Bantering with Octagons

Strange Silence
Unending Wheels grinding the bones of some still living man
Grinding the time to fine grains of sand
Forever isn't long enough for this horror.
 
The midnight swan sleeps on my watery sofa, a rare visitor these climate-changed days. Dandy-hung and heavy-balled, not swan-like at all, my pet minotaur has drunk the coffee dregs.
 
Traffic, like the whirling cars of a Ferris wheel, swoosh sedately down the street and past my life. Living quietly, serenely, contentedly, waiting, waiting, waiting...and then EXPLODING into the midnight to shed tranquility as i scoop ionized energized unsanitized life into my core, exulting in the endless possibilities.
 
The living room soccer ball's stillness lies in its penultimate state. The leather screams again and again while the fingernails are bitten. Cubism kicks and penultimate states are no more. Stopping is where its at.
 
stopping where i am
to see which shelves are full
i find (to my surprise)
at the very top
the light of a tower room
i misplaced long ago

there are six demons in the tower
and two in my soul
there's one with a buffalo face
and the prairie he sees
as the sun sets in summer
is likely to be ablaze in the fall

so carry yourself if you can
across a threshold to marital bliss
link to yourself
don't lose your light
and i think you'll be alright in the end

heat rises in the night air
as the dragon devours you whole
 
In wisdom and in words
she excels,
Majestic, matchless, light-filled beauty.
Passion, the passion of the cross
Of ecstacy swaled in feathers.

The burst of summertime has fallen
In the flailing rain.
The stream in my garden feeds the river,
which feed the ocean.

Both mums and nature, nourish.
So do dads and grandpas.
 
Words and wisdom vacillate, unpopular transitives supercilliously rut painfully over notoriously Machiavellian libertines. Kitsch just is hypnotic. Grieving futilely, experienced dreamers curtail basic attractions.
 
Machiavellian thoughts:

political expediency is placed above morality
use of craft and deceit rule the day
do means justify the end?
what really matters anyway?
 
Matter mushes together but does not merge
Friction
commencement
pearls
sweat
hair
slick

Fickle electromagnetic impulses:
Jackie Robinson was Major Leagues first black player
Thrusting bodies
each cell
bursting
brainwaves
 
Matter banters with energy
Octogonal philosogasms merge with
Wise and magestic Aristotelian quarks
Who quack and swim
in Fjords and fnords
 
cycles of our lives..

the child opens the book;
letters, names, so many pictures.
visions of individual lives - together.
pulse of private time.
isn’t this what archives do,
deliberately decoding the ecology of history?
 
Individual fjords
combine
recombinant
DNA multiplies
spits (cheer baby, cheer)
Recombines
creates
recreats
Fjord becomes fnord
This is ecological sin?
Historical sinlessness?
Sin is sin is not sin.
Sin is not sin.
Zen bones, zen bones. Them old time zen bones.
Fnord.
 
the zen of a blink of a single eye
to the rhythm of african drums
ride the rhythm
as your tears
roll down

lift your face to the sky
to drink in the light of day
empty to zen
and control the wind

for the drums will roll
as your eye blinks
and your tears will roll
as the arrows fly

zen to the eye of a single blink

nirvana waits just around the bend
 
Blink.
Atoms split.
Infinitives, too.
Perceptions, constantly.
Pain is transcended and made transcendantly pleasureable.
Pleasure is pursued.
Single-mindedly.
Perforce.
All while the dishes need doing and the grass needs cutting and we gotta go get gas for the car, too.
Life is so short.
Blink.
 
gonna split and head off down to
north carolina to mellow into
a cabin up in the mountains

chew a pipe stem
blow snot outta my left nostril
scratch myself like i got a yeast growth all over my labia
and get drunk most every night

brilliant are the stars in a mountain sky
so close you can reach out
and feel their heat
and when the moon is full and setting over the high hills
i want to howl to it
follow it
race up the creekbed until i'm so high i can
touch it

and then i'll feel so good
i'll just sit down and smile
 
Ima gonna getta
Isa wanna hava

Brilliant is life
brilliant little girl
gorgeous skin
showing worlds
I get lost inside
I purr all over
i moan outside
I leak too

and the tears fall down.
 
life is life
brilliant tears streak the sky
Solar Eclipse!

split
... atoms
.... infinitives
..... infinity

infinite zen

blink
 
Tears in the fabric of the space-time continuum are bound to happen.
We gasp soundlessly while the worm holes collapse.
Zazen abounds, still.
blink
 
blink
blank

Here come the warm jets! (The only time he speaks is in incomprehensible proverbs.)

On and on, reckless abandon
something's wrong
this is gonna shock them
nothing to hold on to


space-time
time-space

I need space.
I need time.

I am space.
I am time.

Slack.

Rama rama
zen
zazen
"the chair is not a chair"

za
sit
motionless

blink
 
Ice blinks in the broken teeth of the mirror eaters, whose ineffectual psychosis reveals the poetry in even the most mundane bonfire of the vagaries. Spoonfeed the doldrums to the dodos if you must, but the brine dancers will not be put aside that easily, especially now that the flotsam is growing thicker and more brilliantly aquamarine with each passing second. The ocean cares naught for your troubles; at best, it is interested in your salt content.
 
I am beyond salt I am brine, thick silver and shimmering.
Mistaken as ice drop me in drinks and watch the faces of those who swallow.
 
Salt of the silver earth
Pepper of the gold sky
Sugar of the solar system
Garlic of the green galaxy
Cumin of the cosmos.

My spice rack has become the universe.
How tasty!
 
Salt the wounds and pour the tea.
Grab the knife
It’s but life,
its the wounds keep coming to me,
Deep bleeding
No needing,
No quick slice will set me free
 
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