faith, step taken
instants thanking nexting
step by step, expecting next time….

Worth of a minute spent thinking second
thoughts used as tools, slight smile, soft aha,

leverage our speculation,
ask who has nothing
to do for days on end, but the wealthy good

among the commoner sorts and types and classes.

Weal and woe, both, we believe lack

recipes to fix broken promises to child prayers.

Blessedness declared, nationally.
Given in the ritual,
alright alrise, alrecite, I pledge…
--we did
yes, to ****, at the will of my commander,
and I understand my link to the chain,
--we
brains hardwired from childhood
to handle a pen,
experience ambidexterity while qwerty keying,
left and right,
order and beauty click, feel
minds combined.

We am I, and I am alone,
then I think of you, and now, and this device,

this magic pen, silly me,
anachronisms are my weakness.

We are the monkey wrench.

Paradigms have
shifted
and replaced
thought-built edifices
which no longer house
our searching lives..

We search
for understanding
for happiness..
for a paradigm
of new thoughts
to fulfill..

History observes
past visions of earth
in old paradigms:
thoughts serving
and departing
as anachronisms..

Dysfunction
in our time
invites a Paradigm
which boldly burns
all thoughts of
separation..

Beliefs
and illusions
many centuries old
burn as we recognize
what we Already are
and Always have been...!

I had better say this before it is too late
and I'm doing a battery check
down at the School of the Americas
badda boom mafia rim shot
the old wisdoms are neo-inadequate
and live in a wilderness of anachronisms
all of them ding **** every sample
even the Arctic and Antarctic ones
he was a swami of pedestrian insights
packaged for the pop psychology latrine circuit
which hasn't got the people smarter faster
buzzard shadows still make the dogs bark
yank their chains free from the Mirage
leaping into my inner sawdust ring
fangs missing the bobbing juggler
a klutz whose eyes see near to nothing
aftermath of daily retinal blitzkriegs
how many optical illusion sacraments
can we fully rid ourselves of
while remaining ambulatory and lucid
like a black widow at the movies
web over the projection hole
******* leggy thing on the screen
making time into the enemy
when it should be the enema
or obsolete as clown paint
and the pet rattlesnake craze
every kid had the memo beaten into him
it's the adrenals vs. the endorphins
both of them a film noir fun house mirror
one with a severe penalty for miscalculation
the other giving us the freedom
to happily destroy our self regard
you need only see the obvious
criminally reckless manhood
hypochondriac womanhood
foretelling the future ain't a big deal
a child with a gun can do it
gun because nobody wants to hear it
apparently we haven't invented
pain free illumination yet
batteries not included
because they are not needed
because we are modifiable
in a good way
by our own hand

From "Pageant of Naked Mischief" available on Amazon

To change them
The old paradigms
Anachronisms..
To enter a gate to
All things new..
An inflexion point
And portal to a more
Welcoming World..
A point of Enough..
Is it coming..? Or are
We already There...?