Tidy room, tidy mind.
Logical, is it not?
We splash our life onto the canvas of our bedrooms.
Our dreams escape onto the walls as we sleep.
Our feet drag the dirt of our adventures on the floor.
Our desks are hidden under papers, pencils, a calculator, papers, a spoon, a comb, and two large hands ransacking the surface looking for a misplaced paper.
I like my room in the mess of sense I understand but maybe mom was right. I have to reorganize my room. I have to reorganize my mind
to clear the pathway between my bed and the door, so I can have a new vision and spend time looking for the right things.

First Living Organism

Anyway, there is love and death and governance. With the birth of my sons, love was fulfilled. There is no romance left in love for me, women are another form of men. Perhaps their toes are painted rather than blood-encrusted, but blood runs from their bones, their eyes are friendly as camera lenses, muscles hungry. Death continues to be my every third thought, fittingly. Occasionally I feel strong, but when I don’t it’s death waiting. I think I know it’s a waste of time to imagine being dead, as if being dead were a form of living. It’s not, but last night I was reading about the efforts of astrobiologists to identify LUCA meaning Last Universal Common Ancestor and FLO, first living organism, and that gave me a calmer feeling. Bringing me to governance, how we manage together between birth and death. What can I say that hasn’t already been said by Aristotle and Plato, the Republicans and Democrats, Hamilton and Jefferson. To start, your daily discipline is a personal governance. There are many ways to know a person: by their god, by their fears and appetites, by how they spend their money or organize their time. Who is in authority, who is in command here? The one in authority is not necessarily our leader.


Patience

I live in a mountainous community about 140,000 strong. My irascible, aggressive temperament toward my fellow citizens has exiled or sidelined me to a peripheral almost insignificant role although when I arrived I was considered a problem solver, even a savior of the poor and the wealthy classes who feared for the future. Why mention this. He who knows patience knows peace. I have surely lost face often in my life. As a kid, lost most fights, as a man, chosen last to lead the squad or platoon. Only when every known leader had died did those in authority decide to use me. Someone must begin to write the federalist papers for the world. And, of course, it’s being done and heard. Books in print, blogs, debates. My vision is a world where you can fly from Madagascar to Mississippi and be greeted by a sign that says Welcome to our land. Go about your business, setting off no bombs, and fly home. Perhaps take a lover for one afternoon.


The Machine and the Season

The machine and the season are so far incompatible. The machine claims electrical problem. The house leaks from rain. The men who left the machine have started their own business. A new endeavor by which they will keep warm and purposeful. The junior partner, heavier, says the Grand Canyon’s not so grand. Jaded individual or one to set himself against the depths, abyss? Man’s systems. Man made the machine (and the town) from rocks mined next door. Some few men understand these invisible electrons moving the machine to perform. I still cannot imagine, i.e. my mind cannot move fast enough to know how so many particles can be sorted and split so quick to make words on a screen. My simplicity is terminal.


Saving Grace

Today it is fall, first day for long-sleeved shirts. The boys at school. I admonish Zach not to whine and complain about the work. Lately reading or practicing piano, prone to fits of frustration. To the point of claiming belly pain. Last night I dreamed I had pushed him to suicide. It is so important for a man to do no harm. This is what makes us crazy against Wolfowitz, willingness to **** to do good. Someone very sure of himself and shining, much wiser and more compassionate than me, has calculated for the world that more lives now for fewer later shall be sacrificed. The people he serves are cantankerous, disorderly, selfish and complaining. The same diverse, spoiled, unpatriotic revolutionaries as at the nation’s beginning. Their refusal to be more than the sum of themselves is their saving grace.


Politics

Politics can be an escape from the personal, the debates are of little interest to a man in hospice. Will the machines do their work? How will we make decisions together? Roger Johnson’s gravel pit must be killing his neighbors with the noise of boulders being pulverized to rock but Roger is certain his business is necessary for the public good. He knows he has a right to use his property as he sees fit. There is a noise ordinance, a state employee will travel out to measure the decibel level in your front yard as compared to the ambient noise level. There is a measurable amplitude beyond which the legislature has determined no citizen may be exposed or corporation go. It can be measured.


Measure for Measure

Measure for measure, all’s well that ends well during a midsummer night’s dream for the merry wives of Windsor. A million or more poets but only one Top Bard. How did he know so much about kings and fools and murderers? An Elizabethan and no Freedom of Information Act. Today it is fall. The legislature and president are at work and so are our machines. One by one and then in armies the leaves come down. It is not that someone must decide, we must decide how we will make decisions and where authority resides. What am I learning, sitting, watching the season turning? Content this morning to admire my sons’ photos, reread my own poems searching for the prize answer, and answer the phone. I seem to be alienating potential business partners with a take it or leave it comme-ci comme-ca attitude. All you can do, the best that can be done is to go to your daily discipline. Driving home or waking up at night I think I’m dying. Do the much-admired writers of our time die more content than that?


War All the Time

War all the time. I’ve been fond of saying what distinguishes America is its daily low intensity warfare. Endless but not fatal conflict. Chambers of commerce, municipal government, big corporations wrestle nearly naked and will lie as needed for what? I tire like an 80 year old man of the storm and worry. I remember my early years when I had no known skill to offer and elections occurred without my vote being solicited. I noticed no harm or good I did was noticed. Autumn was all mine, mine alone, I was alone in the world with autumn. My mind could not stand it. I cried out for comfort, someone to obey. I needed to grow up and know money.


The History That Surrounds Us

I’m not going anywhere, I chose to stay and hold my clod of soil in the landscape of community oh blah dah. I want like Shakespeare and other writers to discern the motivations of women, men, see through their lies to a humorous truth careless about success and able to explain why what happens today or on September 11th obtains. I was impressed by the critic who found that Shakespeare in Hamlet had tried to write about the thoughts of a man suspended between having decided to act and the act itself. Why bother he soliloquated why commit or submit to the great moment when mere men of bones and dust, disgusted with themselves and others are the actors of the moment, beheaders, rhymers, debtors. And, of course, the answer comes to one in the night like Chuang-tzu, or Lao, why not? The great moment is no greater than the small and the small no smaller than the great. You perform the history that surrounds you and go to your daily practice.


A Systems Guy

I’m something of a systems guy. I want the truth and death and worth to be independent of individual motives, paranoias, prejudice, peccadilloes, virginities, crucifixes, paradoxes, protons, protozoa or curses. I want pure human machinery, stainless steel, clear thinking, even handed, not a doubt that every doubt is wanted, needed, good to the last drop toward the ultimate ignition into outer space, colonization of diverse planets and immortality of the genome. Here’s what’s odd. While enduring ever more frequent panic attacks (and nudging toward survival and self-sufficiency my offspring) pounding and pinching my skin to stay sensate, maintain consciousness, I parabolate (always orbiting myself, eye on the tip of my *****) to another extreme, i.e. my belief mankind can escape the earth unlike Hamlet’s dad’s ghost. A system is a set of inputs–values, policies, objectives, procedures, data–organized and repeated to generate significant quantities of desired outcomes without redesigning the system for each individual outcome. I told John Russell from Amnesty International at Jack Shwartz’s daughter’s coming of age party about my plan to reorganize the U.N. so only the democracies can vote and no nation has a veto. He said the world’s not ready, with absolute certainty, knowledge and authority. I looked out the hotel window, this was shortly after 9/11, at dozens of American flags and a lone security guard. I’m always right I said to myself.

Hallucinating Bureaucracies and auditory Hallucinations : When the voice in your head speaks when you don't want it to, to head's of State not present. I could snuggle in bed if I wanted to, but I've got to orchestrate and reorganize the Clinton dowry. It started outright with trying on a purple, yellow, and blue button down shirt that had Scabies in the sleeve- and now you're all going to know why Mr. and Mrs. Obama don't want to talk to me about potentially increasing livestock traffic across the Americas. I think could practice will follow from such a manure, I mean maneuver. I pick up 10 or so bottles of plastic single-serve water for consumption in my apartheid room. It's awful in here. The gold disappears from the mines, and even the hands I used to work with are blurring up in the twister, and as much as you call or don't call I have no business managing your intentions- only mine. Some barrge of women over thirty. But still there isn't a problem. The river is beginning to flood, and the fishery's stockpile is running low. Maybe we ought to empty out an African mass grave and fill it with blacklists of co-conspirators and then make a drake or a flume out of the narrow walkways between the cities. Then maybe we'll have water to last us through the dry season.----------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------- Where in the world is Sam in Hammond, Can Diego? Forklifting pillars, bribing monkeys, playing with his Mickey Mouse and Michelob, catching the taller, eighteen and up crowd catch the last car riding the rapid drop from Space Mountain through, "It's a Small World After All:"  

It's a world of laughter a world of tears, it's a world of hopes and a world of fears. There's so much that we share, that it's time we're aware- it's a small world after all."  

And then he takes the biggest gulp of water into his mouth that I've ever seen the man take, and he puts it in a small cooler that's strapped to the back of his calf, and he swears to me that the aeroplanes are going to come loop around, and when they do their glorious water-landing, he and I, or rather, the both of us, will be saved. Saved, hm? I don't even bother sharing insights or my insides. I quickly flash him the most-pod horrific a tryst that irons down a photo of Egon and I back in the Old City, what was it, Chicago, or something that very much sounded like Chicago. Could be totally awesome and I'll chime in that now is the time when we do our work best. That's all. Intrepid,

She started to reorganize the kingdom,  to give it access to the sea,  
To modernize the economy, and any army officer had a college degree.
That superpower had one weakness: she was stronger than her king.
She reorganized the political administration by creating a diplomacy ring.

She used the high trees belonging to their forests  to build  many ships.
She opened gold mines by using slaves  being  beaten with hard whips.
Reforming the toll system, she rose the taxes to pay for the army wars,
And created the overseas colonies to have many ports on the seashores.

She dissolved the parliament not wanting to consult with them.
A lot of  protests took place in the main cities her behavior to condemn.
The archbishop retired, because she reduced the ecclesiastical rights.
The new archbishop was trustful to her, and made new religious rites..

This way, Surah held completely the religious and the political power.
To advocate her prerogatives, a new Doctor Fox she started to empower.
Surah created a new high society at the John's court to control his life.
The old nobility lost the independence, which was a major cause of strife.

Surah met John and asked him to give her a part of his kingdom.
John gave her a big province , which it became her  new sub-kingdom.
She recruited and trained a new secret army, being ready to strike him
Clearly knowing  that his chances of winning this battle are pretty slim.

John knew  he was too young to be a ruler and allied with Frederick.
To make friends the vassals for this battle with Surah, they were quick.
When her army was subdued , she really saw the fire of God as sacred.
She had to face His army, and to see how her own men were massacred.

There always had been poverty, but at that time, after seven years, there were many vagabonds on the streets. Frieda was preparing the dinner waiting for Pauline to come. Eda , their friend, helped her. Eda worked as  a servant for a rich person. Her husband was a digger. Pauline entered the house in a rush being very upset and saying,

'A **** stole my bag .'Eda said,'Hoboes have no license to beg.'
'I tried to catch him , but he ran so fast.' 'You should shake your leg'
'People like him are tied to a cart, and whipped till they are bloodied',
Said Pauline,'they're forced to return to their homes being so muddied.'



'By law, the vagabonds can be made slaves for ten years', said Frieda.
' If they ran away during this time they're made slaves for life’, said Eda.
'Some  people have to rely on poor relief', said Pauline. 'Others thrive.
After having money they're forced  to pay a tax to keep hoboes alive',

Said Eda.'The overseers can provide work for any able-bodied vagrant.
If he refuses to work he's whipped, but he waits to be caught in flagrant’,
Said Frieda. 'The pauper's child goes to the employer to be an apprentice',
Said Eda.'For many poor people, drinking gin is their only preference.'

Pauline said, ‘I would like to eat roast beef cooked with pea.'
'My dear, meat is a luxury. We have  bread, butter, potatoes and tea' ,
Said Frieda.'By the way, where's Surah now?''She's John's vassal
As a landless queen.’Pauline smiled.’ She lives in her old castle.'
(Mary , Clara and Sarah, another nun, were preparing their dinner. On the table , there were corn, carrots some cheese, a little bread, a bottle of milk and six eggs.)

Mary said,'Monastery churches were converted to parish churches.
Buildings having monastic cells were left to ruin for social searches.'
'In order to hide, we must build new monasteries in the mountain valleys',
Sarah said.' Teaching poor people, others live near towns having alleys’,

Said Clara.'They live humble lives needing silence to devote themselves
To the worship of God, to copy out  manuscripts placed on their shelves,
To baptize the people, to farm their lands, and for tending their sheep',
Said Mary.'She restricted pilgrims from coming there to pray and to sleep',

Said Clara.'Many suppressed monasteries were hardly hit to surrender.
To confiscate the lands', said Mary,'Surah also convicted any defender.'
'You're right. Those , who agreed to surrender were given pensions for life',
Said Clara,'The transfer of the  lands to the Crown was Surah's greatest strife.

Some monasteries were transformed into workhouses for poor people
Having no income. Throwing out the bell, she built a room in every  steeple',
Said Sarah.'Surah deterred poor people from asking the state for help.
In houses, they wore uniforms being angry, while hearing the dog's yelp.

Husbands , wives and children still live separately , while breaking the stone .
Many children are looking like having a syndrome of the hungry bone',
Said Mary.'What is she doing now?'Clara asked.'John pushed her out the door’,
Said Sarah,'She tastes the peace while recovering from her last war!'
(In his castle, Frederick, John and Matthew, who was Frederick’s councillor, were waiting for the dinner.
John was 19 years old , not a minor any longer. On the table, there were green beans, asparagus, grapefruits, cheese, bread, avocado and eggs.)

John said ,'my mother didn't let her have a very close relationship with us,
But help was there when I needed it most , and aunt Surah loved me, thus.’
Frederick said,'Then, why did she declare war against you? It's strange.'
'In just one year', said Matthew,'it's amazing how many things can change.'

'She taught you everything , this way, you tried to undermine her power',
Said Frederick. 'She threatened to destroy me, but I could never cower',
Said John,'her counselors built a wall between myself and my people.'
Matthew smiled', she was that sound coming from a mysterious steeple'

'Each king ceded to me a part of his land in exchange for his vassalage,
And she didn't like it', said John.'She couldn't add controls to backstage’.
Matthew said,’ You took their territories on the coast to expand the naval power.
You traced the traitors, who were her people to imprison them in the tower.’

’ She had governed your  kingdom while limiting your power and influence’,
Said Frederick, ' and while advising you  to use some diplomatic prudence.'
John said,'then, she used her corsairs to attack my merchant ships.'
Matthew said,'we must trace her, and cope with missing information slips.’

To be continued...tomorrow

The Jester to the court
A simple fool
A man to bring about life

Bring about the Dreary
Bring about the Light
Bring about stories of Joy & Strife

Dance amongst
Wax philosophical for
Play about the Concepts
Reorganize the Notions Preconceived and Not

Bring about the Esoteric
Bring about only the Palpable
Bring about plays of Obscure Lucidity

So alone who is he
When at home does he see
What does a merry walk become
Questions, “Who begins to portray me?”

Bring about Divinity
Bring about Sin City
Bring down to Existence and Humility

A Jester will never need a court
Will never have courtesans
He only needs to compliment their world
Must succeed in augmenting their reality through his own

All estuaries flow eastbound, and the subterranean rail tracks keep forcing against the estuaries’ grain and dust foundations perpendicularly to them.*



How can a sane proposition -- a quantification of syntax execution (those squirming cuticles through bonds of regression)— an excessive reflection, reflexive inspection,

Prove its sanity through continued suggestion?



Deductive insurrections stirred in memory,

A rumble, causing sediments to crumble,

Wineglasses balanced atop countertops tumble.

Spilling contents upon the grained wooden, elitists' floors.



"Anesthetic, onsetting tuberculosis in breath patterns,

Gavels ringing on rigged tolling tongs in caverns,

Dark tolerances to Copernican astronomy in shadows,

And the handle grinds as boxcar wheels' flints and steels catch and spark in addled locks," I mumbled from a half-nap.



It was surgery, the smooth procedures on the moving trains,

The gains and plectrums scraped against the brains' spider veins,

To reorganize the sane, to bridge the broken definitions changed,

To prevent arguments' bone structure from fractures and sprains.



"Use gavels against the scalpels, sculpt with their judgment," a corona dream's habitant corrugated.

He pounded the gavel's end against the knife to chisel at the pituitary gland pulsing in his subject,

And her arms flailed like a horse's legs in heat-induced convulsion.
I thought it was done.



The Canson Merue train screamed in the night under earth to Yellowknife to meet Canadian soil as the Heavy Breather pounded his gavel.

Put a child lock
on the liquor cabinets,
and fasten me
to your kitchen sink.

Watch me drift slowly down the drain.

Watch shattered wine glass
stick between fragments of me
in the garbage disposal blades.

Watch broken sentences
arch over our faulty plumbing lines.

Watch pieces of you stick strictly to silver spoons.

Take the skin of your Cuban
and roll a noose around my neck
to yank the blaze from my throat
into the bile of my slip-ups
that pool on the kitchen floor
from an unattached pipe
that just can’t seem to keep
her pretty little mouth shut.

Penetrate my thoughts from behind
and throw plates at the walls
of my shoulder blades
when you need to hear the question again
because it doesn’t matter what she thinks
if her face is nothing but
a cracked serving platter.

Force your hands
onto the authority of my hipbones.

Pierce your wedding ring
through my belly button for safekeeping.

Decorate my body
with super glue
so your words can stick to me.

Sort me in
with the pots and pans
so your voice
doesn’t have to clang against
my eardrums anymore.

Reorganize me
again and again
until you can’t wash the stain
out of my bottom lip anymore.

Pour me a drink
while I drip Taps into the sink
because when I realize
water isn’t strong enough
to make me forget how blood
runs so much thicker over my skin,
tears begin to slip so easily off my eyelashes.

Let my death
be a pail
brimmed with ex-lovers’
cries for attention.

Let me kick the bucket
this time
when they begin to drown out
the sound of my own.

Let me be a reminder
that not all channels
you lose yourself down
have to be man made.

Romancing the aether.

If soul mates are just little parts of the big bang that are meandering their way back.  

Knowing everyone is just a little remix of what they came across up to that point...
then maybe when you meditate and be one with the universe you're just allowing everything to reorganize back to it's natural space.

Telling everyone that their learned fears and hatred are not necessary...

we're all fragile little bits of stardust trying to find where we fit again.

If you give love,
and understand that we all just want to survive,
feel happy and loved...

then it's so much easier to abandon all these unnecessary negatives we have collected.

Fall in love with everything and nothing.

Be appreciative of the space between.

Wednesday morning I woke up from my first night sleeping in the camper, and  I had that  disjointed feeling that comes from unfamiliarity.  I recognized  the interior of the camper, so that was not what was  triggering that closed in feeling that enveloped me, not claustrophobic really, it was more: comforting.  It is hard to put into words that kind of feeling, but as I am supposed to be an aspiring writer ......It would seem to be my responsibility to do so,,  or at least try.
    So as I lay there cradling the warm afterglow of a satisfying night of slumber and with pleasant dreams of…I’m hungry ! I suddenly thought to myself.  No! Actually I am starving, and just one look down at Stormy , lying on the floor and staring at me and  it was more than obvious that he too was hungry..
    “Okay, boy, I know.  I hear you..”
     “All we ate last night was those Fritos wasn’t it?”Stormy just stared at me with those big brown, expectant and hungry eyes..
   “ Sorry boy !  I am new at this.”  I said as I was just  realizing that I was fully clothed, This fact reminded me that I had come into the camper cruiser nine hours earlier, intending to fix me some food, had seen the bed laid out , done while setting up camp hours earlier, so I decided to see how comfortable it could possibly be .
    I remember laying down and  saying to myself, “  this ain’t too bad.”  Looking down at Stormy -closing my eyes- and well , here I am, nine hours later,  starving and being stared at by Stormy .
    .  6:30 AM Wednesday morning- and both of us starving  .   "Man!   Talk about exhaustion.!" I said to the world at large .
    “Just hang in there for a few minutes more  and we  will both have bacon and eggs today....  Okay?”
To which stormy happily  wagged  the whole rear half  of himself in undying gratitude.
     After breakfast I had a cup of coffee in my hands, and a buzz in my head as I sat down in the lawn lounge thingy ( It had even come with the camper) and watched the other people  go about their morning..
     Was this my story--the ever evolving story  of… Come on dude!  I chastised myself,  this is not your mission, to write about camping spots,  and the ever evolving state of one parking spot that                they are occupying.   .  But as I was beginning to slowly realize  ; my story , just might be more elusive than I  had taken time to consider.
      I glanced down at storm to see if he had any insight, an opinion of some great revelation for me,  but he was in his own world; lying there beside me and watching with rapt interest the antics of a pair of foraging gray squirrels as they skipped and be bopped among the branches of a huge white oak;   wherein  Stormy, unlike myself,  saw the big picture,,  all the story he needed was playing out in the branches of that tree.  This tree was his tree ……of life..!
    “Crazy little buggers   ain’t they boy?”  I remarked to him as I rubbed his head and neck , taking away a few precious seconds of his squirrel watching while he looked around me before returning his gaze back to the  acrobatics  of the little be boppers of the tree..  I went back to watching my new neighbors,  for in a sense-that is exactly what this is . Nt much  different from  the cul-de-sac.  I grew up on. ..  With one exception-vital as it is . I mean  that I only have  the imaginary view of these people , not  the  reality  that I had with… But then, I reassess my thought,,  reorganize my pattern as I remember that morning  .
     That crazy day with all the police  and ambulances suddenly appearing in the street..  All the neighbors  having  been bunched up  in curious knots to wonder what was happening at the Angleton’s.
   Like wind swept fire  to a field of tall grass, the rumors began spreading through  the street.
   “He killed her!”  Someone remarked abstractly..
    “Who?”  They all asked in comatose reality.
    “George Angleton” they said, “he killed his wife  and then he killed himself--I think”
    “Whyyyyy?”  They   bleated .
    “Do not know-I heard they had financial problems,  maybe that was it.”  They quoted equivocally.
    “There was always something funny about them.”  The little man said   fumbling the ball
   “Who?”  They all questioned again.
    “Angleton’s…  It was strange, I wouldn’t  let my kids go up there  on Halloween.. and that time he gave all comic books!”  The little man said with an air of superiority.
   “   Why is that?”  They argued in question.
     “You asked me he was trying to lure them kids in.”  He blundered and fell
    “You are nuts!  He was a sweet old man… It had to be… financial”  they persisted..
     “Say what you want-  but I know what I know-and he was weird.”  The little man overstated.
    “You did not even live around here.  That year he gave out comic books-did you?”   Somebody pointed out aggressively.
      “Well.... no,,” the little man sputtered,, “bububut I heard about it..”   The little man  beleaguered now     “So you never even met George!”   Someone accused  ..
     “Not personally; but all  the…” The little man started.
      “Get the hell away from me little man.” the whole crowd expressed in screaming silent looks .

The  last  time  I  saw  her,  she  laid   motionless,  caressed  in  my  father's  gentle  fingers.  Her  eyes,  staring  blankly  into   oblivion.  The  beautiful  face  that  she  wears  so  perfectly, displays  no  emotion.  Her  chest  is  laying  flat;  Not  rising  and falling  as  one  would  expect  to  see.  No  one  seems  to understand  the  extent  of  the  situation.  Nobody  wanting  to accept  the  inevitable  fate  of  our  beloved  family  member.  
It  all  started  out  relatively  early  in  the  morning.  Approximately  two  months  before  I  turned  six.  I  had   been  busily  working  throughout  the  previous  week  to reorganize  my  mother's  sewing  kit  for  her.  I  was  beyond  ecstatic  to present  to  her  the  newly  organized  sewing  kit.  I  was  certain  she  would  have  been  so  proud  of  me.  Proud  to call  me  her  son.  The  only  thing  I  wasn't  aware  of  was  that  she  will  never  see  it  with  her  physical,  human  eyes.
I  was  excitedly  running  up  the  stairs  to  climb  into  her  bed  and  show  her  all  of  my  hard  work  and  dedication.  I  was  in  the  midst  of  prancing  up  the  stairs  when  my  father  came  running  down  with  my  mom  cradled  in  his  arms.  I  know  he  didn't  mean  to,  but  while  he  was  coming  down,  he  accidentally  kicked  over  the  sewing  kit.  I  was  in  complete  disarray.  I  had  no  idea  what  was  going  on.  
Before  I  knew  it,  two  paramedics  showed  up  in  my  living  room.  At  that  point,  Danny  and  I  stood  guard  at  the  stair  railing.  We  watched  the  mysterious  men  cautiously.  We  studied  their  every  move.  We  had  no  idea  what  they  were  doing.  My  father  was  no  where  to  be  found.  He  had  mysteriously  vanished  into  thin  air  from  what  I  could  tell.  One  of  the  paramedics  eventually  looked  over  at  us  and  told  us  to  go  to  our  room,  but  we  were  both  too  petrified  to  leave  our  spot.  After  what  seemed  like  an  eternity,  the  two  men  decided  to  put  my  mother  on  a  stretcher. They disappeared  just  as  fast  as  they  had  appeared.  Just  like  that,  everyone  was  gone  and  the  sewing  kit  was  in  shambles  all  over  the  stairs. The  rest  of  the  day  was  a  complete  blur  in  my memory  banks.  There  is  no  recollection  of  a  single  event  after  that.    
The  next  thing  I  knew,  we  were  at  a  funeral  home  deciding  on  a  headstone.  My  dad  was  in  tears,  but  Danny  and  I  seemed  to not  realize  anything  had  happened.  Days  after,  the  funeral  was  held.  I  don't  remember  crying  or  even  showing  any  emotion.  However,  I  do  remember  just  how  peaceful  and  gorgeous  she  was.  I  knew  at  the  moment  I  saw her  in  the  casket,  she  was  in  a  better  place.  She  was  with  her  mother,  father,  and  everyone  else  dear  to  her  in  Heaven.
It  wasn't  for  years  later  until  I  fully  and  truly   understood  the  whole  concept.  My  mother  was  never  to  come  back  in  her  physical,  earthly  form.  For  the  longest  time,  my  life  was  completely  and  utterly  ruined.  I  didn't  know  what  to  do  or  how  to  act.  However,  I  later  realized  that  one  day  I  will  be  back  with  my  beloved  mother  in  the  most  peaceful  place  to  ever  have  existed.

Things need to disorganize
they need to run around with their arms creating a tornado above their heads
they need to scrabble
to shuffle
to dishevel
to destroy
to complicate and confuse
to break up other things
to create a topsy-turvy world
in order to leave space
for things to reorganize.

Early morning before
anyone has ordered coffee
and I feel delicate in the dewy
sun with the heater on low
at my ankles, I reorganize
the drawer below the register
gingerly feeling at staples and
rubberbands, Caleb watches from
the corner on tea with raspberry
in doc martens and ***** trousers
I wonder if I seem as pretty as I
feel or if he feels the staples too and
the dust from gift cards, if my hair
flares out in the light, if I am a brilliant
solar eclipse.

We’re off to New Haven - hurry, hurry -
we’re jammin, crammin, slappin'
and slammin' everything into our bags.

“Fifteen minutes to take-off,”
Michael announced, “the chopper's waiting.”
with hugs all around we separated.

Our roommates too, are all catching flights
vectoring in from various sites -
our motley group will reassemble tonight.

Pew rated Yale one of the hardest universities
to get into in '23 - so is it really a certainty
that our cardkeys will let us into our residency?

Fall grades came out yesterday - Lisa and I are all grins
- we’ll have thirteen days to visit and settle in
and reorganize things before Spring semester begins.

I hope that your vacations were as fun as ours
but the New Year’s begun and in a matter of hours
we’ll resume the school grind, our holidays devoured.

Fall semester starts tomorrow. It’ll be exciting - for a few days - but it won’t be long before we’ll miss the tanned bodies of summer, the cool, clear lake-water or lounging carefree, on bright, sand-like gravel beaches.

Tomorrow, things will be different. Our days will start earlier, they'll be a value - a new currency - to morning hours that went wasted on unproductive summer vacations. The change will be sudden, herk, there may be an audible pop of some sort, somewhere, in tonight’s darkest hours.

We’ll be going to the gym so early that we’ll be done and leaving before the first, lazy pigments of sunlight weave morning.

I imagine my room looks like backstage at a new Broadway musical, the very first rehearsal - when nothing’s set in stone and everything’s a mess. My clothes are everywhere. Why did I decide to reorganize tonight? Brilliant.

Peter wants to come over but.. “No,” I say, sighing, overwhelmed. “Look,” I say, as I slowly pan the Facetime camera around the war zone that my room has become.

“Oh, my GOD,” he says, jerking back in horror, like a Californian seeing a fur-coat, “Was anyone HURT?!”

“Ha, Ha, I say, sarcastically, suddenly too tired, “Breakfast at 6:30?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says, taking a tucked pencil from behind his right ear. “Guh-night,” he says.

“See-YA!” I say, pressing the red button and letting gravity guide my phone to a gentle rest atop the clothes-pile that’s concealing my bed.

Let me; reorganize
-
Thoughts, feelings, unjustified
Cannot see, I cannot feel, but
I swear on everything it's real.
I could care less, if you don't see
This pressure built inside of me
-
I can't let go, I won't give in
Although it seems love just won't win
The brain implodes, the heart attacks,
Through this pain I don't want you back
-
Why can't you see, you have to know
That I will never love you so.
If you could ever awaken, see
That I have fallen to my knees
-
I truly wish that you could know
I've always wanted you to go.

Space Case is not the advertisement for fear of losing yourself to the very darkness that is blanking out from normal reality and heading into a newer reality, (from which only your own psyche can fictitiously acknowledge, properly).
However way you spin the wonderous find of the gap in your own little sub-space (that is your own even tinier different types of psychological roundabouts...)
Nothing is truly centered in the very lucky situations, where each newly realized predicament isn’t as endearing as you'd first realize them to be.
Carrying out the struggle for the circumstance, that is one's own disembodied state, where such lucky situations...go completely dark!
Now, what's the first ideal of a space case.... Nothing more than what you haven't already knew from before you lost your very first contact with reality.
Since after all, your newly realized ideology is ("reality central") itself!
Things become slightly corrupt when reality central takes center stage, because you have no such management on this sort of (now newly put together source).
It's almost as if you've been entirely thrown into a newer source of energy, that only you and you alone, can bring yourself back out from, (via "your own little reality" itself).
And when your own psyche can once again, fictitiously acknowledge properly, then everything starts to take many tumbles (just so it can reorganize itself back into its original form). Coming directly from the very agreement from its own previous ideals and impressions upon a perspective that danced a little too much), when becoming stuck between two sources of familiar energy sources that signatures the very voice of concern, (or even a voice of caution).
Where everything starts to begin spiraling out of control!
But there's no chaotic tendencies, when consequences become the newer mortality rate...that this very circumstance provides the very presently disturbed predicament that still surrounds itself with such disbelief) over something so sudden, immediate, and radically unexpected!
But that's life, after all. And you can't control what goes on (outside of your own mind's eye). When you truly control what goes on from deep within the very inside itself.
Lastly, what goes around, comes straight on back around...when it truly becomes this scenario (upon many sequences after sequences) that enable you (once again), to hitch up a ride with the very sudden, immediate and radically unexpected realization of such a, well...
Let's pretend (for ONLY just a single moment, before it slips into its own dream sequence or improbable dreamscape, where nothing truly "healthy wise", comes back from that)?!
Which then delivers a type of pressure-free release into (the very such now incredible acknowledgement) of officially knowing that everything that had just built-up (over time) towards this very point in time...
Is nothing more than the ever-lasting, ever-increasingly and never-ending spectacle...of a simulation for "abrupt flaws"!
Because when it comes to such a slithering snake, that is a simulation for abrupt flaws....
Everything begins blurring out of sync!
Then begins distorting the very outside world, as if it was merely a mirage (without "self-acceptance" in itself)!
And when everything completely comes to the very turning point that is fusing together this perfect little bundle of "incomprehensible" joy.
This is when things collapse into a radically self-inducement scenario, where the "head case" (that you once were, on the outside world).
Now officially becomes the newly established Space Case! (Full of primary self-doting commands and actions that consequently, don't fit perfectly in the outside world.
When it was truthfully all about the head case that was meant to evolve into the space case all along.)
"Reality Central" is (as yet again), back up and running!
Begin your newer reality, my friends....
If you’re not already slipping back on into your own such fictitious beliefs again?
When you’re really not accepting the outside world for what it really is. (Except, that's blasphemy!
Only when you don't simply accept your own ideals from within your own heart.)

The seed senses
A moment where the clouds turn right angles and the ocean turns herself into a bath tub
After the moon runs her cycles all in one night the systems reorganize themselves
And we are swung, eyes grasping just barely at the vastness of this eloquent dance
under the pull of a surrender

owning the ludicrous living.
observer
come , gather at this silence
flow slowly as this meanders
full moon love is delicate tender

ask , receive , thank , release
rinse, imbibe ,  rest ,
release
receive

laugh
shake
shake
laugh

give, allow
be.

Moving On from Moving On
June 11, 2014 at 11:36pm
Musings by Vivvy Walker

When I got divorced people were helpful and understood
I was moving on.
They knew it was a BIGGIE
A big, huge, ginormous time in my life
I was moving on.

They helped me. I helped me.
Everyone was familiar with the process.
The pitfalls. The backtracks.
The wins. The successes.
I was moving on.

And now I am firmly entrenched in vague territory.
I have moved on.
And I need to move on. From moving on.
I moved. I packed. And unpacked.
All the baggage. Physical and emotional.

I am post-moving on
I am done.
I no longer need to work ridiculous hours.
Or raise my girls alone.
Or be alone.

I always thought it would be easy when I was done
Moving on.
But it is hard
To reprioritize yet again.
To reorganize my life & thoughts (yet again)

To adjust
To be laid-back. And free. And funny.
I have to constantly remind myself
I'm no longer moving on
That chapter has closed.

It is time for my voice
To be heard.
For my dreams.
To be realized.
For me

I think of the men and women who- like me
Have moved on
And I raise a glass
Coffee, wine, beer, *****
Drink with the little umbrella

I toast you
The changelings, the chameleons
The doers, the movers
And shakers
Those crazy laughing' probies'
Of life post divorce

I toast you
The tortoises
The 'long run' winners
Those plodding wonderful people
Of life post-divorce

I toast you
My fellow butterflies
My new wing-having friends
All those who cried
And then didn't anymore
Post-divorce

I toast you
For bravery
And audacity
And showing me how to move on
From moving on
Post-divorce


~Vivvy Walker 6/12/14

The metal floor is slicky
Desert heat amplifies
The odor of ***** and blood
Mostly empty IV bags hang on their stands
Packaging from numerous medical supplies
Litter the ground

Quickly and carefully I clean and spray and sweep and scrub
I sort and pack and refit and reorganize
Preparing the chopper for the next call

Lives were saved
But
I don’t know what will become of them
Some will leave the Army
Some will come back here
Some will do the job the enemy couldn’t do
And take their own lives

I can’t think about that
This is hard enough

pressure pressure pressure
hollow paper skin
I'm not a paper airplane and
I can't pretend to fly
through stormy wednesday mornings
when the rain begins to drop;
here begins the tailspin
structure folding under
paper-coated hollow bones
the skeleton that shivers

here begins the pressure.
irking little seed
with roots deep cut,
knees cut down
to bleed you on the street
and stretched upon the ground
pressure curls you under

I've got here this paper skin with
tons of flesh to mark
reorganize to find inside
organs tucked in battered skin,
with paper thin
crumpled in your hand
you thought it ripped;
really only crinkled

come drip with me
drip in me
fill my senses
with fluidity
liquify my mind
flood my memories
reunify, end your trip down stream.

drip with me, into
each possibility
roar with me
encompass all barriers
along the road
fall into
the falls with me
s  o  a  r  i  n  g  
through the bends to the end
of that trickle.

be me its all I have to offer
as I desire to be you.
I know the truth
you do too
the chemicals make visibility cloudy
and then we start to consider
is stream or steam
better?
and then we slow freeze
and develop a rigidity
and miss the abyss of the hairline split in time
we were destined to kiss.
we miss the lessons of our Mother
so we must start at the heart.

clear your heart for me
let me top off your energy
with the love I feel pulsating
through my crown. shower
You down to me.

reorganize beliefs
move like water

I couldn't breathe today when I considered certain possibilities,
I am so
T
O
R
N
.

I am bruised and glistening,
Attempting to collect what I can of myself for you,
So you could see
The truth.

I want to apologize for all these months,
But the time healed not only my wounds
But grew me a new heart
Wrapped in a salty, sharp, piercing, sincere, untameable soul,
GOD!
Gathering these thoughts is impossible for me
You destroy them,
I reorganize this tesselating mess of feelings and passion and appreciation
Only for you to smile or laugh or SPEAK
And blow the chains I forged apart,
And once again the wings flap inside me.

I want to be plain, speak clearly, but I can't grab them all,
All these lights inside me.

You have contributed to the construction of an indescribable sun inside of me,
The envy of Sol
For its vitality, mass and luminescence.
IRIDESCENT
                       you are!
It's killing me, your brightness,
For I cannot guarantee a proper expression into words and action
Conveying what I feel
And why I want to worship
The sun.
Blind.

I should stop.
You are a girl, a woman new to this same world as I,
Please do not over think,
Simply
Consider
me.

recently I've had such problems with this
forgetful of things, class, and friends
wake up late, or not at all
and have such the feeling
that the bottom has dropped from my stomach
when recollection finally occurs

I feel like such a disgrace
like a waste of space on this earth
and there is no way to play it off
that doesn't leave you the dunce
oh I slept in, got sick, or forgot
no one will buy
and now you're off worse

I need to settle down
And reorganize, but
For some reason
I don't know what for

I go over my bucket list one more time...
Study, then jog a bit, finish my drawing for my grandma, then the equation I couldn’t figure out, then write the essay-
Or wait-maybe I should read the guidelines one more time-
The due date, when is it again?
AH! Piano is more immediate, where’s my metronome?
Oh no! The books are all our of order again and I can’t find it, why don’t I reorganize them in the process-
My room looks like trash why don’t I-

“Honey, are you done with your homework yet?”

Um...






Well...

I'll hold you up
so you don't fall anymore for me
(unless you want to?)
And mute my words
change your name in my phone
so I can't find you anymore
and then his name, the right focus
will be back at the top of the list
where you tell me it should be.
It's unspoken that it's not yours
is it time for the credits to roll on this soap?
And if you never write another episode,
**** off the main love interest,
and reorganize the whole **** town
I could never hate you.

lost in thought and
lost in boxes
thin dust coated
stacked haphazard
her life
inside –
I began moving and rearranging the space
attempting to reclaim the study
instead memories flooded and tears fell
as each tote
carried a piece of her –
considering the southern trip
in a rented Caravan
more than a year ago
trying to decide what items
I needed to carry and store
in order to properly protect
and honor her memory –
standing in a poorly lit room
staring at her life
under packaging tape
I found myself attempting to
reorganize my mother –
as I placed boxes into the hallway closet
I found myself thinking about her
parental missteps
which then gave me freedom
to hide her away
I saw the old photographs
smiles belying childhood disappointment
not the bike I wanted
wrong style of shoe
embarrassed of the car
the house
life ……
I slide another box into the crawl space –
angry and confused
by my actions
and emotions
I think about her smile
Southern Californian blond  
six foot one shinning like the sun
in the grey Oregon drizzle
taller, prettier, and better educated
she glowed in the dying mill town
and I,
but her child,
felt lost in the shine –
vacuuming the bunnies
and mentally compiling
the inventory list seems lite
as if I lost important packed items
in the shuffling memories …..
I was instantly struck
by what was missing
from the tattered and faded boxes,
as I reorganized my mother
I had found, again
within myself –

There is peace in a path.
A narrow road, though it boasts of whistling cliffs,
those taunting lips, smashing the masts of adventurous ships.

It would be a lie,
if I said I haven't tried,
to reorganize,
my innermost parts out of adolescent formation,

Because thoughts I've entertained now reign throughout my mind,
like a dictator elected by popular vote,
like the deep which holds up the glacier that floats,
I find fear is a liar and she's never been kind.

Like staring at shadows until you see your worst enemy,
horror cinematic score, as the mirror gives you clarity.

Identity a scarcity in a dull, cold chamber,
looks like the real world but its upside-down,
Not quite right, black screen that shines against nature,
A deceptive light that you chase,
while you hide under sheets,
staring down the staircase,
it looks like you yet you know it's a stranger.

But these days,
heights don't scare me the way that they used to,
jumped off a bridge to prove to myself it wasn't true,
Feet placed firmly on the stones of solutions,
of callousing hands grasping rocky protrusions,
ascending the mountain which returns with repentance,
returning to walk in the light and see it through.

My hands hold the rope, but I didn't tie it
Heaven isn't distracted, she's extended her kindness.

I always got the order wrong,
I thought the affection of a woman would make me the man of my dreams,
but that comes first.
Love bore me, shaped me, and gave me my name,
so I'll live by it.

And that's the point,
there's peace in a path,
the acceptance of name,
to face those fears and say,
"You're wrong. I'm a son of faith"

well... i'm happy to say,
it's good to find
something
   that doesn't have
made in china
       written all over it...

joke:
                     a schizophrenic,
a melancholic
and a trans-
   walk into a bar...

yeah, it's funny how
depression is now...
either Norman for Brian...
trans- is all furore...
a zeitgeist fashion show
contra vogue...
  
         ****** ***** bunny
-esque...
               "thing"...
i sampled the vocab.
and i'm like...
    can someone give
me a ******* map for
this labyrinth
of gymnastic benders
and squats
        and backflips?

when the lie is successful,
and i forget to think
about all things
regarding genitals...

  then... akin to blaire white:
you find yourself,
having just found:
           a ******* unicorn!

they say that pain defines
reality,
   but also a potent lie...
a lie that convinces you...
i think that's called
a blue pill moment...

but blue pill moments are
rarer,
and there is no shattering
foundation for "reality"
to reorganize itself...

hence the title:
made in thailand...
because, this can't be some,
european invention
when it seems to date
back to thailand
where it's pop,
          just, plain Norman...

it doesn't help,
that even with the anglo- prefix
to my suffix of -slav
   is still...
somehow, morbidly curious...

but nowhere is schizophrenia
Norman...
         for the Brian...
in current day England...
as long you exfoliate,
dear one,
   as long as...
            
       so what's up with this
cue for the epidemic
      of premature depression...
schizophrenia was called
premature dementia
back in Estonia where
it was first observed...

             but... luckily...
it still remains,
       in the verbreitetsprechen
(common talk)...
   a metaphorical allusion...
splintered ego...
   what if r. d. laing were alive
today...
     clearly the exploits
of crafting a hierarchy
                       of misery...

well... in england i'm used
to it...
    bilingualism is the new
schizophrenia...
   the point of integrating
into this society...
sure, learn the tongue...
and forget your native tongue...
can't i keep it?
  no! no!
   you have to shed it!
well...
       couldn't two tongues
come in handy...
like... going back "home"
  and translating a business
transaction for you?
no! no!
   **** me... that's harsh...
so why don't your people
learn... fwench?

a schizophrenic
a melancholic
  and a trans-
   walk into the bar...

what a day...
                  1 to 100?
really... that's the ratio possibility
of schizophrenia?
  thank god this condition
cannot be normalized...

      depression
    is just too common
already...
       as a phenomenon
affecting youth
                  i'm worried...

but this whole thai surprise?
i would have spent
a more productive two
hours watching a washing machine
go through
  the cycle of washing
bath towels
    and a paraphernalia
     of underwear...
      than having to listen
to a leech vocab. / boa vocab.
complex...

    i have mine too...
            but... i'm only adamant
about having one,
in order to become:
  spelling-fluid...
                   what?
   i'm not going to just give
up...
              an investment
of my time, to how words are
communicated...

sure, call me a grammar ****...
but i don't do emoji...
   never have, never will...
ergo?
   i think i'm sort of a quasi-Levi...
take on inscribing
this be Latin
         text on a modern variation
of hieroglyphs...

again, blaire white...
   if the lie doesn't sell,
and the person in questions
comes off as... silence of the lambs
style buffalo ******* bill...
what is, "transphobia", exactly?

short-circuit...
   what, the, ****, are, these,
people, talking, about?
         you want me to compare
a ******* gucci product
with some Vietnamese pirate
spin-off fake?

short-circuit...
              i can't do that...
                        people have this
concept of forgery,
associated with art paintings...
you're telling me...
the same cannot be applied
to humans?
            
                 there are standards,
and there are categories,
for the simple purpose of
                   a per se "manifesto
of manifestation...
no one likes a ******
magic trick...
             if this is magic...
it's a the sixth sense type of
magic trick of the shaking
of the hands and the moving
penny...
                 it's macabre...
       no one tells a bad magician...
short-circuit...
      how can anyone...
even begin...

         even begin to...
            i'd pay for a good
magic trick...
                      but to simply
be sold a cheap magic trick...
there's no in-between
relating to man or trans or woman...

blaire white
    can says she's trans...
   but my head is already
doing the automated "thinking"
in engaging a doubt
   that borders on negation
of what she's saying,
given what is before my eyes...
that's soothing...

       on a minor note:
yeah, the mannerisms are...
               so-so...
                     maybe i haven't
watched enough teenage girl
videos with the whole:
flick of the hair...
              and no,
i'm not planning to...

               but,                come on...  
you're talking
to Norman who's talking
to Brian
   who's looking at...
     less in your face criticism
and more,
having once ******-off
to a Bronzino...
    the subtle eroticism
of the shy emerging tongue
from Venus' lips...
    in venus, cupid,
       time and love...

trans- is already a counterfeit
of a woman...
   but there's also a counterfeit
of trans-,
   and... i can't entertain
digging a trench into this
ideological circus...
        by coining up a name...
for... whatever happens,
as life shows,
                whenever
a counterfeit of trans-
               is to be taken, seriously,
outside the cabaret voltaire
agenda of a drag queen;
which is what the current
   "trans-" agenda has proved...
the nepotism of drag queens...
      despotism, blah blah, whatever...

or there's just wishing
having spent 2 hours
watching a washing machine
go through a cycle.