poetry

unfucked by fire

kindle your fire with care
even if no-one else feels its warmth
others may draw close to the flicker
or maybe they won’t
whatever your course
keep that flame alight
and do what you must
to stoke your glorious blaze
unfuck your life, unfuck the whole world
with a few sticks at at time

running and the rhythm

The running and the rhythm. Heaving breath and smooth hot-stepping. Sweat dripping and fiery eyes burning. Thoughts thunk and muscled miles merging. Hauling and hoofing, uphill steadily steaming. The boom-diggity and zoom-zippity. Hell, even the trudge-drudgery and grinding gradually. The move, the groove, the long-lasting loping. The bad mother… flying freely. Heh! Ain’t it funky now?

spare the dramatics and DANCE!

Wise and foolish alike reach birthdays and look back on life lived, both well and not so much, and into the pointless abyss of hopes left unrealized. I’m no exception, but what’s best to say now? A mosquito buzzes around seeking blood. Scotch slides down the throat and imbues with a gutteral, undeniable truth. I was once attached to my mother via the belly button, but I’m nobody’s baby now. { Cheers, Nick Cave. } My face, bearded and weathered after a decent thirty-seven years, is not quite the face of my great-great-grandfather, nor is it the face of some future grandchildren, but these eyes, man, they burn with fucking starfire! Getting old is of little concern when merged cheerfully with the magnificent cosmic frolic. For shit’s sake, spare the dramatics, it’s time to dance.

DANCE DANCE DANCE!

wild ride

great fun to be flung around
at high rates of speed on
roller coasters, flying swings,
even merry-go-rounds—
much too fast for toddlers
and old folks though, whoa

amusement parks we call them;
wild, mechanical, herky-jerky joy

have you considered, however,
that our earth spins at nearly
one thousand miles per hour?

or, how about the thousand
bacteria species alive in your gut?

get some nachos into that crowd!

stand where you are and
feel the stationary in motion;
incredible, cosmic flux

embrace the ride and
raucous party that is
the dizzying, wondrous
amusement of human life

an abysmal reflection

not just hot air forced through
pursed lips while fiercely railing
against the injustice of stale
bread and moldy cheese—
those should’ve-been-sandwiches

much more than peculiar nods
toward the unanswerable,
flashes from the mirror of why

Why is there something instead of nothing!?

perhaps less than the jumble
of hastily scribbled reminders
and phrases stuck to the wall:
     1) clean bathrooms, do laundry, thaw sausages for dinner…
     2) “Handle each grain of rice as if handling your own eyes!” (Dogen)
     3) “No man is a toboggan.” (anon.)

What use, these words when the rafters fall!?

bare soles and illusory souls
still reveal only fragments
of the grand mezzotint print,
past deeds, memories and hopes
mysteriously heaped together,
our curious pursuits and endless
yearning toward big love and away
from the background ache of malaise

What of it, the whole deal and my involvement!?

a brilliant mess here, this mind—
an indigo moth flutters past a
horse-drawn school bus winding
along a dusty mountain road,
teetering above the edge of
an impossibly calm, deep abyss

ABYSMAL, these haphazard thoughts,
you’ve already thunk in hasty judgment,
perhaps, but the image is yours now too:

Have another look!

Yours and mine and none of ours.
All of this together, our collective
of sacred poppycock—

It’s our mess now … our mess now.