Dark Time

The past haunts you when woken in the night.

Inside, the soul taps the body awake ‘n breathes on your toes

reliving, the self, in the eyes, that you see

and you look, not daring move, immobilized from fear

of dying by the monster in the room and the self that you see

that you want to fight away because he is the Grim Reaper.

It is all so indecipherable, ununderstandable, you pray to the pillow

don’t wake the Grim Reaper up from its death or realize you are no longer asleep

as it sweeps, air feathering the feet as, by here, there by your head, behind,

relapse; relapse into; relapse; don’t let it; what will happen; will i die

opening doors, the dog comes in, sniffs, you see its eyes, it sees yours, it must be possessed, it is the Grim Reaper peeking in your door with its antennae snout,

don’t let it feel my scent or it will come, living its death in new light,

because I’ve been caught by the ghost of past.

(If you reopen up your psyche the was, is living just like you are and it rushes back in although you’ve grown past and understood it was faulty and younger than you are now, and dangerous, for you now, because there cannot be two yous in one world in the same time; if the past becomes now, do you die?)

The only way I could be religious, part of a religion, is if God is a part of the self; which I believe is.

notebk scrap from august04

to understand the body biologically, is to understand the body physically, and in relief, understand the world non-physically that much more.

words are how we understand things complexly—sight, sound, touch, taste, are complex understandings, but all animals have them, and any of these senses are not active and alive in themselves, in so much as they have a hard time describing one other of these senses; whereas words and verbal speech, have the most innate ability to evoke all of sight sound touch taste because once they enter one other being’s mind, they become that other being’s own possession, free to transcribe into various rich imagery. Conversation and writing can touch us like none other, in a way elevated and intimate beyond all else.

Hemmingway, speaking about an old man

He was too simple to wonder when he had attained humility.

But he knew he had attained it and he knew it was not disgraceful and it carried no loss of true pride.

scrap 2

I just walked by a girl
talking to a person being
admired, by the girl
and the girl, the person,
being admired saw
me in her periphery
adn I know because
I say so but, I ,
the person talking,
does not know so
because she, neither
of them, turned to
acknowledge me as
I formulate my thoughts,
try to remember
the time I walked by.

Scrap from notebk

Trips to Purpose are brief and expose, in addition to my subconscious reflection, the facts of me and my family I've been exposed and signed on as explanation, pointedly researched like for a paper thesis, celebrated and clung on to, accepted, now as traction for this big blank world, and outright fabricated. Fabrication? Isn't that just like learning; a clean slate; what we see or hear is truthful or not, in the end, every instance, we decide?

Smiles and excesses; when I left the commune, the monastary, the attempt, driven, to live and prosper in killer New York City; when all of these are over, at the point nearing when life, this life, comes inching back like a big fat overarching tree while you roll forward, continuing... What comes of it but a re-run.

TV is good. Real good, these days at keeping me occupied, actdive in anticipation, the punch line, the mystery-answer, the real, the fake, the real-fake cannibalizing its own way, the gruesome, the ugly, the shocking. It tittilates me!

Every night, I re-think about this world thus far and what this life's brought me. It ends with that damn TV on, and it goes on into the night beyond me. It outlasts my energy, the mortal sessions for sleep and I come away with a few statements that satisfy my War, little battles won in the worldwide, timeless face that I stare at, and it will never know me.

For Love

Love’s tug—in this place
nothing breaks:

kids play rough
like cubs pounce one another

like crying then weep
out from control, in confidence

like hating, because you know
they won’t ever leave

like loving
for the first time

she climbed me
like a tree, climbing my still observance.

It was play, she showed,
she played. I found,

my own gaze, I felt around
behind my stillness, was,

yes it was! I found it, love, for you
for you, in me.