musings on pure thought

beyond structure
beyond the street transfer
of ghouls lost living
lost meaning
I live there in the gutter
down where the trash/rubbish percolates
could you imagine
drinking from that scum?
we as humans are petty
we are oysters on the reef
locust in the field
cancer in the body
some say the earth will reject
some believe that the time is nigh
I say it is another day
and we have to learn the days we live in
take responsibility for our actions
whether it through absolute necessity
beacause our rivers are choked with garbage
and our street flow with the detritis
that we produce through consumption
I once knew a very loving woman
that composted all she could
recycled everything she consumed
It wasn't until one day
when she was consumed by a raging
carnivorous pitcher plant
It was a fateful mistep
into what she thought was a
slow step into her cerebral garden
unfortunately, the pitchers desired to
bite the hands that fed them
not the human
but the human
she gave them life
she let them be
be a carnivore of vegetal proportions
decidedly I found out about this
through the obituaries in the Community Times
something so remorseful
to be printed in black and white
soy based inks spelled out her demise
I felt that she had brought something to my life
she inspired me to be more
she inspired me to floss once a day
and brush twice daily
she was a woman of multitude
she was a woman of career
in fact, the mere mention of woman
conotates the image of something that
has suffered and led minions (children)
equal opposites of nature
that is the woman
her meer-ness is alluring
what without the female there could be no male
and the inverse
we are connected
and connected we shall remain
and likedly so
life is strange
and so are we

Marilyn Makes The Evening and The Hostess Is Nowhere To Be Found

Marilyn lifts herself from the paisley patterned chince
drifts langorously across the old grain, peeled shellac, wood floors
while the dinner party congregates and cajoles in the kitchen
tarnished pans and rustic handles give off a smell of
centuries passed
centuries lifted
old wood and bloom breezes
through chipped, painted sills
the wind it channels through the gap
leads me through the crowd
in and out through the back door into the darkness
that holds me true
out in the oppressive weight of the night
(you know that feeling when the silence
and darkness become deafening?)
I am freed
inside Simon speaks coily to a prospect named frederice
THey talk of business and culture but
their ultimate aim - subconciously speaking -
is wanton passion by the grasps of the hair and mean,
lustful teeth into soft flesh
But for the trist
for the courting
the small inuendos
the suggestive glances
the gentle touches
suggest

Out in the court
Marilyn lifts her hands to the sky
and chants to the past, present, future
In the cool night
the moon-soft breeze coarses in
and out of her glorious vessel
she breathes majick into the night
memories of past, present, future
she's lived this
and has never lived before
a slim reapeating of occurences
she can only put the tip of her soul on
Cernunnos arrives with quiet smoky availabilty
her inner chant brings him forth
In the leaves
his green essence flourishes
tells her of lost dirt paths
that led man to the center
to the middle of the road
she communes with the male
the spirit noble
The smell of fresh earth
washes over her face
her hands fall to her waist
she is bare from the waist up
her breast
radiant in the full moon glow
her skin untouched and
touched by centuries
maiden and crone all the same
it matters what level you perceive life
and where you are
it's all perception
is it antiquated?
is it new technology?
she is bathed in the cool
moon glow
she chants for forgiveness
of the race
the race no one wins
chants forgiveness
for their errs
their unknowing ways
destructive results
this all due to limited sight
and
inside, a baby crawls along the floor
the new mother chases her infant son
along wooden floor boards
outside Marilyn cries on high
laughs for spells
and the little spirits
under the leaves
all the little things
wash away
they all wash away
with time
stones
smooth stones
under silent rivers

04:39

I remember dreams
the dreams they remember me
snapshots of a day gone past
mixed with inflection
of direction
and the greater machine
that presides over us all

I sit there in the classroom
the cold linoleum
beneath my sole
I am here
but Im a million miles away
creative writing
there's nothing creative about this
creative writing comes from experience
comes from living
Living I've done
living I do
I remember when we used to
play in the ditches
pretending we were some astral warriors
protecting our homeland
from the hulking steel beasts
for days into nights we would battle
wage the good war
return home to drink and revel in our honor
speak a good talk
and all that goes with the living
of a warrior in the droves
daylight climbs
into an abyss of what makes us men

I revel in those dreams
that get lost on my tongue
off the brain
on the mind
with this gift we have
with the art of the word
we have cause
because we are obviously
more that what we seem
we are of god and the gods
as I type I stream the stream
I am no one special
I just write of the indescribable
I write what I know in my heart
the pulse of the vein
the vein in my writing


The night envelopes
and comforts

ciao.