Oh, to sail upon the sea.
To brave that which so scares me,
To leave land and life behind,
To sever those ties that bind.

To experiance all those amazing places that I so want to SEE!
That will be something that will forever impact me.
But oh,
Can it happen?
I don't know!

I'm really sick in my body,
Even though I have never said,
It is true that at times I,
Who so loves life,
And beauty.
Have wished to be dead.

Sometimes it is hard to continue on,
But I CAN be strong.

Because I want to experiance those places,
To see,
The world,
The tropics,
Those places,
That make me hope and dream,
The sea and its steams,
There is so much to see!

Dear God,
My lord,
heal me,
Let me be healthy,
So that I can live my dreams,
And photograph,
And experiance,
All that is in my heart,
All that is me.

I want to feel hot white sand beneath my feat,
To stand underneath the Saharan sun,
to feel that great heat,
To Stand upon Rapau Nui,  
To FEEL that island beat,
I want to gaze upon the pyramids,
That are ages old,
To gaze upon greek statues of Zeus,
Marble and Gold.
To see forests,
Forever untouched by man,
To visit places,
Unique upon all the lands.

Seattle is my home,
From Father Mountains,
And Mother sea,
But I want to see those places that I always dream of.
Lord,
God,
Let me be free,
Let me healthy.

Or,
To hell with that,
Let me,
Be,
Tenacious enough,
To do what I dream of,
Anyway,
Good God,
Just let my spirit soar,
Let me see,
Let me Photograph,
Just,
LET ME BE FREE,
Just let me open my eyes to beauty,
and let me see.
(with camera in hand)
Long I stand,
Healthy or not,
Let it be known,
Life's,
God's,
Gaea's,
Great beauty,
I have sought.

Gone on too long,
This poem has rambled.
Dear lord,
Let me,
See.  

At the end of my days,
Be it months or years,
Let me see those mountains,
Seas,
Shores and streams,
Let me see those places,
that constantly show up,
That shine through my dreams.

Let me see,
With camera in hand.
Sick or healthy.
Every part of me,
Will do my damndest,
to fight,
To take pictures,
and to stand,

Upon those shores,
sands and streams,
that beckon me,
through my dreams.

Tena koutou i o koutou tini mate
Hoki atu ki te Kaihanga
Ki te karanga o Hinenuiitepo
Ki te po nui
Ki te po roa
Ki te po kahore he otinga
Ko te tatau o te po i mua i a koe
Hoki atu ki te kaitiaki o te po
No reira, haere, haere, haere


Greetings to your many dead
Return to the Creator
To the call of Hinenuiitepo
To the large night
To the long night
To the night without end
The doorway of the night is before you
Return to the guardian of the night
Therefore, farewell, farewell, farewell

Māori farewell
--------------------------------------------------------­-------

Rest well my friend. *Koutou kua wheturangitia

@journeyofdays

This clade of “tree”
if  you can believe that
! That this is   what   the
...      silversword alliance technically are.
It's closely related              tarweed...


The first **** wasn’t lonely for long and had
multiple terrains to colonize.
& tall tales take solidified liquid form
from the something
making water like fire
or air we can’t see floating like ice.
Pushed in a away a tsunami
seem small as they cross over the ocean.

Only they roar
louder then anything heard, but a drip
silenced lost lost
to deaf ears
empty troughs of the dunes  
soft sand triumphing over the oceans.


The four subclades within the crossing times
sowed their alliance,
silversword are the tall tales
detail of long ago seemingly insignificant kept
life form, form life , forms
forms life

we know because it’s indistinguishable from the rest.  

probabilities estimates Vertical
no horizontal or dashed lines.
Bound by the ' it was', see.
we are to the way we
were. Read the possible
probability of a tale, A tale  

of a tall tale. Told.
Origination, will, times. They tell,
seconds per island
complex (from left-to-right:
Kaua‘i, O‘ahu, Maui Nui, Hawai‘i).

And then there was orange, glinting in a pile
from the ground outside my second story window.
I sit and count the scattered papers on my
bedroom floor, thinking, "Maybe someday the
past and present will meet," though I know full-well
that they already have.
Now it is twofold, it is insult to injury, it is
twenty seven eleven.

We are lies, aren't we? We are thankful for
the unknown. My father sips scotch and devours the
truth. I catch my connecting flight and travel back
in time. The man in the blue coat is replaced by
the man in the black hat, the man with the feather
hat, and the man with naught but war paint.
It is like the movies, I decide. I settle on a log bench
and read the classifieds in the newspaper.

Mother and father tell me to count my blessings
as if they are sheep. I tell them that their analogy
is flawed. Morning comes and I tie a string around
my ring finger, proclaiming, "I am here to collect
thanks! Bring out your wish lists and your tattered
diaries!" I am a liar; I am thankful for nothing but
sickness and ink. I write "twenty seven eleven"
three hundred times and vow to make a difference.
I fill my car and my fridge and roller blade up
the mountain, chanting, "Noa! Noa! 'Oia'i'o! A'ole
mahalo nui!" My cries go unheard and I sulk
back down, a landslide for the ages.

I begin to write poetry that oozes pretension and
reflects obsession. I try to pronounce the disease
and instead find myself bound to a table crushed by
feast and fear. I have written "twenty seven eleven"
on my forehead and am forced to listen to the "Lord"s
and "grateful"s and "God"s and I have had enough.

I break free and head for reason.

Ei fu. Siccome immobile,
dato il mortal sospiro,
stette la spoglia immemore
orba di tanto spiro,
così percossa, attonita
la terra al nunzio sta,
muta pensando all'ultima
ora dell'uom fatale;
né sa quando una simile
orma di pie' mortale
la sua cruenta polvere
a calpestar verrà.
Lui folgorante in solio
vide il mio genio e tacque;
quando, con vece assidua,
cadde, risorse e giacque,
di mille voci al sònito
mista la sua non ha:
vergin di servo encomio
e di codardo oltraggio,
sorge or commosso al sùbito
sparir di tanto raggio;
e scioglie all'urna un cantico
che forse non morrà.
Dall'Alpi alle Piramidi,
dal Manzanarre al Reno,
di quel securo il fulmine
tenea dietro al baleno;
scoppiò da Scilla al Tanai,
dall'uno all'altro mar.
Fu vera gloria? Ai posteri
l'ardua sentenza: nui
chiniam la fronte al Massimo
Fattor, che volle in lui
del creator suo spirito
più vasta orma stampar.
La procellosa e trepida
gioia d'un gran disegno,
l'ansia d'un cor che indocile
serve, pensando al regno;
e il giunge, e tiene un premio
ch'era follia sperar;
tutto ei provò: la gloria
maggior dopo il periglio,
la fuga e la vittoria,
la reggia e il tristo esiglio;
due volte nella polvere,
due volte sull'altar.
Ei si nomò: due secoli,
l'un contro l'altro armato,
sommessi a lui si volsero,
come aspettando il fato;
ei fe' silenzio, ed arbitro
s'assise in mezzo a lor.
E sparve, e i dì nell'ozio
chiuse in sì breve sponda,
segno d'immensa invidia
e di pietà profonda,
d'inestinguibil odio
e d'indomato amor.
Come sul capo al naufrago
l'onda s'avvolve e pesa,
l'onda su cui del misero,
alta pur dianzi e tesa,
scorrea la vista a scernere
prode remote invan;
tal su quell'alma il cumulo
delle memorie scese.
Oh quante volte ai posteri
narrar se stesso imprese,
e sull'eterne pagine
cadde la stanca man!
Oh quante volte, al tacito
morir d'un giorno inerte,
chinati i rai fulminei,
le braccia al sen conserte,
stette, e dei dì che furono
l'assalse il sovvenir!
E ripensò le mobili
tende, e i percossi valli,
e il lampo de' manipoli,
e l'onda dei cavalli,
e il concitato imperio
e il celere ubbidir.
Ahi! forse a tanto strazio
cadde lo spirto anelo,
e disperò; ma valida
venne una man dal cielo,
e in più spirabil aere
pietosa il trasportò;
e l'avviò, pei floridi
sentier della speranza,
ai campi eterni, al premio
che i desideri avanza,
dov'è silenzio e tenebre
la gloria che passò.
Bella Immortal! benefica
Fede ai trionfi avvezza!
Scrivi ancor questo, allegrati;
ché più superba altezza
al disonor del Gòlgota
giammai non si chinò.
Tu dalle stanche ceneri
sperdi ogni ria parola:
il Dio che atterra e suscita,
che affanna e che consola,
sulla deserta coltrice
accanto a lui posò.

i'm sitting in the bathroom at ul. Radwana 13 / 72,
i must say: a rather unusual place to start
my long awaited archaeology of the ego -
but long awaited for whom?
me or a readership...

               i have recently inherited a chrome book
with those old school protruding click click clickers
of QWERTY: protruding in that they are
easily found, almost like tickling newly sprouted
flowers from the ground...

i find myself in the form of: my and self
yet over psycholo-loco-gist...
of wording will not help:

the gents had their fun with the spirits...
they drank and drank and talked of plans for
their lives, they wasted good liquor on dressing up
on having fun:
they never took alcohol seriously...
now one of them: namely my uncle...
is a death within life, which is worse than death
itself...

i am so rigid from not trying
i am rigid from my former escapades with the allowances
of a good keyboard and a decent internet
connection...

what i am currently studying is the punctuation
of Frank Herbert...
it has been well over 4 years since i read any fiction
seriously...
bogged down in existential prose serious literature
i gave so much of my reading-time
to Knausgaard and his Mein Kampf
feigning defeat when life became as serious
that i had to find an alternative...
and yes... the new adaptations of the Dune books
put a negative indentation in my current reading
of the first book...
but lucky for me i'm picking up on certain
cinematic nuances... notably concerning Hawat
the Mentat who would roll his eyes back to
make calculations and who had a rectangular stain
on his lips from drinking the sapho juice...
cranberry stain...

what are the chances to reach the same heights
of excavation i was familiar with,
perhaps if i write long enough i can bypass the initial
struggle: because i will not waste this little gush of
***** reaching my cheeks
having to substitute a chaser of Fanta
with some orange juice (half)
and half of Polish mineral water...
unlike any other mineral water i know...
for there are three gradations of it around here...

gazowana (sparkling)
nie-gazowana (still)
lekko-gazowana (slightly sparkling)...

this fun side of the tongue, the only instance
where there is a double consonant:

LEKI (medicine)
LEKKI (light, masculine)
LEKKA (light, feminine)
   light as in not heavy, not light as in darkness...

i have traveled across eons and sleep and haven't
slept a wink in the process...
now almost strange to have a washing machine as a writing
desk in the dim light...

perhaps spacing, not even the subject matter will suffice
to somehow give me escapism...
what "should" have taken place is the idea
of an uncle retiring in his 50s...
able to somehow come closer to his mother
in her 80s and with enough dough
to party via travel for the next 10 years
and spare for invest in at least 2 or 3 properties...

now i visit him in the house of cripples...
the once known jealous vitality from ***** house
to ***** house...
this juggernaut of virility reduced to a ******* zombie like
shadow...
bit lips, crooked teeth...
vague associations and even vaguer dissociations
on the word-logic spectrum as provided by the doctors...
not so much having drank himself to
a zombie body but no early grave
his inability to invoke the body to similitude with
iron vitamin D3...
a shell of a man... once clean shaven...
now mimic of grandfather...

and all this female warfare
this daughter against mother and grandmother against
mother all this
this scaffold and crows and rotting of meat...
but diligent i somehow trying to work my way around
the fatalism...
is it so wrong of me to go out of my way
to buy the old woman a few new books
some chocolate,
to cook her pork, pork meatballs in a tomato sauce
with a special mash potatoes...
infusing the meat with caraway seeds...
yes... because that's almost the distant cousing
of cumin seeds... at least around here...
around here, "here" being: ul Radwana 13 / 72
Ostrowiec Swietokrzyski...

           i used to spend so many joyful days in these
confines, yet now i itch with a feeling of being
the Grim Grey...
reading about melange, spice, cinnamon...
i conjure up a fusion of poetry and prose and think
about Caladan and i think about earth
and i think about the white gold that is salt...
i've choked on tears and i shed some tears
but for all the talk of water in the sands
there is little talk of salt in the dunes...
perhaps those equivalent to Arabs in the Dune universe
have no notion of taste when it comes
to the ingestion of food...

i hardly imagined myself to be a fan of any work...
i tried to be a fan of the Beatniks...
grew a beard, forgot i had toenails
later forgot i had toes...
therefore re-imagined my feet as twinkle axes...
chopping step with stomp and air...
oh this air in Poland...
when was the last time i visited Poland
near the time of birth, come May...
that is spring... when the violets started to bloom...
when the continent gave up her riches
of distinguishing seasons from
that Caladan damp of England...
how many of the past suppose summers have
i spent on that dreaded island of grot grit and grey?

thus this DUMP of lettering and spacing and
whatever other, "other" technicality might
be obstructive, obtrusive, ob- ob-:
signal one signifying beacon of obstruct for
for me to follow up with the right sort of juice:
because i am the one to have squandered
the... "ridicule of the use of words"?

seems like a fear of god is never enough
when justifying the games equivalent to the chess
people play with mortality...

just one fetish freer from the nearer,
some Novalis (von Hardenberg) -
as i very much like to name street names and places
in German,
because i find the Polacks neglecting their tongue
as much as they neglected their earth:
through the tribulations of a lackluster of attachments...

perhaps those Arabs and waiting for the dino-juice
to propel the locomotive bonanza
of the Lamborghini engine...
sand-worm earthworm ego sworn mouth agape
like sitting in a Turkish akimbo poise...

the sun was never going to lose a tooth:
let alone a golden one,
but by topic of grey in water
and white in metal
and green in mahogany...
a tease out of respect for the one handed clapping
like some inevitable "cultural appropriation"
from meditating the death of Christianity
in the European soul and the invitation toward
Buddhism, extrapolation...
because this half a liter of *****
will measure just fine when this washing mashine
is silent...
while the solace of orbits of the grand orbs
like mountains cradling deserts satisfies...
like the windless lights
and what is conversation? locum?

i find little gesticulation of comfort in people
who regurgitate sayings, supposedly wise on the onset,
with sensibility of perpetuating a humanism
of their otherwise deviant comfort
of sheltering in hubbub and commotion
and click-bait not-known-to-fish conundrums...

by now the eagerness of flying into a bed
on a half whim half dream,
like a parody of a blinking universe:
each to his own sorrows and intact:
ensuring these sorrows do not multiply...
but become these self-contained mechanisations
of self-digestion: to diffuse the anger and agony
of the shared experience...
some semblance of a collectivist effort
where the individual is sacrificed and not glorified
that this democratic beacon of vector
adamant force-hood falsehood is dried up
conquered and subsequently squandered on
readily imitable minds of the youth...
so that youthful fancies may pass and by the rigors of time
and matrimony of the geology in the air
become hard pressed to usher in the only known
individuation that's the citizen and with it
a necropolis of first reference: as mortal abiding
non coup...

through some prism of the elected editorial
staff of the newly arrived freedom of the flimsy:
wind without paper...
came a torrent of freely available voiced
concerns for what could be said: could be unsaid...
what a forlorn essential craft of
symbolism to be tortured thus by crucifix
and the faceless man of Islam...
at least the distinction ingrained...

keeping a jug of water in both desert and in sea...
to drink to waste...
perhaps a jug of ***** in the forests and hybrid
tundras of sloth and cold and
what other bouquet of the thus presented
entourage of immobility of parlance of formal
is: what more expected of me?!

no more hunger no more stealth and no more
Japanese encrypted borrowing of tongues...
to ****** a MA into a マ
    subsequently: ******* palindromes...
because Japanese might allow a MA but will not
allow an AM... unless it's: TENET, RADAR...
a palindrome...
thus listed:

                 アマ
                 オト          oto... here, thus...

ama                  well... given the English tong and tie and glue of T
that would invoke Anna...
and faTTer...
                not father, though...

i think it best to understand Japanese scribbles through
palindromes...
whether that's me excavating consonants from
elaborating vowels or what not...
my... at least i have retained a memory of my old
themes and hobbies...
notably these...
because i...

palindromes... yes... that's how to best discover
consonants as free standing
as vowels are in Japanese via palindromes...
given... my stay in Hawaii was peppered with the history
of the Polynesians...
who's origins began with the wild oar brigade second
not celebrated to the vikings
from the little island of Taiwan...
across the seas without sails
across like the Mongols across Siberia
and the Russians toward Alaska...

                     palindromes...

イキ (iki)
イシ         (isi)

          leo mai honua...

                                leo nui: mai hāmau wai...    

of no talk of science fiction and i can see the equivalent
of the Fremen in the Polynesians
and see this world as that of what happens
when the once former mountain range
of Sahara now is desert and
waiting for the desert of Himalaya
because then were the known mountains of Saharans
while the seas boiled and the ice caps melted
and we were dreaming a history
somehow inherited before the insomnia
of journalism and the **** of light brought down
with strobe amnesia and suffocation of the attractive
glittering half of halves...
while the litter of the brood of peoples
squabbled over the 7th October 20224...
without much squabble equivalent to the massacre
at the Bataclan attack in Paris...

do wiosł!
    to oars!
                                 i nā ***!

let us leave these superstitious people to their
magic stones their kippahs
their niqabs and their orientation with the stars
almighty as if... as if...
this orb might be ever displaced by their potent
numb **** and over-sized ego-*****
and clipped ***** of Egypt!