At the Corner: Ten for Today

I don’t know why I bite. I practice keeping my distance, detaching from all the crap around me, only to self-sabotage in weaker moments. Quixotic behavior, fighting windmills, I collapse, fall into the delusion that cyberspace is real, people on Facebook are real. They are not. They are as solitary as I am, poking at keys to create effect. There are no people in cyberspace, just ones and zeros. I know this, and yet…
 
Going out to dinner with my housemates, dad and partner, that is real. Though the restaurant was too noisy to facilitate conversation, we know what we want to say–and the food is always good there at our corner joint called, “The Corner.” Upon seating, the waiter, who knows us by name, delivered a cellophane wrapped wine glass we left there a month before. They knew it was ours, and the bartender brought it to our table upon seeing us. Even though we have never sat at the bar, the guy recognized us for our frequent patronage.
 
That’s real life–in the flesh.
 
To feel the pulse of America and predict the outcome of this upcoming election, I need to get out of cyberspace, off my computer, and walk among real breathing human beings, who can look me in the eye and tell me who they are and what they want. Only posers–personas–hide on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and all the other social media sites created for production, the creation of false spaces, rooms, and people who perform pieces of their lives, oh so convincingly.

 

Image: around the corner

Story Line

image

It’s the same old story told and re-told,

Thin smoke, a fire sparks newspapers sold;

“We’re up in flames; this place is doomed.

Who will scrape our souls from the ruins?”

 

Truth be souled, we scale our weakened edges,

Lurching through time, jumping off its ledges

In silken ticks, slick with moist memory mold

Like a baby’s crown bridging gaps grown whole.

 

Since the plates never cement, never solidify 

Merely surrender the quest just to realize

How little matters matter in the big scheme:

Unceasing cessation’s sensation’s our dream.

 

So forget about alarm bells and anxiety spells,

Smoke, pills, drink and dare-to-extreme thrills

To awaken sensate waves alligated to a vision 

When real proof appeared at the first incision.

 

At the flash, burn and expulsion, too hot to stay

A core so full of inevitable dispersion to always.

That’s life, I’m told, living between fire and ice   

My story and yours, again, and rolling the dice.

 

Chaos, our freedom, this overlaid order a fraud,

Some call it nature, some karma and others God.

I call it “whatever” or “ok”, often I call it a day,

To rein and saddle numbered hours’ silly anyway.

 

The ending never arrives, the plot never unfolds,

That’s the same old story told, retold and untold

Since the steadfast mute, reveal no master divine

Across the divide no dying secret passing the line.

 
Image: http://www.designedforlearning.co.uk

It was just a dream…

  

Credit:  http://s3.amazonaws.com



Softly now a wind swept plain threads the dusty sky
in tapestry’d landscapes open wide in an endless eye,
for who comes a’spin trailing cyclonic tear stained anger?
A dream, it was, a dream and only a dream.
The bone rumblings nauseate my awakening.
Fist pummeled popping despair explodes in fracture;
my joy is hiding, darkened in a webby cervical corner.


I awoke to the morning’s whistling words; 
my feet were cold, fallen free of blanketed body heat. 
Spring came early, opened prematurely, and so left; now
the returning cold deceives, rankles a ramshackle house, 
its half way adults of changing complexion, doors open wide.
They pass and return like the shoreline soaked sand,
intermittent, persistent and constant synchronous rhyme.


The words of my awakening were mere warnings.
Almost over, I squeeze between staying and going
come and gone, keeping me presently here, now by the by
jammed in by the leaves that fill my window’s blind view.
The green bleeds through me and approves noddingly,
quivering its reply in jittered tenuously ticklish goading:
Come out to the world, connect and extract its comfort.


I am a lonely laughing over it runner.
My feet, bare, exposed, never but lightly touch the pavement,
their steps imperceptibly driven past the crowds’ avoidance,
padding by in silent wide eyed stare, solemn mouthed,
a hasty reproof in the reading for the uninitiated.
I told him I never once felt enough a part of this world,
not enough out of it either and I meant it then as now.


Running steamed skin trails scents of the night’s visions.
Those words–never…enough…–circulate behind my shades,
blinking the sweat from the lids into the skin crease burn,
not remembering if I said them, actually uttered the words.
We were just talking or texting, smoke in the sage room,
grainy air or fog or hail, obscuring our voices in gassy ice.
There I told him, I never once…never…felt…, it was a dream.