I remember a night patrol,
we were sweeping some streets
&  we happened upon a basketball game
being watched on an ancient television.
It was the Chicago Bulls vs. the Pistons,
none of the locals watching it
paid us a bit of attention,
their eyes never left the picture.
Basketball seemed more
important than
this War on Terror.
That was just another time
that the ludicrousy
(or fruitlessness)
of our mission
seemed apparent.
**** it,
Go Bulls!

i tried to eat my whole heart raw once.


but i could not stomach it. could not stomach the noxious ventricles down my throat, could not swallow the bollus of unfleshly pink carnage.
so i broke it into pieces and i blamed you instead, because it seemed easier to say you broke me than to say that i ever loved you.


i.

this is how you broke me :

whenever i thought of you ******* her i would think of dying inside.


dying is a blessing.

dying is the movie that i am too young to watch but too old to resist. dying is divinity, it is paradisical death in slow motion, an entity mushrooming in between the eyes of a decaying rabbit. it is tears being ****** back into the eyes of a small girl, legs apart, ***** ripped, the fruitlessness of futility bleeding out like saliva from a mouth. dying is being idle, dying is being able to think without questioning existence, dying is a moth, paled by smoke.


it is that tuesday night i promised myself i would never write again
if all i wrote was about you.



ii.


this is how i broke myself :

whenever i thought of you dying inside her, i would think of *******.


******* is a blessing.  


******* is the reason an orchid can sing without a stigma. ******* is the malformation of your tongue when you say " i hate myself, because i hate you, but i hate you more. ". ******* is about three blocks away from love. ******* and love are probably secret **** buddies. ******* is saying you love her. ******* is saying you love me. ******* is that heart-shaped bruise that you left on my wrist, that tuesday night you ***** me and called it love. ******* is telling me i am not her.



this disposition of 'her', the realisation she plays a better 'her', than i play 'her', the realisation that she stole 'her' from me, when'her' was a dream both of us  could hope to fake.



iii.


why people are kept broken:

you once told me, while ashing out a cigarette on my neck,
*"it is better to stay broken so nothing else can ever break you again."

Lording over...my estate...striding--a parasol
of death spreads overhead.
Bones buckle, breath labors...an idiotic sky
broken a china doll blue.
Spiritual masteries whistle...sutra their wind...
there's nowhere to go--an attending red goes
black...a soul-rending idleness...my subjects
shall remain heifers.
Dotting my regal garden...dotting my regal
garden--with their fruitlessness.
Lording over... my estate...striding--a parasol
of death spreads overhead--pronounced
gloriously...the involuntary ratiocination of
my being in the minds of others...how dear...
how fitting am I...today I shall end my life.

The fruit of knowledge?
a misnomer---civilisation smells
of rotten debris amidst
the ruins of hope-- spells
the doom and decay
of moral character--
sacrilege!

once at the beginning of time
there was beauty, grandeur
innocence, purity and order
even without the use of words
earth was pregnant with a language
with songs and sounds that out-rival
every man-made wonder
at every bend there's the fruitfulness
the tender touch and the smile of nature-

where has the glory fled?*
why have the songs died?
why is human good dead?
why has the heart so bitterly cried?


silence
hush
dusk sets in
then night
makes its presence
the earth is still
not the gentlest murmur
from the bordering sea
nor the faintest rustle
from any hidden tree
not a single bird-song
is heard from the timeless hill

the hours deepen
as the sky's clouds further
they darken
the heart weeps
desolate, alone,
melancholy stricken

the orchard no longer
bears any fruit
it's cold and barren
the farmer turns away
the ground is sullen

no one
could be sure
when would be
the season of fruitfulness
if it would ever happen

it's the world
we live in
desperate
lost
forlorn
helpless
in its fruitlessness.

Writing is not only an inspection of the world, it is the inspection of the self-contained world. The self realizing it's own purposelessness, and the seeming fruitlessness of the fight against the battering ram of its conclusions; so the self fights for freedom against this self-oppression, fights for a galvanizing truth with its self-contained ball of fire that burns weakly inside of it as the world outside goes bumping in the night blindly. Writing forces you more inward than outward. It is the inner world that re-lights the outer world; against all the blighting anvils in this tiny green universe.

This effulgent, white  cactus flower,
a bright thought, a creative impetus
from an eternal source, ever present
in spite of the  callousness all round,
emerging in the whistling desert of mind
like it happens after a single day of rain
tells me how beautiful things would turn
when within a bright thought blooms
defeating all thorny fruitlessness of life.

I have beheld
the simpleminded
lark, who sings
sustained
until the very moment
he crumples against
the glass--
I have beheld
the fruitlessness
of his path.
I see now that
the sparrow is
propelled, and what
propels her:
a heedlessness
an artlessness
behind her.

I have held
the hand of a man
in tears and
pet his head.
I have walked in-
to churches one way
and expected to come out
another: naivety.

I have come
to understand why
few ever find
the tunnel's exit.
Behold: one smoker,
smoking; one sad
girl with an older
man; one blind
woman, walking;
one foolish bird
in flight
towards a window.

I am sincerely sorry for being an absentee in my own life. You probably don't know me or even care about my existence, nor do you find relevance in my apologetic attempt to reconcile my fruitlessness. But I feel strongly compelled to apologize for my stagnation:

I come from a pond across the way from you. A stowed away break in the trees where the sun only shines for a brief time at noon and disappears for the rest of the day. The birds don't sing their song of sixpense, nor do the fish splash or the frogs belch their symphony. Even the crickets scream as loud as the mimes at the circus. For nothing enters and nothing leaves, so why do you even bother?

I only write to you for what could have been, and pray for forgiveness for what hasn't been. I understand that the act of "what if"s is a waterfall of tears cascading into an abyss, but I find that this journey is a necessary evil.

So what if I made a splash today in my pond, the ocean of things that I can actually control. Sent ripples across the pond and stirred the fish into commotion. The frogs join in the chaos with their symphony  and maybe the crickets, after hearing the low bass of croaking, decide to join in with their rhythm that awakens the birds from their deep slumber. In response, the birds spring up with their joyous melody and the ensemble of nature creates an exuberant noise in a previously dull and dim place. Such a thought that one tiny splash can dictate a tremendous ensemble, such that if you took your thoughts off of your own life for a split second you could possibly be splendidly surprised by burst of nature from an insignificant source. Such small fractions of life can create mesmerizing sound waves that make you a little happier today.

It seems so simple to create, just a whispering splash. Yet I have failed to create a single note that is audible to the outside world.

There are two plausible reasons for my plight: Either the noise I attempt to create is so insignificant to the outside world that more significant amplifications exceed my own capacity to make sound or the world is just simply not listening anymore.

No matter how many times you cry out, jump up and down in the pond and scream your head off at the world; the ripples aren't forming. The waves don't crash on the shore and one is left standing invisible in the center of a drowning amount of commotion.

And if you are reading this, you are the anomaly that has slipped through the sound barrier to hear this silent song.

Into the darkness I bellow words of love and life.

Beyond the reach of your ears I howl in pain at your rejection.

Into the abyss I have thrown myself, determine to explore its depths.

The fear is there in the background, chattering endlessly about the fruitlessness and futility of my quest.

But I will find you again, I will hold your hand, I will warm your soul with my own.

I will quench the fire that Sears you from within and replace the emptiness with the light of love.

To you trust, hope, faith, and finally, peace will be gifted.

In my embrace you will find rest and I will lovingly hold you with tenderness, wipe away you last tears, and spread a smile on your lips with kisses of heaven's love upon your brow.

In this world of chaos and destruction, we are the messengers, the givers, the servants. We carry God's love for you and deliver it daily.  If only you will stop and open your eyes to us as we stand before you with our arms outstretched.

Come let me give you what is yours to have.

A strong crushing feeling on the edge of existence
  Investigating a never-ending black tunnel
A crypt of hopeless souls forever seeking shelter
  Without a lamp to guide their fruitlessness
I see the ghastly faces set upon every person still
  Cold, pale and downtrodden with weight
Devoid of any glow to indicate they are alive
  They are obscure and discarded remains
Theirs is a cell of forgetfulness and tragic pain
  Forever feeling along the walls of torment

clop go the sound
the feet against the ground
rather the asphalt or the grass
never the rubber, never the metal

incessant, incessant, incessant
beating back the ghosts
of a ten year memory
long since past its best by date

need i remind you that it was
the rubber, the metal, that spared the grass
coming down the hill
never flew so fast

18:57 engraved into the mind
like a time-worn time
cave painting of my life
what was once good can return in a while

eight years away, two years to stay
eight and two makes ten
just add the k
or rather the m

might as well plop on another three
and a point one just for measurement
see how steely the runner can be
sturdy as rubber, flexible as a post

neon blue feeling heavy
tasting salty and dry
confusion spits in my eye
start pondering why

but why is not the question
the question is why not
why can't this happen
because i believe it can isn't good enough

i have to know
i have to know what would have been
what could have been, what should have been
so channel the anger from within

and just beat back incessantly
the ghosts of time past
ten years of fruitlessness
turning into a juicy pear

pair of shoes, hair removed
dare to do, scared of who?
it's me against me
and only i can see

will it be less than two?
faster than you?
so much work to do
to make much ado

the old meets new
but it's kept askew
this is what i'm born to do
only 26.2 for me and for you

i'm going but i can't go
i'm stopping but i can't stop
i'm knowing but i can't know
what awaits at the top

for the top is just a mirage
i'll always want some more
there's no keeping score
just one more, then one more

in a world where time
is not measured by the beat of a clock
is measured by the distance covered
is measured by shoes meeting their ends

the goal is not the medal
the goal is not the orange slice
the goal is only the goal
to go until you can't go

and then go some more.

her
out of fruitlessness
her

Let me tell you a story of a girl...
She was born in a small quaint town in the hills of the Appalachians. From a young age she witnessed a many tragedy. The appeasement of feminine power to the masculine. The absurdity in separation of dogma. The fruitlessness of quarrels. The ugliness of racism... She often fled to the woods in hope to find peace. She found it; sheltered neatly in the wild surrounds,  she dreamt of what life would have been like when dinosaurs roamed and nature ruled. Before mans ideologies and fear mongering. She climbed over fallen trees and rustled through the crumpled leaves that lined the forest floor. She tasted of the plants and learned of their unique qualities. The sweet taste of honeysuckle. How sometimes she would meet some plants that would sting with subtle harshness; itch and inflame the skin; though in such a non personal way. She never feared nature... no mountain lion, bear, or snake... they were her and she were they; the source energy-Prana, QI, whatever title you’d like to give it. She was free up there; in the undulating foliage. Amongst the the pine and rhododendrons. What happened to that girl? To the wonderfully connected free spirit? Fast forward ten years and she is but a fraction of that girl. Although she has grown older; the distance widens. She cares less about escaping into the woods and befalls comfort in chemicals. The high that she once found in the shades of deep red, glowing orange, vibrant yellow-the colours of fall... now she seeks to find them in bottles of poison, pharmaceuticals... it can only lead to her downfall; and it did... time and time again she seeks this empty void. She separates herself even further from nature and throws herself into the vacant trap of slavery. Slavery of course, being the imaginary cage you settle into. Money, accolades, success.... Stress becomes the norm and the wonderful world that she had once imagined becomes complete fairy stories.... made for children... lost amongst mortgages, consumption, and failure... On one fated morning she awakes from a deep sleep. The world was no longer how she had left it the previous night. Something had changed. She no longer cared about the surface; the thing that caused her to escape and fear. She searched relentlessly for meaning; the meaning of life and purpose. She found herself once again, seeking nature to provide the answers. She remembered all the books her mother had read. Tapped into a higher state of consciousness not known to her before. She was led to the esoteric world; of tarot and energy healers. She partook in their gifts with an open mind and heart. What she experienced was unique; and powerful. She felt a great need for healing; herself and the world. She reached out to all forms of mysticism and magic. For the mysteries of the natural world became more fascinating than fiction. She set about understanding more than surface knowledge and began diving deep into the astral body. That is where she exists now... in the present.

Vanities Again, Again

I watched a well known TV show.
The guest was nobody I know.
A young girl whose main aim was fame:
Through daily photoed Instagram.
Spending thousands on the shifting sand
Of makeup, bags, clothes, shoes
For “Followers” from each or any land;
Misguided and delusory!
Pathetic and illusory!.
Poor unskilled child!
Convinced that getting ‘Like’ and ‘Followed’
Have some hallowed worth.
As if a button had inherent love.
Self-starved, she struggled with her girth
Yet drank on weekends for her mirth.
Felt gratified when people called her ‘hot’.
Had not a jot of self insight,
Of who she was, should be, should do
To make a contribution to…
She read no books;
Her prime concern brand names and looks.

For happiness of real success,
She must unlearn those false ideas,
Gain insight into fruitlessness
Self-admiration, haughtiness,
For vanity is profitless,
Its origin the Latin vanus/vanitas:
Pointless, useless
                            ‘emptiness’.  

Vanities Again, Again 9.24.2020 Circling Round Vanities II; Circling Round Experience; Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Nover Corwin