Self-effacement

With time names and dates
engraved on headstones
weather beneath pelting sleet and rain
to soften carefully chiseled letters

Little by little
etchings become
blurred at the edges
indistinct and unreadable

Personality features
fade daily
hidden with words
structured into facades
readily available as a cover
from those who wish
to unearth the treasures within

What a struggle to hide
to mute or soften
eccentricities into normalities
What an effort
continual concealment
behind frights and fears
as though a child
playing hide-and-go seek with others

Self-effacement becomes
a life-style of constantly
playing a game without a prize

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.

He paints his ashtray
alkaline blue,
a petty tip-of-the-hat to
harbingers of evil,
men between men and
women sitting aside,
head bobbed
in embarrassment.

What have we become which
normalized gestures do not
puncture?

His alkaline blue ashtray
trading dust for roach buds
and where is he off to,
brain sorting sentiment with
barred numbers, statistics,
inaccessible phenomena.
Pains to say most often he is
wandering in the wings
flapping for attention.

How humanity must suffer
in the name of
self-effacement.

He and his
alkaline blue ashtray
skitter across the landscape
(a da Vinci,
a Mona Lisa)
again in apathy to watch
petty tip-of-the-hat prisoners
wag thumbs and call
each other names.

In the end of things,
reason does not prevail.

The dust is all.

i am life in all its forms
gardenias blossom in your garden
roses and geranium are in full bloom
sun, rain and wind nurture your soul
all is held in a vision of beauty
suspend judgement for a moment and relax duty
just be still and see the quality of life unfolding
have you found the rhythm yet
take time to wait for it to come to you
so long as you chase it
it will fly away faster than an arrow
but sit back and wait
and it will return as fast as it can
solve nothing and situate yourself between all limitations
as for pouring out your heart you must do that in stages
send messages to the ladies you are in love with
tell them you are always willing
to partake in the kindness of their salvation
send them flowers by way of mental teleportation
insanity is courage spread out upon the table
like a banquet we dine and resolve to try all the flavors
sorrow and madness are two tastes
that you remember from your childhood acquaintances
a long time ago there lived a boy in a basement
he had no friends or other people to educate him
so he set off on a course of morose self effacement
and learned the secrets to yesterday’s replacements
so many mornings he woke up
and found himself in a shallow pool of water
not knowing how he got there
he decided he would try to have a daughter
so he found himself a girlfriend
that he carved out of some stone
and into the water he tossed her
so he would no longer be alone
what a small child they had inside the pool
a tiny being the size of a pebble
yet they loved and cherished her like a princess
since they never left their home they could stay together
frequently his mind was a vacant island
surrounded by water on all sides
a perfect getaway for a tranquil vacation
next to the galapagos
there are seventeen dragons who take the form of turtles
he sold his hair for cash
and stashed it in their pockets
he sold his eyes for a sack of rice
and borrowed visions from the earth
she was a huntress
who gathered all her weapons
and sent them out with magic
into the forest to look for food
her legs had given up
but her mind was as strong as a lion
her spinal column danced in lightning’s garden
successful at shooting she could **** a bear in thirty seconds
her most altruistic side was alive
the day she discovered their burning child
instead of rescuing her she stoked the fire higher
but before she could be immolated
she untied her wrists and ankles
she ran away screaming but her mother didn’t even move
her stoic features held together like the stillness of a mountain
down, down, down deep in the valley
her laughter echoed loudly and her smile could cut through diamonds
all of the creatures that lived in this canyon
could only hope to be devoured
by someone as naughty as she was
and now the snow melts in summer
slowly as a snail
and dry are the fields who get only hail
and never rain nor shower
only thunder and the brightest flowers
for lightning fertilizes the soil
and soil is precisely new matter
that is waiting to be born
turning in the womb
the child is torn from her mother’s body
and pierced with the red spear of the dawn
shadows of mercury remain
in the warm amniotic fluid that is collected in a jar
like dew its is the moisture that holds the nectar of the stars
shreds of luminous light from the moon are shining like knives
tearing the sky to pieces as quickly as a kite darts past the sky
birds return to their nests as the day is over
and now its time for all to rest
so set yourself a placemat and prepare dinner in your sleep
yes you are present but at the moment talk is cheap
like porous cheesecloth used to strain milk and butter
long hours spent working tirelessly to prepare meals for
seven little brats
your music is a carriage to take you far away from that
pain and isolation that blooms despite your breath
never ever let them see you like that
start a journal or a blog
and tell the world how you feel
about chickens and turtles and the rest of the farm
stars are our teachers, for in letting go of beauty
they fall from the sky to finish off their duty
studious and serious the child plays with nothing
all is work and study in this day and age
of modern educational slavery
a stage for violent revolution is set
yet we fight the battles in the bathtubs
with our children’s hearts breaking
each day new devastating accounts
of tragedy and violence everywhere you turn
who will brush your hair
who will look out for the little ones
several hours pass and their is no sign of the rain letting up
its pouring harder than a drummer
hitting all the symbols at once
symbolic language a variation of music
variance and broad spectrums of diversity
amuse the angels who see only unity
lounging around on solid ground looking for happiness
this residue of yesterday is all over the flowers
targets in the city street are lighting up one at a time
next door to your house i see the writing on the wall
left there by a writer neither short nor tall
mint tea with honey drunk from a mason jar with almond milk
a stallion rides through heaven and raises up a storm
the sky he rides upon gives way to the stars
and like the bottom of a canyon
venus, earth, and mars are all slowly trampled upon
by the steeds powerful form
meditation is never ending
in full bodied harmony
our strings are being pulled by a puppeteer
he is a father figure
dreamed up from the pages of a story book
yet all the words are meaningless
until you’ve held that spark of luminous silence
that echoes in the darkness of the heart
yelling out loud but no one can hear you
through frozen windows you scream that you are lonely
come on outside and play in the Sun
hanging from the treetops are your old classmates
you tied the noose around their necks and let them sway for days
anger is a poison yet it heals many wounds
forgive the collective unconscious
or your destiny may be to wind up empty as a shell

3 hands


kidding hands,
an autocorrection title,
was supposed to be
kissing hands but either works

man overcome with an elixir of Sunday bed warming/charming/chilling, lukewarm "hot" coffee,
melodious love songs inducing
languorously hand-to-mouth,
five finger fore play love making

a potpourri of knuckle gnawing and gentling kisses
upon a hand borrowed from the a tablet holder,
while she reads the paper bemoaning the sorry state
of the world, the government permissions bad guys...
and weeps for the world we are leaving behind

a mood changer with 100% effectiveness

newspapers- a safe *** condiment

think I'll reheat my coffee

<•>

my hand

she cant sleep knows that I'm up at 2:08am composing.  
and showed her earlier today
the kidding hands poem
just as the lights were going down, downtown on
William's Measure For Measure

so at 2:09am her hand snakes over and wrap itself
around my thumb as if she was weaning an infant from
what infants like doing, or weaning grownup old men like me from doing at 2:09am, what they should be best leaving alone,
like writing poetry or it could just be the woman
pseudo-******* a poets thumb as a way of saying
can't sleep head buzzing and in between I love the
livening lying of living with your hands thumb in me

<•>
the facement of your hands*

dr. mandy is handy with a needling drink of boo boo bo-toxin
that auto corrects the face's reflecting times drawing upon it,
our bodies facement; an effacement I suppose, or maybe a
defacement.  

very little to be done to keep the *hands couture covering
from revealing what devolutionary year it is for you: why I write of the facement of your hands and why I kiss them, your hands,
lovingly, hoping the natural  toxins on my lips can ****** their aging,
and if they can't, then it is a great way of saying
I love you

<•>
  2:53am

To run after material fame
Counted not rich sensitive game;
Among wealth, *** and love affairs,
Character is above all arbiter.

As adorn ornament each bridal's limb,
An artist make active clumsy-wart-stone;
Company bear trophy by aggressive troops
Oblige character graceful at distress grown;

The character die seldom minus bloom,
Yet en-lights personalty fade in gloom;
Usually left little paid proper care,
Although always seen inclined sincere;

Certain place customary said temple
Where almighty's statue noted install
Estimated body deserving only when;
Thermal of character never fall;

Effort need to build the character
Honesty and endurance are weapon mere;
By effacement total thought rankle
And block pulse hide egotism perennial;

Good name lost can regain later
But character pleases rare if blot;
A richest jewel survive human tread;
Turn soul ill, fret, spiritless on rot.

I spend most of my year in self-effacement. Head down, hand up, a ghost who whispers answers to the lost. They take it; without a second thought, glance, judgement and leave the drooping girl in shades of grey to her notebook of lies. Poetry, prose, fiction, all of it is falsity straining towards enlightenment, in feeble attempts to discover itself, words stumbling into awkward rhymes hoping to somehow fall... into truth.
Then I do an about-face. Suddenly, out of nowhere, my hair falls into perfectly shaped golden locks around a painted face. A mask of melanin and mascara allow me to play a different part: one of laughter and physicality, one of reality and presence. The person I become in the summer months of heat, and sweat, and flesh believes that to be found, you must first endeavor to get beautiful, tragically lost.

Dear Mr......  I live in Melbourne.  Read your book--honest, bold, revelatory, trail-blazing.  I read much of Tolle and some of Chopra.  I like the way you have described your observations--they are sharp and insightful.  I am a Zen person and must have read Lao Tze's Tao -te-Ching 50? times ( my forthcoming book is on Tao leadership).   Every person finds their own way in their journey towards self-discovery and self-awareness. The path is a very hard one--it calls for so much patience, humility and determination. You mention happiness as a skill--so true.  What is so fascinating about Zen and Taoism is that it's an achievable art.  Happiness-gurus overstate their case,  they exaggerate,  they prescribe what they regard as THE ANSWER--- that's not true...and you have rightly written about their loss of cool, that they also exhibit impatience and dislike in stressful situations, that they self-aggrandise.  There is no perfect person on earth--even saints have their faults. Teachers must have humility, compassion, selflessness,  tolerance and goodwill----self-effacement I regard as the highest virtue being immensely affected by Taoism and Confucianism.  Yes, I live in the moment but my focus and attentiveness could never be the same or unencumbered.  But I do succeed in some measure.  He who wishes to meditate must come in purity of heart---he can't meditate if his heart and feelings are not right.  He needs to self-abandon, lose himself, feel as a child in the vast expanse of possible 'being', to be one with a Higher Reality or Consciousness....the letting-go is the route...My small book  IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF ZEN--THE PATH TO A CALMER AND HAPPIER LIFE released in Melb in 2018 has sold quite well.  For an unknown hobby-writer, I am more than gratified and have thanked my publisher for their faith in me.  It has accepted my Tao leadership book for release later this year---many lessons are in the same vein as found in Zen--after all, Taoism is the mother of Zen.  Someone wrote that Zen is the greatest discovery since the Enlightenment.  It has permeated every sphere of thinking and living.  I read Thomas Merton's SEEDS OF CONTEMPLATION some 50 years ago and continue to read him though I am not a Catholic (I don't have a religion being a humanist--agnostic?).  Merton was so enamoured of Zen that he edited a work of Zhuangzi, the most eloquent follower of Lao-tze.  The Vatican was very concerned as it was afraid he might abandon his original faith. But he didn't---his love of his faith even grew!  Now we have Zen-Christians, a phenomenon that testifies to the universality of faiths and beliefs.  I am sorry to have written so much.  Once again, thank you for your wonderful book.  Please drop me a line--I can learn from you.  Being a composer, musician and singer,  I find it easier to find my 'peak moments' when I am into it.   With my deep esteem and sincerest wishes.

Benign baleful dreams
pervading sense awaken arousal,
destructive in fruitful essence
of times eternal ocean of silence;
a majestic magnitude of heavens legions
felled as stars blossom like roses
in the night sky.
Amorous passion playing
with shadows; climbing
the stairs of heavens turmoil
like a ladder descending upon
a vast forest of emotions,
the angelic spirit of deception;
swarming like maggots untoward
the sulpherous adamantine
gates of a new order,
dropping like flies unto
the volcanic ash of chaos.
Efficacious mezmerisation
comprising invunerable exaltation,
numinous effacement
corrupting the truth of
unimaginable fear,
torterous pity bore by
innocense; lost denouncing
their creator.
Succumbing, a subdued debauch
ambassador of hope;
proscribed as the moon replaces the sun,
defiant; belief vanquished-
desire unrequited.


ELEETE J MUIR

Signed us up. One more round.
Stagger through another year
of attrition, searing heat and self-effacement.
When that black **** bubbles up
                       through every crevice in the ground,
we'll know our heroes finally died
                       down in the basement.

This city's getting small.
I've gotten mean, you're getting old.
But your cold feet won't save you
when you're dancing on those coals.
The verdict's been returned,
it seems they're moving to convict.
And I can't really blame them anymore.

Every Summer it gets hotter
than a crooked priest's Hell.
But we're shaking while we sweat
with too much time that's left to ****,
'cuz it's ****** in the courtroom
when the judge cracks a joke.
But you've heard this ******* punchline before.

Here we go, one more time.
Keep it fluid, keep it light
as you're waltzing through these streets that aren't your friends now.
You've got so much love to give,
                        I won't say what I've done with mine.
But there's no such thing as rest
                        for tired, old clowns.

Light me up, then play me out.
Stumble through another year
of attrition, mounting bills and self-debasement.
When that black **** bubbles up
                        through every crevice in the ground,
we'll know our heroes finally died
                        down in the basement.

buried alive; (in) sane; or harakiri?

a trifecta of horror
cuts through the lush foliage while i
writhe in a nest of
eldritch entrails

anxiety
rises up like an ophidian
coils shedding every quarter of a noon
ready to strike -
i lose movement
and falter through the streets
the meeting rooms,
and the endless conversations that end in stalemates;

my anxiety
an ouroboros of volcanic self-effacement
spills into posh mental facilities (lies)
and shoddy hospitals that turn the sick into the living dead

humiliation
burns bright red (magenta)
and brands my delicate skin with age-old glyphs
they mark the end of a civilization

the birth of a metropolis
with twin suns and dark monoliths
where the mob guillotines the visionaries
and the artist dies a dog's death.

run infantwoman
run as fast as you can in any direction that seems

AWAY

run till you threaten to drop dead

or

just drop


   skinned needs, skinned knees,
                    runs inyournewtights
                    heels of your palmsbleeding
fromwhere you      
s             k             i                     d                 along the unforgiving asphalt
that had been lying in wait for your stumble
hungry for your blood
hungry for your self
—
effacement to bring you
back to this place
               so well known

– when you – smart actualized near woman you –
go THERE
and stumble




the asphalt only wins
if
you continue to wear               that same pair of tights



(no matter how many times you stumble the thing that matters most is that you land softer)


                 run infantwoman
                © 2017 rochellefoles

the dragon soars . . . with hidden swords
the reverend knows the hand of an emperor
in the palm of a boy’s kindness
an old secret that nobody’s meant to know
his life in the spiky balance
who took it?

red healing sand . . . alone
celebrating the child within
crashing white miracles on blue-green motion
every glad step succumbs to cleansing effacement
no-one else there
but the eye of the lens capturing almost all
who took it?

moist dream kept alive . . . gentle pulses
sensing the curve beneath the waves
view obscured by tender energy
waiting for clarity to come
other things must fall and leave things stark
for the circle to keep turning
who took it?

and who took the smiles from the face
I've come to love?

I lie. 
I lie about lying. 
I lie about other liars lying. 
I lie to entertain 
and I lie to avoid trouble.
I lie about the stupidest things.
And I lie to the stupidest people.
I don't ever lie to hurt anyone.
In fact, I often lie just to make someone feel better.

I lie to save face.
And I lie because I'm embarrassed. 
I also lie because I'm ashamed.
I lie so people will like me.
And I lie to make my life easier.
Sometimes, I lie even when the lie will make my life harder.
I lie to make people laugh.
I lie so others will forget about things making them sad.
I lie so you'll stop crying.

I lie to boost my resume 
and to get free stuff.
I lie to make myself seem smarter and more likeable. 
I lie to babies and animals.
I lie to the dog 
to make it sit or stay.
And I lie to the cat 
for not coming when it's called.
I lie to schoolchildren 
about the speed of the slide.
And I lie to them 
when they fly too high 
on the swings.

I lie to my boss, 
my girlfriend, 
my Uber driver. 
I lie on my taxes.
I lie in the information I provide when I make donations 
to public radio.
I lie on my Tinder profile, 
I lie requesting a late checkout, 
and I lie when I'm just 
"asking for a friend."
I lie about my weight. 
And my age and my height.
I lie about the most ridiculous ****.
I lie to impress,
to involve, 
to engage.

I lie to my mom. 
And I lied to my dad. 
Siblings and cousins,
Aunties and uncles.
And to every other family member.
I lied to all my grandparents.
Rest their souls.
I lie to besties and buddies,
strangers and the displaced. 
I lie to the *** 
outside the store,
and I lie to every last bartender
as they give me house pour.

I lie about facts and figures,
numbers and data and results.
I lie about times and dates and destinations. 
I lie about when I'm coming, 
where I'm going,
and when I will arrive. 
I lie about the color of my car 
and the color of the sky 
and the color of my eyes. 
I lie about what you lied about to other liars. 
To other liars who are also lying.
Lying about you.
I lie about my disease,
my dysmorphia, 
and my decay.
I lie about cognitive dissonance 
and other big words.

I lie to professional liars.
Preachers and priests,
politicians and prostitutes.
I lie about farting. 
Did or didn't. 
Either way.
I lie on the quizzes I take online 
so the soulless algorithm 
will think I'm cool.
I lie about random coincidences 
as much as I lie about
earnest purposes. 
I lie about my relationship with God. 
I lie because there is no devil. 
I lie about Santa Claus,
the Easter Bunny,
and the Tooth Fairy. 
I lie to myself when I eat protein bars because they're good for me.
I lie when I try to convince myself that sweet potato chips are healthier than regular potato chips. 

I lie about quantum physics
and quark mechanics
and stellar principles and properties 
in the Cosmic Zone of Avoidance. 
I lie in pure manipulation,
stinging self depreciation,
and personal effacement.
I lie in my singing 
and my dancing 
and in my telling of stories. 
I lie to make the end of the story better.
I lie in the details.
A lie as I howl at the moon.

I lie to Peter Pan 
and to Cinderella. 
I even lie to her Fairy Godmother.
I lie to Jack and Jill 
and the Three Blind Mice. 
I lie to Mary, Mary, quite contrary, 
I lie to make her garden grow.
I lie to the ancient gods
and the Apostles,
Siddhartha and Confucius, 
Charlie Brown and Snoopy.
I lie to Lucy for five cents
when the psychiatrist is in.
I lie to Winnie the Pooh.
And Piglet too.

I lie to appear important 
and connected. 
I lie to get laid. 
I lie to date above the rim 
with women entirely too attractive for me. 
I lie to be seen with them 
and have them laugh at my jokes. 
I lie in the hopes of someone 
falling in love with me 
for not lying.
I lie about my hairline 
and the length of my Johnson. 
I lie about how great a lover I am.
I lie about my desperate need 
to be loved. 
And all the pathetic methods I try.
I lie when I tell you I'm fine 
and smile at your gesture.
I lie to you.

I lie to the sheep 
and I lie to the wolves.
To the keepers.
I lie to the lions and the lawyers,
The chattel and the chieftains. 
I lie to the cops
And the judge.
I even lie to the bailiff 
On the bible
On the record
On the run.

I lie about racism and bigotry and social injustice.
I lie when I toss change
into a vagrant's cup.
About ideals and resolve.
I lie about most anything.
Accomplishments,
achievements,
adventures.
And alliteration. 
Experiences,
education, 
endeavors. 
Even echoes 
of edification 
and explanation. 

I lie about who was first in line.
And who ate the last *******. 
I lie about the color of the seahorses in my dreams.
And I lie about what they tell me.
Anything.
I lie about what I tell myself 
when I look in the mirror. 
And so do you.
If you say you don't, 
you're a liar.
I know.

I am a liar.
Believe me

Sylvia Plath, 1932 - 1963

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival.  New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety.  We stand round blankly as walls.

I’m no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind’s hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses.  I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat’s.  The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars.  And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.

Silence and shapeless images
Dancing naked on the edge of a sword
We are spinning our breath into meager sediments
And what’s left are my only relationships
Is this my retaliation against the blades of oblivion
Why must I always be eliminated right before illumination
Or the combustion of concrete symbols like carbon atoms
As if my soul was undergoing oxidation
It's unconscious really that the instant we need to be aware
We take a break from concentration and fall into silent reverie
A shining monotony as the moon
Lights the way to our observation towers
We are heavy as daylight and lonely as an empty windowsill  
Whenever the sunlight shines luxuriously upon it
We are human beings doing but just barely used to using
Our unlimited and never-ending powers of imagination
If it's not elation that makes us escape our innocent privations
Then must we be immaculately nascent
Or veritably complacent and understated
In our jogging shoes and self effacement strategies
You have the blues and the reds too
The vibrations echo and they become your only decoration
Mellow and sedated we escape our approximations
By just getting a little more naked and familiar with our shadows
We shake our shoulders and shift our weight back towards the basics
As we get a little older we fold our best napkins in our pockets
And reposition the sockets and the clocks by our nightstands
To tell time just how we would like it to be
Exactly the way it was right before we died to ourselves
Are you understanding my odd way of speaking
Listening to the rhyming water as humid arias fall short of permutations
We are negotiating with contemplation’s namesake
Underlying visitations from our highest escalators
Concentrate and digest, we move forward
And caress the feathery fingers you have bared too often
We are clever and undefinable formulations
Monkeying around with the substrate of our eradication
I speak elated seances and fancy equations
Which underlie our negated vituperations
A Motley array of monkey business
Fizzles in the vaporous mist
It's an evaporative way of saying i love you
We are tender and tangential
We are offended by the examples you forget to administer
In your haste you restate the laziness of a piece of paper towel
To reply to your confessions
Underneath the premonitions you make
Is something that tastes quite a bit like logic

Life is flagrant debasement
Inspirer of self-effacement  
So I flagellate myself
Skin raw and exposed
Like my heart and artistic soul
Ready for just a little more
And a little more
And just a little more

Eternal nothing would be a gift
Sweeter than death
Why do I spend this time fearing it,
My futile, foolish being.
It could be a welcomed feeling
I’d let it in
With its empty repose
And hollow bones,
And brush its cheek
tenderly
Let it enter me--
Bear it.

The river I ride will guide me down
To the hell
Where my heart owns real estate
Stakes in the barren ground
And I will be accompanied by
My great companion
The messenger and deliverer
The cog in the great machine
Of free will

The one that continually leads me to destruction
Who spreads all the lies and the half-truths
Who withholds no honesty in his brutal judgments
And provides no delusions when his subjects face harshness
Who has no face but sports his tricky mirror with

Its effacement
The dead stars reflect
The river
Sticks
catch on my hospital gown
As I climb out
To inspect
My new neighbors who live in it
They are sorry for a lot of things too.
They bear the truth:

Nothingness would be easier
Than knowing what hate can do.

Les siècles sont au peuple ; eux, ils ont le moment,
Ils en usent. Ô lutte étrange ! Acharnement !
Chacun à grand bruit coupe une branche de l'arbre.
Là, des éclats d'airain, là, des éclats de marbre ;
La colonne romaine ainsi que l'arc français
Tombent. Que dirait-on de toi si tu faisais
Envoler ton lion de Saint-Marc, ô Venise !
L'histoire est balafrée et la gloire agonise.
Quoi qu'on puisse penser de la France d'hier,
De cette rude armée et de ce peuple fier,
Et de ce que ce siècle à son troisième lustre
Avait rêvé, tenté, voulu, c'était illustre.
Pourquoi l'effacement ? qu'a-t-on créé d'ailleurs
Pour les déshérités et pour les travailleurs ?
A-t-on fermé le bagne ? A-t-on ouvert l'école ?
On détruit Marengo, Lodi, Wagram, Arcole ;
A-t-on du moins fondé le droit universel ?
Le pauvre a-t-il le toit, le feu, le pain, le sel ?
A-t-on mis l'atelier, a-t-on mis la chaumière
Sous une immense loi de vie et de lumière ?
A-t-on déshonoré la guerre en renonçant
À l'effusion folle et sinistre du sang ?
A-t-on refait le code à l'image du juste ?
A-t-on bâti l'autel de la clémence auguste ?
A-t-on édifié le temple où la clarté
Se condense en raison et devient liberté ?
A-t-on doté l'enfant et délivré la femme ?
A-t-on planté dans l'homme, au plus profond de l'âme,
L'arbre du vrai, croissant de l'erreur qui décroît ?
Offre-t-on au progrès, toujours trop à l'étroit,
Quelque élargissement d'horizon et de route ?
Non ; des ruines ; rien. Soit. Quant à moi, je doute
Qu'on soit quitte pour dire au peuple murmurant :
Ce qu'on fait est petit, mais ce qu'on brise est grand.

the pulsating beats
of the rain on the sidewalk
some cars skidding by
others stuck in a gridlock

i tried to see look through you
see the allure all around me
but you won’t stop your nagging
no matter how hard i plea

its surely been months now
since we walked through this city
i miss how you wandered
and whispered so pretty

but its just me and these lights now
and the puddles on the pavement
i’ll drown in their memories
and the art of self-effacement

rivers spill into oceans take their soul with them and shine like diamonds
sign language and shadows reflecting strange arrows now is moonlight higher than the treetops i am dreaming of freeing you from demeaning glances and delivering deals sealed with kisses respect and madness return to sadness give your gladness forever in spiral serpents serving statistics situated between mistakes and self effacement

Don’t tell me lies
Or fly me to the moon
Don’t sell me potions
Or promise to visit soon
We are all accountable to our shadows
Loud as the dominating ones who made you
We are facing our own effacement
That’s nothing new
It seems the depth of my derangement
Is limitless in scope
We are all learning how to cope with ourselves
We shed our skins and begin the transformations
With elation and some dread
We are heading for the edges that we have never tread
I’m bleeding red and orange
And singing into your mouth
The stories of agape
And blooming flowers from the south

asserting oneself,
or
self effacement.

to be or not to be
the often quoted
dilemma.

does it count if I have dementia?
Alzheimer's will.

if God is the most important
answer to the most important question
then

I report

there is a gap
between
learning
and knowing

between
experiencing
and learning

between
reality
and

eternity.

Eternity?

isn't that

now?