Questions...

Isn't growing up all about self realization and understanding a better idea of reality ?

are questions about life biased because we are preinclined to believe that we should want to live ?

is it really that hard to care more about truth than security ?

often games played with the mind are real games played with the world , slowly the game world, becomes the real world, but does the game you become the real you , or is it just something you want to experience ?

questions are good friends to live with , but hardly the place of best advice.

Can Kittens Fly

probably one of my favorite written pieces...i still get lost in its organic form and ability to conform to reality yet be lost in enigma.It is another glimpse from my past , of old friends, and old loves....of journeys, people, taste , sound and smells. I read it again a few days ago , half a decade after i first wrote it. Somewhere in these confused, searching lines i found pieces of me...lost pieces, forgotten parts, but mostly it was homecoming for a young adult very nostalgic about his childhood.


The light on your hard hair; is the silk caught in their waves, or am I floating above your lap? Five seconds. Two ago, my head was beneath them, maybe over them? Could be silent mist which crept through had entered my mind. Brilliance of a mountain stream or the flash of your brown iris?

Tomorrow night. The pub burnt with yesterday's feathers roasted over the slow fire of cigarette and cole slaw. The dead branch splintered beneath autumn. Today sighs in happiness, locked beneath the wine cellar. Caught in the golden thread, of wise drops of reality. Were you naked under the pines? Or is that the moon of October weaving tears into starlight?

Blue. Caught below the point of reeds. The lake, maybe a vehicle into stillness, overbearing, the ripples into mud. A family torn apart. Five limbs cut into ten to build the lake a friend. Ten generations lost in two strokes of fire. Father, where are you? My coffee mug broke across the sky, feeling your touch. Yet you never touched my feeling?

Sands swept away. Why did a cube have six faces, but only one body? Life grew upon my shoulder;above the straw that the maid brought in. Sugar and grapes grew on my fingers. They must go on. Thursday evening Jamie brought home an amber kitten and a violin. Can kittens fly? Ask the next rainbow when you dust the rain, from the light kept over your smile.

Laugh. Wild horses singing to the North Wind. Dark legs breaking through motion, green emeralds beneath their broad toes, alive yet wishing to die. Three children died yesterday, a car, electric blue, blood, a pink hair band and last month's sunshine. Can I kiss you, reality? Why are 'nows' so rare? The moment we feel one come up to us, it becomes a 'then'. Metamorphosis. Maybe the kid next door would know. He has had cerebral palsy and the wheelchair is his best friend. Blue eyes, smoked hair, lip-gloss over his right cheek. His Mom kissed him there day before; forgot the soap yesterday. He would know 'now'. He's had so many of 'thens' playing hop and skip beneath his wheels. His ambition : to become Michael Jordan. Are you Tom Thumb or maybe Jack? Has the beanstalk reached the sky? Maybe too many fertilizers. Orange skies are brighter than the swallowtail I had last summer. Yet can it dream?

Chocolates stewed over charcoal fire. Remember the last time I loved you? Eyeliner over your warm body. I drew Mickey Mouse on your arm, you called him your sweetheart. In South America a three year old got a semi automatic as a birthday gift. Five million hectares of virginity raped in 365 days. Are you still my own? Can you breathe into whiskey mixed with blood? Or am I a dreamer born of sentiment below the scent of jasmine and you broken knee? You're life, my life. Can you love me? The Benz you drive has made me ten years younger. Yet the years seem to have grown old.

I will walk beneath your sky. The fisherman you loved, he ran away. Russell, his son, cancer loved him. Affection on your part, it melts away like rancid butter. You jump up on the net I bought for mosquitoes. You can't fish with it. Are you alive? No joke. It seems the neon light on the drugstore shone on the torn wrapper of a sex gum. It stuck a nation together, respect it. A wolf carried away my dream. Poor thing was starving. At least it ate a dream, not a bullet.

Will you sleep tonight? It's too cold to open the window. My hair feels like Saturday's spent together, yet away and far. Do you love the waterfall, the torn sock, and my goodbye kiss? Can worlds be born of impotent men who believe in running races against a lame hare, and a silver tortoise? It's up to you. Both lose.
The lollipop in your cheek is sweeter than truth. Yet it costs so less. Which do you want to buy? My love or the lighted panorama of the carnival? Where you do the cabaret and I shout obscenities. Deserve the cake I baked for you. I warmed it over my love and burnt my little finger. Tear up last year's promise, I still love you. Now is all you are. Then is what you can never be.

Remember

so i found this looking through old books and letters. memories are beautiful teachers, they show you evolution and tell you who you have become. Its old, its naive, but its a loved version of me....

Remember the time when the sun felt soft ,
And the pain tremored with tenderness,
The time when the small blade of grass,
Sparkled like a lone lost dream,
A night on which subdued moonlight
Kissed you softly drenching you in mist.

Remember that little boy who ran ,
With legs he never owned,
The quiet butterfly whose life was,
As short as summer rain,
The dark rose of yesteryear whose thorns
Grew grey with solitude.

Remember the friend you made ,
On a lost winter afternoon ,
Remember his sunny smile beating on you ,
A dew drop drenched in creation ,
A freedom to seek a life.

Wondering (Mostly postmodern)

I wonder often as I sit and stare at celluloid screens where phosphor dots create meaning with E and M signals and somewhere a neural pathway registers consciousness as normal, open and static....its a weird reality where phenomenon governs my idea of what should be, when the reverse makes more creative sense...

so, i think, since I spend millions of neuron firings everyday, trying to encapsulate an idea of limitless freedom into polysyllabic script, it might as well be an attempt devoid of social bias and past acquired instinct....or is that even a human ability ?

all this just meshes into the dilemma which screams for identity and is easiest to smother....we start living lives out of boxes, wrapped in bubble dreams and often starved of ingenuity....but, if a correlation is to be drawn, between what is and what isn’t....the is wins out...

maybe the is wants me to read papers, feed the dog, take out the trash and believe that the world is formed of isolated stations manned by egomaniacal, self rooting mammals that don’t know the first thing about compassion or deliverance or liberation.......

somehow, rowing the boat against that proverbial stream always eludes those that spend too much time in the tavern with a pint....in my pintless life, this need to create the worst possible idea of reality seems to be elusive and mostly shadow like...it appeals, grovels, whines and then settles down, like a middle class family, with that picket fence and direct TV....

yet, if I have to pick a notion to live by, maybe its the believer in me that reaches out to the stars, rationally subversive people might be able to find a reason for even murder, but reason when aborted of spirituality lacks that essential fuel that ruins empires and establishes miracles...at the end of the day, if I can hold my body and mind in contempt of the ideal, then its a regressive life I have, which seeps away at illusions as I wander aimlessly in search of desire and appreciation...and I say let it all go, and within that primal atom of me that came from stardust from the cosmological birth is a hope, that essence will return to man, in a way so enthralling that just believing in it will liberate you from the ordinary and it will be because you matter, because you did it ....no one else, not the milk man, the president, your mother, or even GOD....just plain and simple tissues, bone and consciousness...you!

Of Poetry

Of poetry, the kind I write,
As often tomorrow as
Today.


You’re faded over words and rhyme,
A question asked to
Forget

Filling spaces on grave starched sheets,
May I begin and
Write.

Is it memory or child vision?
Locked together or maybe
Alone.