I fell asleep
To the smell of antiseptic,
Sterilizer, biogesic,
And the cold touch of metal
Rods that only seem
To grow colder
With the touch of hospital
Left in the student's
Ward - a whistle

Permeates the silence
Of seniors
Painlessly sleeping away
Hours upon
Hours until graduation -
A coming of age -
An escapism from past papers
And teachers who have
Themselves given up
On them.

And the lights you
See are as bright
And as empty as those blinking
Feebly
In that of the school doctor's
Office, one not really
Blinking more of
Washed, and supported
Wobbling by daylight
Seeping in through peeling blinds,
Unable to see too much -
The headaches and stomachaches
Have rendered him numb
To the feeling.

And lunch comes
And out blows the whistle to
Signify the end
Of playtime for
The young ones, start
Of playtime for
The older ones,

Whistle blowing muffled
By the septic tank glass
Doors of this sacred outhouse,
Wards muffling the cries of children
As they flee the quadrangle,
Once mad, twice elated,
Still innocent, untired,
Not needing to fake sick
And rest their heads softly

Upon thin soft beds with
Towels wrapped haphazardly
Behind their backs,
Nostalgia, it was

Laughter, I swear it was louder
When we used to run,
When our eyes lit up like
The sun petering in through
The doctor's orifices,

When our bruises and bumps
Smelled like betadine,
Not sleep
And cups of sterile water downed
To mask the scent of
Fake cough syrup,
And cuts gotten from fiddled syringes,
Bruised ankles
Bent over undersized beds,

And not running over
Uneven pavement,
Ankles brushing tablecloth,
Schoolbag,
Basketball and frisbee,

And the screaming.

Oh, how I miss
The screaming.

Our scientists say that before The Big Bang
There was Nothing
And therefore
No God.

Through red-shifted space they “see”
Back to The Beginning.
Exploding Singularity.
A photon winks into existence
And BOOM.

Yes they are conceited enough to think
That all we see is all there is to know.
Like people pre-Pythagoras
Who thought the Earth was flat
They Lord it
With Confidence.

Yet Eternal Infinity
Beckons us on.

A light year is 5,878,499,810,000 miles.
An estimated 81,000 years Ion-Drive flight to the nearest star.
About 100 thousand million galaxies in the universe:
70 thousand million million million stars.
But we know it all.

Some say our universe is a bubble
Growing within another
Like a baby in a womb.

Some say it will grow forever,
Slowly petering out
‘Til all is cold.
Others that it will stop, shrink
Implode
Then be reborn
With another Big Bang.

Who knows what will happen?
Not me.

Paul Butters

"Let me do it for the many worlds I simultaneously exist
as birds and bees, beasts of pray, majestic tree or tiny organism
human beings of diverse persuasions , male , female, inhabiting
in parallel time lines, sinner and saint seeking salvation together"

He delves deep in the heart of blue, fathomless, abyss, a country new
where meanings differ, voices are petering to the valley of silence.

The rivers are silver bands, mountain peaks soft pillows,
the clouds sheets fresh and crisp, spread gently over
the undulating water bed of seas, so inviting, soporific,
fire lovingly ripens the fruits of temptation that hangs from branches,
drink the bubbly white wine of rain pouring in to your cup,
breezes are nice silk, towels to dry one softly
after sweating too much, when ends the frenzied search
through the mazes, for each other, in the play ground of
wolves  and panthers, friendly beyond belief. 

Day and night, one comes to know are made from the same cloth,
wearing a day easy is difficult as evening comes closer,
it gets soiled, however careful one is, needs to stuff it in a container
the dark sea, tame like a bucketful of water, it takes so long to clean.

Morning,  time to wear the new dress,  embark on a new day again
we are men and women here, creatures of circumstances, in disguises
don't ever pretend there is a world real, and you exist here just for fun
like a fish coming up for air, now he surfaces with a sly happy smile.

My ears are tingling
from the barrage of dyslexic sounds
and my hair is curling as fast as
any olympic event

I can't pay attention either
It all just drifts by
invisably swept in the
seawave current

Nothing else matters
Does it
Because my legs twitch
anyway

And it spreads with infection
Giggling like a gaggle of geese
or girls
to peak the top
of the end of
the bungee rope

Sweeping fans clear the cobwebs
full of the captive sunbeams
in the rafters in the closets
the minds of the mimes

Petering out
to Only a tri kle
A pleasure of peaking
and swifting being overwhelmed
by the black hole of the past
turning the world inside out

Falls
That's what it All does
Then crystallizes
into a thousand twenty bajillion four
morsels of careless color
Shining and gleaming spotlights

Tantalizing the eyes
of silly maskéd
prisoners
Turning them on
tremendously

but it all grays
to mud all the colors
in a palette make gray
You knew that
when you were a child

So pick up the paintbrush
   and follow the directions
by the people who cared
enough to invent
a color by number
So easy and convenient

Even never in your wildest
dreams could
You imagine

running out of petrol
petering on stalling
singing falls silent.

Fact is,
I can't be around you.
Forming words and/or sentences in your presence leaves me
senseless,
stammering,
stuttering,
defenceless
and petering into arbitrary points and references
facts
figures

And it figures that,
were you single to begin with
(which you are not)
And were I of a similar disposition
(which I am)
That facts would form bonds between the figures most infinite,
and timeless,
and primitive -
A joining of two.

Facts are, it doesn't matter
Because in my mind we've done
Worse and better
Richer, poorer
Sicker and sicker.
In my mind we've ****** to the cusp of boredom with each other's forms,
and figures...

Figures that you'd be inaccessible
Unavailable
No one ever really is, are they?
I know for a fact that you love a girl
Who forms her name from words borrowed elsewhere.
I figure you thought her intriguing once,
Fascinating, maybe.
Perhaps you still do.
Maybe it's an envy
Maybe I'm stepping a line but were you mine
There would be no pretense in name or otherwise
I'd be I
You, you...
...I figure.

To be frank and state a fact,
I've dreamt of you often and carved you from a rib in some form or other,
But the fact is
You're a distraction.
And nothing more.

Go figure.

I'm petering out,
the afterburners already kicked in
fueled to the last drop, doubt
taking over my eyes
when I see this small world
from the big skies
Crocidial smiles and alligator grins
trying to lure a fool in
but I'm a picese, I can swim
Gills filled to the brim with green
All I want is that cash, that greed
If love and laughter can't fuel me
fill the tank with money.

I recall counting the
crooked lines that ran the length of your palm,
noting how each and every one
ran on and on and on
before petering out into crosshatch
and creases.

Remember when I came to yours,
that first time?
We watched an inconsequential film,
made inconsequential small talk
as we lay on that  
rough-lined sofa of yours.
I stared into your bright-blue eyes
as you glanced up at mine
(murkier, sea-floor brown tinged with green -
“Harry”, you called me, jokingly)
and we kissed
because at the time
it seemed of consequence.

Later, we petered out somewhat
(creased and crosshatched as we were),
but even now,
as I trace the lines of my palm,
I can’t help but feel that
something that day
was of consequence.

distant fading dulled blue mountains mist
cerulean eyes peek through rolling gray smatterings
rain’s aloneness petering her drops; quiet dribbles splash
outwardly radiant circular wakes renew the fresh
an already illogical current slowly skips over treasures beneath
chaotic babble chants to movements
a river’s concertos streaming in the key of cold
evergreenest grasses sprouting in spurts and clumps
bright colored wildflowers intermittently decorate her ostentatious banks
as he wades in toward the challenge; a thrown gauntlet of smooth rock
a natural outcropping base as platform
he stacks one rock atop another, atop another, atop another
in improbable, impossible, asymmetrical design
ordered without regard to size, weight, shape or color
randomly selecting whatever rocks the river offers
discerning surfaces support point and counterpoint complements
exploiting gravity with unconscious physics and body language
a wiggle this way, a lean that way, trying to find the balance within
“becoming the balance”; feeling it in your core
strong hands breathe stillness
his creation held with steady gaze and o’ so deep concentration
relaxing fingers first; then pulling his arms away to reveal
a consummation of peace
a manmade natural temple; testament to the art of patience
a magnificent mystery
a satisfying moment frozen in time
precariously awaiting eventual collapse

There is a paradox of space for the individual in this sea of voices
An amorphous body of metaphorical sound that we avoid and ignore with our sense of selfishness and superiority
And yet we burn our civility to ashes for the sake of making sure that stranger knows we don't ******* agree with them
Here in this valley of poets, what is trending and popular, what is held dear is similar explorations of pain and adversity
Experiences of love, life, loss
And as I try and to distinguish myself by expressing my own uniqueness
I am a self indulgent hypocrit, who wants the same things as the idiots and disagreeables I try and hold myself superior to

At least here, on this little page away from the flow of superfluous information I can speak to a void of similar voices, where more come to speak than to hear, forgive me for saying

I am here to speak too
I'm no better
My voice may be different or distinct, I try to play with vocabulary and the conceptual
But you probably do the same
And art comes from pain so...
In the end, I'm still a weak ***** who holds onto to old images of love
Wishing the naked ****** friendships that took so long to build in the past will fall out of my phone when I wipe my thumb across it
And hoping the efforts to create something basic and tangible, and the efforts to create an identity worthy of societal admiration
Will deem me worthy to experience love again, part of me feels

But I'm not deluded by that. I've given up looking for something that comes when you aren't looking
The lost keys that turn up when you've looked everywhere and finally give up
Instead I am driven by the craft that I want to define me
And the satisfaction that the work gives me
It makes me happy amongst this mess of information overload and malnourishment I experience socially
By my own fault
Probably

As I let go of the catharsis of self expression now, petering out to a conclusion that has hopefully, a decent punch line
I know that I probably won't be heard, will be skipped over for stories of bitter broken hearts or tangible stories of adversity defeated
Skipped over in greater terms for the latest bag of shallow consumable ***** in the unhealthy social media world that I know you reader, hate as much as I do
The greater ocean of self expression that washes into a noisy murmur, the internet echoing the street

Who knows
You've read this haven't you
Maybe I'll get over my narcissism long enough to hear you too

This is my suicide note
To all my friends and loved ones
How can I explain my sorrow?
But in my heart I knew this was the only level of control I still had

The moment to moment
The day breaks softly over the heart of immediacy
And so it goes as I slipped into the past
I could not take it any longer

But I could take that feeling
The gentle push of sanity
Faith in choice and reason
If only I could take that still

So say goodbye to everything you knew before
Say goodbye to listless seas
of calamitous ennui
The devil set my course

And pardon my lack
Of ponderous ambition
And slight of hand
Because I was never a very good card player

So come clever little witticisms
That sum up life on a dime
Because they make it so much easier
Than knowing the ugliest truth

Of the eternal empty knowledge
Born through beyond doubt
Through painfully obvious vision
Religious in its scope

Oh and did I mention that I’m not dead yet
The ***** ridden down, shallow then steep
And petering out at the end
To a third act in a hospital room, Nostalgic and satisfied

So here it is
My note for the loved ones
The ones who could not save me from myself
From a fate decided long ago

I can feel it,
trickling,
petering,
everywhere

I can see it,
settling,
tumbling,
as dust falls

I can hear it,
whispering,
carving,
etched into silence

when they go,
it's so sudden,
cut-throat,
from having a physical support to just having no-one,
from being cared for to total mistrust,
of everything and everyone

People are like tattoos,
they ink themselves to your skin,
they leave markings,
not at all ephemeral

Old Rocks
The rocks of the mountain
Are millions of years old
And have seen so many things
Like great upheavals
And fossils laid down
Uplifted from the ocean bed
Three miles high
Along with minerals and wealth
Adding to economic growth
Natural recourses in danger
Human greed burning bright
What existed for millions
Now reduced in decades
Some are out of reach
For now till tech improves
Mountains will crumble
Quarries devouring hills
Old rocks petering out

I met a man of the sea
down at Cocoa
surrounded by Christmas Cheer.
He was an old man,
one who'd caught many waves
then took a break
before catching even more.

The others were struggling
on 1 foot white water
with their shortboards and fish.
This man though,
he caught a few
on an old fashioned longboard
like what I learned on
as a child.

I looked at him with awe,
at this man who knew
the waves and their bobs,
and who knew what sort
of board to bring.
So I talked with him,
asked if he caught much.
He said not really,
the surf is too small for much.
I told him of my father,
and the one gift he gave me:
a love for the sea's art,
for surfing.

This old man then asked
kindly, openly
"Would you like to try it out?
I'll show you a bit."
I thought about refusing,
crawling away in shame
but I was drawn in by
that welcoming man
and so I hopped on up,
or rather slipped and slid
until I perched on top
clinging awkwardly.
He held the board a bit,
telling me to relax,
to let my feet hang down
at the sides,
and getting me to paddle.
Which is awkward with a board
that size between your arms
but I did and I did
pushing myself forward.

Then he let go
and had me paddle out
before calling that I was too far
because he knew where they came,
he knew where I'd catch one.
Turning I found easier,
though I tipped over a tad
before catching myself
and always with my ankles gripping
onto the rails.
I paddled back a bit,
back to that kindly old man.
He grabbed hold of the board once more
and told me to start paddling,
just keep paddling.

Then it was there,
the wave
an unmistakable rush
of most remarkable force
that rockets you forward
and rips away control
while giving you another sort,
so long as you work with it,
work with the sea.
I turned into it,
to the side that hadn't crested
to ride along further
instead of petering out.
Just like he'd taught me,
my father's old friend.
And though I didn't stand,
not wanting to ruin this moment
with an awkward failure at a popup,
I rode and rode
with a growing excitement,
a glee like no other
until at last I could ride no more
for the wave had run out
and the land had come up.
It was both too short
and yet an eternity.
Life encapsulated in just one moment.

I brought back the board
and talked a while longer
of how I'd been reborn
and he laughed oh so knowingly.
"All it takes is one wave,
that's how it was for me,"
he told me as I tread water
still awestruck.
Never has a truer thing been said
to me or to anyone.
All it takes is one wave
to learn what life is
and yet not know it at all.

I met a man of the sea
down at Cocoa,
surrounded by Christmas Cheer,
and he taught me to ride
along his waves.
I met the Man of the Sea
and he taught me to live.

Everything thing is spinning, round and round and blurring into nothingness -

(except it's not, feet planted firmly on the ground and

the world is not supposed to be this way)

Blackness. Punctured by white and broken into pixels -

(a European painting in dots and dashes and absence of color and

there were shapes, before, of people, distinct lines drawn)

Swaying. Back and forth, little enough to avoid notice -

(hand reaching out, palm against wall, cold and

if I faint to the floor perhaps this will break my fall)

Sound is petering out, growing softer and softer into the distance -

(everything is a dull thrum, world dissolving and dissipating around me and

suppose I will have to work out the instructions on my own)

Shaking. Shivering, really, and it is not even chilly -

(boiling hot, sweat and heat suddenly overwhelming and

will they notice me then, when the cup shatters into a million pieces from trembling hands)


Breathing is hard.

(heart is thumping, surely it will give out soon, nothing is supposed to be this fast and

breathe in. breathe out. breathe in. breathe out. breathe in. breathe out.)


The world is normal, again -

(there is color. noise. people. air, in large quantities. no swaying and shaking and spinning and

one day it will fail to come back.)

The Making Of Perfect Love

The *** is simple.
Though there’s pattern, never boring.
Feeling new, e’en better every time.
How can that be?
The years have passed the ‘sell by’ date,
And one knows couples who
Are either bored to death or hate
The touch, approach,
Who ******
Just to escape the loathing
(even some who wear their clothing
into bed).

But with us, we focus.
Simple, the affection real,
Start so gradual
It’s hardly recognizable as such.
As for the finish,
Since there never was a start,
It sometimes has no end,
Just petering from aged tiredness
With never a dissatisfaction,
Life and day continuing
In the most natural of ways.

The Making of Perfect Love 5.9.2017
Circling Round Eros II; Pure Nakedness, Circling Round Aging; Love Relationships II;
Arlene Corwin

Grains
Fields
slipping between the fingers
everything good is lost
in the sands

torn shreds
vocal cords
twang
my words and wisdom
petering like a flame
in the wind
my screams
stuck in an empty box

A planetary dance
the ink of night
that fills the void
dotted with grains
of light

the sound of music, haunting on the winds
rain
to wet the fields

I have waited for times
innumerably long
the grains of youth
loose in my palm

rhyme and reason
scope and measure
incongruent and failed to calibrate

calcium oxide
lithium hydride
explosive shells
exiting heat
dying mass
compressed gas

the ears of eden lost
the echoes of crying,wailing eyes
a glimpse of pain
grains of sand

I am violently vomiting excretions of words
that may mean naught
fought and died

dead soul of a long ago
wise words of a passing lad
screams, screams, screams and shouts

empty and wholly without

The kitchen table is at the right position
Where my family and I can leisurely face our eyes
In the direction of the clear-glass screen door that displays
Views of our backyard.

On the evening of March 16, I sat on the dark brown, black wooden chair at my usual curve of the table.
There are times where I sit and, though I cogitate “Get up! Get up!”, there are times where I just cannot collect the energy to rise from a still, muscle-relaxing pose.
The setting, yellow-white tint of the sun lured my soul to head outside, the natural character in me felt a need for.
Without delay, I zipped on my AHA sweater and capped my head with a retro blue-and-red Super Mario winter hat.
Opening the side door of the garage, the setting sun continued to lure my presence to still myself before its gentle mantle.
[At least there is no admission for seeing nature run its course!]

This evening scene of twilight I had to view seated on a purple cushion 90-degreed,
Unfolded on the outdoor swing.
I try not to let the urban sights of a barn shed, a house gated, dogs’ barks to my right
Derail my focus of natural concentration.
I learned in meditation once to just let noises and sights come as they please,
For they will have their exit.
I may not be a master at letting things go, but I kept meditative concentration
As the practice for the evening.

Every couple beats I would turn my eyes away from the westward sunset
To see if I noticed a lower sun and a higher indigo darkness.
Maybe I am not bound to the ascetic life, but I would not let the crispy, invisible chills
Of the evening winds chase me inside so easily, though the cold rush along the thighs of
My Lee jeans was a caveat that soon, Kearneysville would submerge into hours of a dark, polar void.

I tried to lose sense of the clock, so time would not be my focus in nature, which doesn’t go by Greenwich anyway.
The right amount of cold air lingered that night: enough to be outside for a while and enough to keep the pestiferous gnats away from my eyes.
No clouds passed my line of vision aimed at the ionosphere, and all the hues of the sun’s petering rays shone a “goodnight.”  This evening sun vanished in the optimistic vigilance that natural green scenes and Emerald green scenes were only one horizon away.