There was a dream here. It passed over in the night; a blur that burnt a fever into the earth. It died in the gap between. Fingers unlaced. Hand to the side. The sun runs soft tendrils through thick curtains. Or something like that.

Have you seen the new Star Wars movie? No. You’d like it. It’s the same thing all over again, but with a black guy and a chick as the main characters instead. I guess that’s what you call progress.

There was a dream here. A thick, unfurling mass of potentialities. Sartre once wrote existence precedes essence. Schopenhauer believed the essence of a chair was as much willed into being as the essence of a man. There was choice once, but it died when we chose. The breath you took before your last smoke. The air is stirred by a passing train. A woman steps off a bridge, into the mourning blue of an autumn lake. There is an empty car on fire. There is a man inside. His brother sleeps through his exam, doped up on too much codeine. There is the stench of lack. There is death passing a mirror, seeing herself in haste, but too rushed to make sense of it.

He runs fingers down the scars of her arm. A trickling, stream awakening from a long winter thaw. Vessels blue. Oceans of laughter tucked deep in the folds of her skin, so faint you can barely see them any more.

The sheets are black. The city folds itself. The sky collapses into the gutter; Jupiter bleeds into the apartment block on east side. A man leaves his home, but never reaches his destination.  There is a movie Face Off, where the identity of Nicholas Cage is challenged through the transplantation of his face. If reincarnation were possible, would we even be capable of recognising our reincarnated selves, stumbling through the visage of a billion other, unknown vessels? The skip collectors come at 4am. Metal grinds against metal until all that is left is dust.

Hands shaking a pit of coal. Shake shake. Shake shake. Your mother is dead. Shake shake. Shake shake. Jesus working at a shoe store. Shake shake. Shake shake. An atheist. Hah hah, hah.

The channels fill. Ink drops on water. Fireworks blackening the contours. There is a sun in Peru. Waste water pumps through the vessels of the city. The mayor drinks punch. The catacombs crumble like desert bones. The roads split above. Traffic stalls. Shadows stretch. Meet at the centre. A core. Slender fingers. The infinite. A hollowed heart. A heritage.

Drink your punch, says the mayor, try the grape and cheese.

There is a comic. Five or six woodland friends play grab the tail. After one round, they look over to find friend raccoon sleeping. They laugh and shout next round. Friend scorpion looks at his tail with tears in his eyes. It is funny, because death is boundless, amoral, and imminent.

A group at a party. Someone brings up the right-wing branch of their government. Everyone begins laughing, red in the face, spit flying from their mouths, arms noodling into the sky. Yeah, yeah. Hella. It is an imitation game. A laugh track on repeat. Maybe someone scratched it on purpose, or the sound guy fell asleep on the button. Now everyone is stuck, laughing. They begin to doubt themselves, but look up, reassured by the glowing sign above their heads that displays the text laughter, in bold black Helvetica. The sign is faded from heavy use, a sickly cream that looked bad before it left the factory. They were made in batches of a thousand and shipped across the country. One begins to choke, spilling her drink, bunching the cloth on the table beside her. They keep laughing. She is purple now. Another group spots them and joins in. The party next door. The whole neighbourhood. It is broadcast across the city. A wave of hysteria sweeps the nation. An online celebrity creates mugs. A famous rapper uploads himself eating pancakes. The sound guy wakes up and turns off the display, but everyone keeps laughing.

God died today. Crumpled jacket at the foot of an apartment block. Creased ticket. Crooked can rolling down suburbia. American dream wakes up. Finds herself an amnesiac in a foreign land. Catches bus downtown. Wanders vacant sun. Blood trickles from wrinkles. So many now. Creased, crumpled, crooked. Drinks from gutter. Chokes. Stumbles into abandoned church. Blood dries into grotesque mask. Hard to feel through it. Like second skin. Tired. Rests head against wall. Waits for pulse. Finds nothing.

A joke to break the gloom. Two crows are perched opposite one another, partitioned by a one-way mirror. Both break into laughter.

No, wait. Maybe tears.

the slow smoke gloats and motes of atoms matter
dappled in the dingy blue of wintry twilight, frozen swollen
with white ash sunlight and long shadows, noodling in the canopies
of our vast wilderness. in the back room.

my rocking chair grinds an arc on a single point beneath me.
i teeter on the minuscule reminiscence, much -  
as a wave teeters
on the moon's
whim.

i rejoice.

and deny.

i long for gone remedies, while pondering
what plagues my faith -
in the Mist...
what troubles the blight elan
of my ignorance.

and
at the door, i find you sleeping
on god's dime.

and i dream with
you.

Long lines at midnight, breathless hype,
shiny sheen, the high gloss of marketing,
cosplay and balletic spoiler avoidance,
slammed multiplexes, overloaded ticket sites,
Croesus-like CGI kissing earnest steady-cam shots,
fan service, callbacks, countless punches.

Childhood idols fleshed out
on the grandeur of the silver screen,
writers room noodling netting billions
long after all the shaggy boho creatives
that originated it all were lowered
into the loamy maw of anonymous grave plots.

There's a degree of validation for the pasty
and hopeless, the low and lowdown
in watching a distinguished professional legend
pretending to be Bartoc the frickin Leaper
as though it's not silly, as though all
your idle moments, all your random diversions
really matter in the end, as though it all ties up
with a master-planned through-line of purpose,

as though it all mattered when you avidly read
about Iron Man, Hercules and Giant Man punching
out the red-shirt Skrulls (or was it the Krees?) on some spaceship
for a few minutes back at your grandmother's house
back before she was dead, before you were consumed
with the caustic sting of bitterness and bile, all the
accrued weight of a life generally but pleasantly wasted.

Carted off to who-hears paths
doubly deep of our weathers.
Keeping armfuls of guts from
spilling, un-wed worms uncoiling
for their native soils.
Saying loudly our slippery peaces...
to break with surface light.
To trade ravings hinged on absence,
moistly noodling context in place.
Freakishly conducive to metabolizing
the essence of otherness.

Her leaving heat wakes my shattered mind,
And torn tendrils of ***-stained dreams
Slip and slide away, noodling into;
Incomprehension, anger, hurt,
Coffee steam stays the pain,
Relief and hope mix in an
Exhuming brew.

Let’s canoodle, let’s spoon.

Let’s cuddle, let’s squeeze.
It has been too long in between
So, let us do this now, please.

I want to lie down next to you
And feel your heart beat close.
To match the rhythm with mine
And then enjoy it as it slows
And matches with the cadence
Of the heart inside my chest.
Of all the moments in my life
This is the one I love best.

I admit that I’m distracted today
That’s the idea I’ve been noodling.
Having fun with you all alone;
Doing some serious canoodling.
It s a better idea than hiking
Or washing the car or cooking.
We just turn on some cool music
And both of us get to canoodling.

Doing simple math for us,
Like one and one make two.
Means I am one number
And of course, so are you.
We can add up some others
Like one well planed meal.
Later it may seem like a dream
But, I assure you, it will be real.

Let’s canoodle, let’s spoon.

Let’s cuddle, let’s squeeze.
It has been too long in between
So, let us do this now, please.

Eyes do see the mystery of stoic conceit
an acoustical noodling or youthful brooding
never given back to me,
my craggy voice
precocious rise,
never the less a leach upon the dead
I
sacrosanct lie,

decomposing words of dead poets
horrific:

an aura of
trance in elements of infantile exuberance
my lyric prose a protuberance,
an instrument
played at least as much
as i sought the rhymed.

I write my poems
Then post them online
For all the world to see
And I never noticed that I
Am writing the tale of me.
I never felt a moment's fear
That some would read here
Any kind of indictment
Or make hurtful judgment,
Though some have before.
Even those I don’t ignore.

I am weaving piecemeal
A  harlequin coat of words
That, when they are heard,
Tell you more than asking
More than admitting aloud
Under oath to an eager crowd
Of prosecutors and accusers
And those who support me
Waiting in their seats, hoping
I won’t quit telling, revealing
The tale of a man who rhymes.
It is nearly my only crime.

Please accept, it is only humming,
Something you may do at work;
Me jerking a pen and scribbling.
Don’t bother with quibbling
Because that is what it is,
Doodling, noodling, muttering
But doing it on paper, lettering
Making tuneless music from me
So others can see and happily
Decide to keep it or share it.
I don’t care. It matters not to me.
I give my literary gifts freely.

I’m waiting for that titter tatter of brain matter to come in and let me know whats really going to happen below the belt, I’m waiting for that slash of mystery finish that will reveal whats hiding at the end of the tunnel, I’m waiting to be tossed about, build and ravished and destroyed, smashed into a million pieces and turned into tinker toys, I’m wanting to be broken down by scientific analysts only to be a mistake mystery explanation for string theory.  I’m hoping for a mixture of time axis, along the equator, letting the jukebox serenader agree to the next fashion statement.  I’m marveling at the mystery of mixed up majestic time tables, who will lead me to exactly where I need to be.  I just want the sweet marmalade nectar to fall down my throat and lead me to a dreamless sleep so I may wake up and know exactly where my destination lies, no coffee, complete. I’m yearning for the woods to call on my name and show me the nook where the fallen spirits lay and they will help me, take my hand and show me the horror so I know when to hide and when to come out and be alive.  I’m gazing at paintings and marveling at the different colors and letting the textures be examples of how to stroke and at the precise moment when a mirage becomes a masterpeice.  I’m noodling with the spaghetti stories and taking my turn to lead it to the guru who will finish it with one hand held up, and a finger gone, understanding the principles of buddhism.  I’m throwing knives in the air and letting them fall into the sand then dropping acid and doing a dance between their places, knowing very well that I may land and meet my gruesome death.  I am putting my feet up and staring at the ceiling and knowing its distinct features, its bubbles, its textures, and the answers?  they are only in the subtle hum of the air conditioner, the ceilings stoic nature, and the space between.

i have them, i wake up the next day,
fiddle about with it, and realise
in an instant: i'll not honeysuckle
anything out of it -
yet another day in the sahara -
    you only really experience a writer's
block once you've written a lot...
and yes, the mediocre moments
in a "career" do happen,
   but as any stepping-stone moment -
******, better hop from stone
to stone, until that one perfect moment
arrives, and steals you away,
on something akin to travelling to the giza
pyramids...
    mind you: it's unbelievable that only
the eiffel tower overshadowed the giza
pyramids, so many centuries later...
  staggering.
        that aside, it's no wonder that
poets always extend their ambition into
writing the prosaic -
   the would be proselytes -
  who, in most instances:
  do not have the stomach to churn out
mundane narratives -
   and senseless dialogues -
the problem with poetry:
   the expectation to always write something
profound;
i'll never write a novel,
simply because it's not that i aim
at writing something profound every
single sentence...
  it's that i cannot write the piece of meat
of mundane narrative in the medium
of the in-between of finally considering
a profound citation point...
so much of novel writing is idle
chit-chat... so much is filled with the in-between
of said effort,
    not that great poetry always says
great things, but when i look at virgil,
or homer, i find that poetry was: once
upon a time - driven by a narrative...
modern poetry? a complete lack of, narrative,
then again the technicality bewilders me
to never adhere to it...
          did i visit a psychiatrist for jokes?
i sure did...
   i once even managed a stealthy glance
at the notes referred to a g.p.,
what did they reveal?
      a) biting your nails
     b) keeping eye-contact
and
       c) fidgety feet, not imitating drumming...
that's it!
   psychiatry is still oh so barbaric
compared to other branches of medicine...
most people do not believe in
psyche-cogito complex in that: they do not
believe in a soul, but i dare you to ask anyone
who has experienced the osmosis: trickling
of a soul into anima via psychosis...
      notably those who managed
to contain the experience...
             few people emerge from having
experienced psychosis without an
institutionalised backdrop of events,
  even fewer make it out the quixotic windmill...
me? look at me, unscatched -
                regretful? perhaps...
               resentful... every chance i get i
manage to usher in a laugh...
        once more, heidegger...
      the talk of travel, of experiencing
the totality of the world, the - orbis totalis -
  for these people so hungry to experience
the totality of this world...
    i have four words for them -
  the sage of königsberg...
           i'm becoming a hermit of essex
by the looks of it,
          my ambition to live a life like
sunday traffic, to live the life least unpredictable
is starting to sink into my bones,
to even animate them...
        i don't know why people never choose
the predictable life, given that death is
an event that's inevitable -
  merging two inevitabilities can create
the most random experience of events -
     that said: your thinking will never be
predictably *****-likened,
       it will end up as an embodiment of
the antithesis to the sisyphus toil -
   unless some cerberus is watching over
poor sisyphus, the man will eventually stop
rolling the stone up the hill,
   he'll eventually stop rolling it,
look at it, and become a minotaur in his own
cognitive labyrinth...
and in such a labyrinth, sure, there
are are no sphinxes, or pyramids of giza,
but beside these predictable sights,
   the sisyphus-minotaur will see unseen prior to
sights of his own ingenious invention.
like heidegger said:
  ordinary thinking is pulverised by
the presumption that the more "lived experiences"
a human being has, the more certainty he
has in assuring being and what he is
to "become" -
   perhaps, suppose that the more you see,
and the more you "experience" the more complete
example of humanity you will become...
  only to
a) have all the more regrets prior to
     the relief of succumbing to death,
b) the "foreboding" of: never again...
  c) the nostalgia,
   d)  contra nostalgia: the deepest vilest form
  of emotion: the regrets of never being disposed
to fathom any said experience (cf. point a))-
e) if you don't have what you like,
    like what you have...
i hardly think there's a need for a complete
human experience with all the provisions
secured...
  there's only a human experience,
          there never will be a complete human
experience, other than in the guise
of a spectator,
    the only brimful "lived experience" is in
the guise of the being, that's a spectator...
sure, there's a fancy, a day-dream of
being a protagonist of some sort,
   but as the old sayings goes,
if everyone were to take their shoes off,
and throw them into a heap,
  they'd still take from the heap their own
pair: for walking with one's own problems
is always more bearable,
  than experiencing the kampf of others...
  ich kampf - and i love that phrasing -
it's not mine, in that it is mine:
but it's not a definite struggle - rather a
continuing venture into the very mundane
of every other yesterday, or every other tomorrow.
i've met more humanity in those who
chose the theatre of the mind,
           than the theatre of the west-end...
   i've met enough humanity who have
experienced less, but nonetheless live more,
than those tourists, who "experienced" more,
but nonetheless lived less...
          to make oneself encrusted in the local
environment, to stand rigid & proud as
a domineering sight of a mountain...
                        to feel a lesser need to known
the world, and a pressure toward a need to
know oneself...
    to extract the reflective notion of the otherwise
reflexive word structures:
   i.e. yourself: your self,
    oneself: one's self,
               myself: my self...
         and standing these un-noodling compounds
  before the one mirror that a philosophical
narcissus could perplex his self over:
                    the mirror of itself -
              or: die es und der selbst -
                                       the it and the self;
das? that's like a doubled-up definite article...
i swear to god, only the germans
have more definite articles than any other
language - the poles only have two
(last time i checked), i.e. to & tamto -
  which is distinguished by distance -
  to is closer, while tamto is further away...
honestly, the fun really starts when
you stop synthesising language,
   and begin analysing it...
      but i recommend synthesising (mimic)
a language for at least 20 years,
    and then spontaneously "revising" it -
never minding the idea that you might fall
into any linguistically orthodox pitfall.

p.s. ah right, the masculine / feminine brigade:
ten: direct article for he (close)
  ta: the direct article for she (close)
   tamten: direct article for he (far away)
  tamta: the direct article for she (far away),
to: gender neutral direct article (close)
  tamto: gender neutral direct article (far away);

and still the sahara of the indirect article
in german: eine schmein ein schmeine eins ein
11 elves ate a wolf in dresden -
             which made up 36 observable curiosities.

Noodling through space and time
On a steel wire line
Lost inside
But straight ahead i see the road
Swiveling out of control
Tossing me off into unconsciousness
That hard stop hit abyss
And as I lay there lone and cold
Waiting to hear what has been told
They tell me i won't grow old
Put me under with the rest of the world

An excerpt taken from a lengthy tome,
written courtesy a favorite poet of mine.

Paraskevidekatriaphobia  struck within a blink,
I swear yours truly never took a drink,
nevertheless he witnessed
and falsely accused of being a rat fink,
when everything but the kitchen sink
instantaneously disappeared in a wink.

A quick moving flava flav lava flow
quickly rapped (like a snoop doggy dog tune),
swept, and twittered predominantly
(this only the beginning phase
of Armageddon clobbering debacle),
where nature nymphs, sprites, trolls, et cetera)
decked out with tartan kilted
Scottish residents comprising
the moral majority population
within bucolic community of Harrisburg,
(yes the same place name and Das Capital
of Pennsylvania) before swallowing
(as an itty bitty, teensy weensy
hors d oeuvre), a healthy
barley noticed portion of planet Earth.

Faster than a speeding bullet
lubricated with greased lightning,
and one rather extremely uncommon phenomena,
the devastating, instantaneous,
and outrageous volcanic activity,
(that forged the Allegheny Mountains)
unexpectedly goose-stepped,
doggedly catapulted back to life
after a bajillion years of dormancy
entombing, hotly freezing (in perpetuity),

and guaranteeing, limning, and ossifying
unchanging lifelong livingsocial abode
of Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum
at that juncture (of happy and healthy)
within the space time continuum
4 after Midnight, (when Christine
came down with severe bout of misery
qua writer's block), and sponsored
by Plexus, nexus Lexus Wilkie Buick,
who guaranteed their

handsomely crafted automobiles
(specially designed with an app
to weather fierce blistering,
pelting thermal withering geologic events,
sans natural catastrophes)
included extra durable crushed bougainvillea
(allegedly beefed chromosomes)
deftly effected fortified (gluten free)
genetically housed immensely
jimmied, kindled, lionized magnetized numbskulls.

The volcanic magma seemed to possess
an uncanny intelligent, eerie ability
to discriminate among bias,
die hard extremist stances, liberal take
on hot button controversial issues,
political ultra factions, hence the eye catching,
shining, yet confusing moniker
"Smart Ash" soon codified, fructified, indemnified
with the reputable, musical, and inestimable
qua personae non gratae prodigy Sam Ash".

Actually, there did seem to appear
some natural likeness in violent temperament,
resonant penchant, and nascent lambent
Jill Saint John habiliment
between former magmatic material,
and protean Primate prehensile prattling Simian,
who (as a sidereal stellar story teller)
happens to be yours truly.

Anyway, due to strict
parochial Lutheran hackneyed dogma,
no iota of boasting, flattering, nattering chattering
allowed from this anonymous,
hip po' eponymous, harmonious, industrious,
innocuous, judicious, loquacious, marvelous,
querulous Norwegian bachelor farmer.

Ponder with scrunched furrowed brow
in a serious effort to expound at large
this incredulous nebulous,
shape shifting (than compound
an understandably mixed up notion),
thus now tis a noteworthy opportunity
to point out divulging the name of this scribe
would immediately necessitate notification
of Non-Coms, who would forcibly usher
this lapsed long haired pencil neck geek.

This action (not newsworthy in the least),
would thus mocks nix notorious nauseating, nasty,
never-ending nonsensical noodling.

How sad, hence tis not wise tune hip
virtual thorn in the dark side.

Rather best bet would be to buffer end
this figurative bud dee **** encased
within corpus callosum.

Though identity guard disallows revealing namesake
of this nincompoop, the most information
told about this little known author
can be reduced to one word.

That abridged version would deprive
any subsequent reader a brave attempt
to interpret convoluted spaghetti writing.

Despite ambition to bob and weave continuously
(creating a conglomeration of ever increasing
virtual loose threads),
one final capstone concept begs to be conveyed.

Thine ziggurat severely atilt rivaled
(sorry tubby cheesy),
but the Leaning Tower of Pisa!

Asinine argot acquired bilious berserk baggage,
which stakes no claim nsync with
longevity, magnanimity, notoriety, et cetera.

A series of unfortunate literary,
lickity-split liberty unintentionally
left a prose ache wake.

An honest to dogness attempt bedeviled crux
displaying evident fiasco.

Slinky circumstances, sans synonymity,
synergistically, and synchronicity
yielded a feeble effort at fame.

Birth thing a complex mental edifice
begot aborted aspiration foray zing
grateful, mindful, and respectful characterization.

With masterful strokes
the brush moves
then

a red crest

a wave

see it hear it ride it

and find out where
ear and eye collide

music
plus painting

equals

noodling and doodling
jazz for the mind


© Whit Howland 2019

for the trumpeting don
spells loss for democracy
after inauguration day
witnesses his swearing-in
nepotism will run rampant
lawlessness the name of the game
of thrones breaking apart ramparts
of inalienable rightful
freedoms rent sunder, whereby nothin
can stop formidable has-been
former forty fifth commander in chief
to wreak havoc giving boogeymen
run for his money.

I cannot vote for that coiffed ogre - tough
luck such as imprisonment
doled out to "losers" -
dragging them by scruff
of their neck
delegating his henchmen
charged analogous
to applying assault, battery and ****
ever ready and rough
each likened as assigned kapo
spewing ala blow torch dragon

puffing out following
remaining poetic lines
dashed off in a huff -
based on the scary political fracas -
that a looming presidential nightmare
doth not become reality show -
apprenticing "Three Billy Goats Gruff"
(Norwegian: De tre bukkene Bruse),
a Norwegian fairy tale collected
by Peter Christen Asbjørnsen

and Jørgen Moe
in their Norske Folkeeventyr,
first published between 1841 and 1844
requiring dye hard adherents to fluff
up their orange hair
and douse body courtesy sunlamps
or other tanning equipment
to affect getting more than enough
emitted rays of ultraviolet (UV) radiation
(courtesy booth installed

in every congressional seat)
sycophants forever believing
unhealthy glow (viz Rudolph) never enough
while spending taxpayers money
sitting on her/his respective duff
meanwhile United States in general,
and Washington District
of Columbia in particular
(the epitome western civilization)
exemplifying City on a Hill,

a phrase derived from the teaching
of salt and light in Jesus's Sermon
on the Mount incorporated
in political rhetoric
in United States politics
that of a declaration
of American exceptionalism
to refer to America acting
as a "beacon of hope" for the world,
when suddenly such grandeur
precariously perched atop figurative bluff.

Airing thoughts - no matter aye ham
juiced one twenty first century
piddling, noodling, and muddling ape
poetic license serves
as genuine esse cape
to fly (during pitch black hours of night)
on his witch a ma call it...
to escape temporarily
the cares and concerns
of an uncertain world,
where as an outlier

from the madding crowd I gape
at forecasting sheer insanity,
where vetted trumpeting drag queens
dolled up as pansexual strumpets
while they seductively eat crumpets
soulfully bellow chilling hate
innate prejudice and senselessness purr
blind faith toward self avowed demigod –
seize ***** viz Cesar
wind blown kickstarting mobs stir
twittering paypal purchased

Monty Python's Flying Circus
pretenders smelling of musk
crowdsourcing Amazon sized
nasty and brutish bodyguards
to evict ruckus-causing murmur
oh...how the controlling fiends
will let this country
go to hell in handbasket,
and rack up stratospheric global debt
cause zing at least one
measly mortal male to fret

totalitarian rule will force every
man, woman and child to march....het
two...three...four, while the billionaire
turns a third blind eye
speeds away in his foo fighter jet
argh...heavens to Betsy,
how did fickle finger of fate let
pompous *** vacuum up majority votes
across world wide net
to finagle vox populi,

and groom hooligan nasty ruffian thugs
delivering smashed face
upon those deemed peevish pet
Long story short -
pondering my rental circumstance
will be upended if this ret
chad, evil, googly-eyed, gastronomic,
narcissistic bullish don will set
the spark for world war three -
unless....Katrina and the Waves, superman
or the Sabrina can oust him yet.

The spit ran down the flag pole as a thousand people ate cabbage in Poland, noodling & nudging each other like monkeys on television,
unaware of sportsmanship that was imported just for them from Turkey when nobody had good jobs and waiters were too anxious, or filled with anxiety, to operate operations in an operative mode...