I get her, she writes me,
so eloquently,
”the nub of me; gist, manifested poetic”

one of the many poets I have never met,
one of the many poets, by whom,
I have been suchly, justly, richly and correctly
accused

this mesmerizing judgement,
her-over-easy, mini-essay so succinctly
assaying an accidental ability mine

explodes
a happy passageway to my brain,
a new aperture, the neurons firing at will,
the tormented inquisitor’s unasked question,
how did this happen to me?

rocking the Sunday morn cradle’s calm,
ok, ok, write me, write me,
demands my no longer free will,
utilize the free wi-fi of we fidelty

the bay, surgically barely treading water,
its surface of multitude of small waves
but now an entire ****** expression bidding welcome

the breezeways genteel,
smilingly
invites and push us into its
directionless & tideless soothful embrace,
to the shoreline we goeth,
to watch the occasional crossing vessel intruder,
woking the waters gentle

its white path residual wake foam-formed,
then almost instantaneously absorbed, bubbly bursting,
a history of a million moments awakened,
then, instantly returned to restful sleep,
akin to a newborn’s gurgling happy dreaming,
wiped clean away off to
Peter Pan’s it-never-happened-land

this carnival trick sideline of deep tissue knowingness,
sensing the essence of the who and the whom within,
with no data to go on other than their poetic collection,
the hidden meanings of the spaces and places between
the gene sequencing of their wondrous word-fullness
DNA poetic children, freely given,
and well taken
by me

I cannot explain it well enough, but then
a strayer thought breakaway,
a prehensile comprehension insertion
proffers itself as an explanation
intruded,
and here,
extruded

the perfect world exterior before me observable
thrusts itself through picture windows onto my demeanor,
a ****** addiction of mine, my soul enslaved,
cannot bear to be taken away from

this vista,

which begs me,
bring all those you know!
here, to share, this precious precise nook
where eye insightful incisions elicit poems-by-command

but I cannot, bring you here,

so I see~imagine it better through
your eyes, then
your
gist
is in my stubbed pencil nub, it is
your
poem’s destiny manifesting,
penciled through my scruff edged fingertips,
which-when-then transcribed to paper, to history,
‘tis all you
who writes,
not I

for now
you
are the solitary vessel waterborne,
you,
you
are the captain and I

but a
Samson-nite, burdened, baggaged and blinded stowaway,
hopeless, yet still see-worthy,
with your guiding eyes,  
keeping me to keep
your copyright righted,
onto its course true


7-14-19 9:43am
in shelter, on the isle

Falling
Plummeting
Whole world’s upside down.
What is up?
What is down?
What is truth?
What is untruth?
What is real?
What is unreal?

Eyes wide open
With no time to prepare
Taken by surprise
By this expansion in consciousness,
In shock
Mind blown
Everything making sense
And no sense at all

Our reality is what we say it is,
What we choose it to be.
Our words shape our lives
And our futures

But sometimes mine get all mixed up and confused and overwhelming
In this jumbled mind of mine
Now blown wide open
With nothing I can do
Except absorb and assimilate
And be,
Get my brain and jumbled mass of thoughts out the way
Zone out
Watch movies
Don’t think
Just write words as they come
Don’t analyse
Or read back
For it does not need to make sense
It may never make sense what you wrote
But get the words out of your head
To stop them going round and round
Keeping me chained to what is, yet what is not, at the same time
No judgement
No convention and societal rules
Just go with the flow
And see what happens
Unbidden
Un baggaged
Until I am ready to go out into the world again
But this time
With awareness
Of my vulnerability
And my power
And my strength

what became of real-time language:
an over-baggaged monstrosity
of nuance -

                    and of course:
all those beautiful handwriting
examples -
   lost to the digit of
an A whereby, once upon a time...
there would be some idiosyncracy
attached...

graphology, was it?

              - but yes, over-burdened
by nuance:
how - you almost have
to explain the joke,
to see a low-hanging fruit
of a punchline...

the camel broke on the nuance,
it buckled before it
even arrived at the eye
of the needle...
                   and...
the rich man squeezed past
a penny...

only today, after remaining
for over 24 hours,
i started thinking
of the schizophrenic quadratic
equation,
genesis: subject-object
dichotomy...
rather than the mind-body
duality of Descartes...

        and i tried to invite
myself to be entertained:
you know...
   the more i found myself
being, ahem, "offended"...
the more i found my heart
to increase the threshold
capacity for the variety
of feeling...

     a-pathy...
             less...
             without a pathology
and more...
         pathology-in-itself...
yes, i know the letter
with the hyphen a-
   implies "without"...
   but there never really is
an a-pathy...
            so? pathology-per-se...
i can't even begin to
understand why feelings
are so alienating
to some people of cold
logical concerns...
           sure:
   if someone has to succumb
to... mouthing-off...
            when feelings
cannot feed of the succor
of the grand silence...

my heart my anchor -
even if my mind, my ship -
        is sinking into
the yawning gnash of the waves
of existence before me...

only today, a film about
r. d. laing from 2017...
me?
         less about l.s.d.
and more:
    a tongue riddled (rather than
plagued) by metaphors...
   or...
          trans-***?
  hey, hello...
     how about you meet
the meta-mind?

         but such a complete disregard
for feelings?
what other feelings?
the grand oratory feelings
of being: "one of the tribe"?
the logistics of the +
    in 1 and 1 equals 2?

           i too once had
the faculty of treating my thinking
as a labyrinth basis for
a fraction of, reality's narrative...
but i lost that, capacity...
now all my thinking is
a spiral,
    devoid of an ethic that
would require something more
than:
               and what would
a hypothetical autism of
solipsism (man) think of all this?

bouts of the hermit stuppor...
conversations with one's
own shadow...
  and... trying to topple what
has survived from:
ensuring the word: philosophy
is excused the peddlestool
of pretentious cloaking
and staging for a theatre of...
'not another decade of
unanswered questions!'

    in handwriting,
on a napkin...
    'if i were sane enough,
i'd be entertained by the
speculative reality of, physics...
because what is physics,
once the determinate act of
the bhagavad gita
has been cited...
      of no god but of man
the argument: regarding
"who" is to play the dice...

it's almost "wrong" to claim
the sanity of people
who are entertained by
a speculative reality of physics...
unless you've read enough
or became engrossed in
enough science fiction...
that... that isn't speculative
reality... is it?

       so i'm mad...
               and more attune to
something called...
   engrossed reality (of philosophy)...
but again...
    that is such a pretentious word...
a charlatan's word,
a sophist's word...
                but i am haunted
by questions... no one can answer me...
for every step physics takes
forward,
       ethics takes two steps back,
and metaphysics takes
three steps back...

- and yes, a rigid vocabulary
helps...
   to make the "words in between"
fluid...
               gaseous ego,
gaseous god,
                       suckling parasite
at the end of the umbilical cord
the grand nihil...

primarily:
    you can spend 7 hours in bed,
listening to a radio station
from Kielce, radio FAMA...
    toiling in sweat and in
a spiral where once was a labyrinth...
with an empty heart...
and... get up to find
a dwadzieścia groszy
             coin in your bed...
      if i only found a radio station
as good as this...
i wouldn't have bothered
collecting all these *******
hoarded bricks of either
compact disk or vinyl...
       alas...
             irony...
      you only find a decent
radio station...
                    once you started
to not bother buying your own
d.j. coffin...

     what was that quadratic
about, though?  
   to internalize 'weeling and not
externalize "thinking"...
         i don't know...
              numb heart shield
of 1 + 1 = 2...
             reality instructor of:
swam, and didn't drown...

come the inner-circle joke...
       yet what is more... "interesting"...
the feelings of the individual,
when they do not morph
into the feelings of... mimic...
        surely...
             it is good to be in possession
of an agitated heart,
  prone to... throbbing of feeling
which are not coinciding with
feeling...
   whereby said feelings...
need to be... internalized...
eaten raw on the count
  of the throbbing count...
muddling the mind...
but not to the point where
the muddled mind is allowed
to translate itself into
a tongue that... primarily wants...
a telepathic-congregation
of: the zoo of zombies let loose
on the suspect...

        i say:
forget eating the bread and
drinking the blood...
i say:
   eat your own heart first...
         and... enjoy the silence.

the floorboards creak as I tiptoe around the hallway, thirsty for air.  

and I find a shelf.

not a big one, not intrusive nor flashy. but a shelf nonetheless.

and upon it, sits unique mason jars. staggered and scribbled with dates. all baggaged and packaged and wrapped up, whisked away from the world to sit on this shelf.

as my toes reached higher, my heart sank lower.

some full to the top, ready to burst. other nothing but drops.

but all dated and all saved.

I rest elbows on said shelf, pondering.

so I hunt.
for something to carry a load so heavy.

when nothing seems to do my hands reach, one at a time, traipsing into the yard with something new.

one by one I lined them together, neat, you know, in a disorganized kind of way.  

my nose crinkled and the thoughts whirled.

til my hands
reached
for the sleeves at my elbows.

pushing them higher to the sky I start to dig.
painting lines in the ground, murmuring affectionate coos to the earth that loves all.

my pockets empty of bulbs and seeds.

Hesitantly pouring

each mason watering a flower. each growing a new being into life with purpose and love.

Sitting back triumphantly as the tears forever water a garden till dry