Category Archives: #abstract

I AM NEVER BROKEN

IF i could speak to the world
just a single thing
it would be not to worry
i won’t remain useless
i gather around my faith
a broken heart of life
Father in Heaven
a golden chute for me to
fall into but i fight for
this life upon a crazy world
where i have no voice.
My heart, my head and hands
are my own and i make them
shape them into the Life
i Live.

I will get there one day.
I pray.
I will get there one day.
I know.
I will drop down to my knees
and pray.

I know i am small but it’s
all i have here in flesh
and blood and pain Father.

I am NEVER BROKEN.

:: 10.03.2020 ::


SMOKING CIGARETTES AND SPIPPING COFFEE

Many-colored and candle-lights; high beyond the soft trees a fresh country
leans heavily toward the night, far beyond the sea’s shady shore.

Beams, o’er wide fields like a white star, \till from the earth’s crown drops the thunders. With breaths that stay the night, with sounds that never are hushed, with golden night-glories or amber the perfumes that I catch/, and wild nights of laughter: and by the deep sea violets and ladyship’s, with the smelling rose, and perfumes of forest; and rarities that we saw in open Heaven, and the drink of Oia, on the sweet chestnut tree,
with which the feet of Aphrodite might be not shackled, when the lust of Him; as some deem I.

And so we lament over him, with our wreaths Pallid, wan, or but paled by love’s heavy sighs, lovers whose burning lust is over; who shall still desire now thy embraces, or feel the beauty of thy cheek;
who shall fancy even now that the bonds of love are off the tongues of thine; or that all the charms of thy face have lost their force, and are swaying at the wind from thy native garlands?
And what pities the future lover, if even of l’amour’s kiss they have bewailed and of sweet love’s cloying aftertaste they are not ill pleased; if there should still be that sighing longing, that sighing sadness, that sighing passion, that sighing sigh, that sighing waste of life?

And what more pity if I should too that same sorrow too should befall him!

And I see that love weeps, in wailing. till her outstretching fingers take him to her bosom and tie him tight to the heart and mind of the one.
Now then, take thy ease with love’s passion, as a fair angel, whom God makes with an ecstatic gleam and white hair; his love’s upcast bird-chaser,
His love’s lady-mistress, His love’s wife, or maidenhood.
But seek that pleasure not with a partner, of whom one is no more than a plaything. What kind of thing is it, these men with whom we do marry, to whom a common fellow-countryman is no more honorable or good than the butcher or tailor, or shoe-maker. What kind of thing is it,
for whom is it either to worship God, or to lie in death’s burning sands?
If the sweet to taste was here among us, and the earl’s daughter would choose me, and not him, what with the big open eye, with all its blood-shooting sight, the mad gaze of their wild eyes!
And the round forked tongue! and the crazed face!
With the hanging lip! with the snarling teeth!
With the long hair! with the strange uncouth sign of their
Cocks and she-birds!
What would become of my high rank, to be taken, in my home country, as a commoner with one of those low fellows, whose fear stems from the spleen, and whose blood stems from the kidneys.
For I am rather wild and awkward, egotistic and impractical, desirable in their eyes, and hurtful in their lips, but if it were this way, I should be quite happy.
Would he ever require my foot for aught?
For my breast for his belly? My seat for his horse? I think not. Should I have my house, my servants, my arms, and I am well armed, yet I should still groan to see that from some far foreign land was by God taken a young and ambitious kinsman.

To perish so cruelly, so without hope would I ever be glad of any harm coming to him.

:: 10.03.2020 ::


GOGH’S FIELDS OF GOLD

IT is dark down here & this awful reality
satisfies the ego and frightens the soul
but makes a state of distraction
; an abomination –an abhorrence
for all that it implies -a living organism
as a leaf or a particle.

There is no non-life only emptiness & this filth
whose existence is temporary– a first-trimester pregnancy
in an animal –a rejected spiritual soul, it is real-
life in simple terms– the personal growth we are
so ignorant of the brave face of existence –a thing
we will ‘never’ ever come to terms
with –the vagaries of Time which call to us
‘cross the bridge’ & walk the Yellow Streets
of Van Gogh.

Hav you never ever walked the edge of fields of
so yellow they smell of gold — the wheat fields
of Vincent Van Gogh: he was a bastard
to most but greatly to ‘self’ –> killed the personality
but never the Art
nor the Soul

:: 04.29.2020 ::
rev: 0-10.3.2020 ::


A HUNDRED MILLION ANGELS SINGING

“And there went out another voice from the four beasts and it was shouting with a great voice, saying, ‘Come now, and let us kill him, a horse, a horse, a horse!’

The four beasts, the four devils, were unanimous, “Who can withstand him?”

Come now, and let us kill him, while the virgins are all trimming their wings.

“I was shaken, and I fell to the ground, and I heard a voice saying to me,
‘Do not be afraid, my son, and go to your father and say to him,

‘Father, I have sinned against heaven, and against you, and am no more worthy to be called your son.’

“I said to him, ‘Here I am,’ and I threw myself at his feet, and I worshiped him and said, ‘My father, save me!’

“And he said to me, ‘My son, keep your voice, and do not make me angry, for you have rebelled against the word of God. I will deliver you with scourges and with horses.'”

There are people out there who will always blame someone else for their own sin. They will always place blame on someone else.

It will always be someone else’s fault for their own failures and for their own problems.

The funny thing is, they won’t ever admit that it’s their own actions that have caused their own pain and that it’s their own sinful nature that they will always find a way to blame someone else for their problems.

I don’t care who you are,

It’s your problem.

It’s your fault.

And there will be a golden ladder reaching down when the hairs stand up in all terror.

:: 10.03.2020 ::


Sex, Math And Fortnite

I went on a date last night. Before I tell you about that date, I want to tell you a story.

When I was a student at Northwestern University in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, I attended a fraternity party. One of the girls at the party was a freshman who had joined a sorority that week. She introduced herself and, over the course of the night, I learned that she was writing her thesis on evolutionary theory. When I asked her what she wanted to study, she said she was not sure. A while later, she said she was studying the evolution of sexual attractiveness. We got to talking about why some people look more attractive than others. To quote The Bachelor’s Bekah M., she said: “If it’s so easy to be attractive, then why is it that I’m not hot like all the other girls?”

I looked her dead in the eyes and, for the first time in my life, I said: “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?”

I have been seeing lots of college freshmen recently. Most of them have never seen themselves with a critical eye and they have never had a discussion about why some people look better than others. They think they have it all figured out, that they already know why they are attractive. However, in the span of a few weeks, most of them have learned that the mirror is a tricky place. People aren’t necessarily as beautiful as they believe. When a person stops being concerned with how they look, the only thing left to do is try to look better.

Don’t get me wrong, I have never told people that they are ugly. I haven’t been sure that this is a right thing to do. In the era of social media, it feels like all of us are constantly subjected to extreme angles of hair and butt, so I imagine most people take the advice of every Instagram photo as truth. At the same time, however, everyone I know who is single is obsessed with their looks. No one wants to hear that there is no such thing as “the perfect amount of muscle” or that a few extra pounds can even be a positive thing. I have yet to see someone not feel comfortable with their body after being told that it’s not a flaw. Most people know that their body is something that can work for them, something that they can get healthier and more in shape with time.

I’ve only ever heard this advice from the men in my life. My mom, for example, is forever yelling at me to “just stop eating so much candy.” I’m a hopeless romantic and I find myself sending love poems to people on Facebook. I can think of many girls who want to be ugly. In fact, in her latest book, Rainbow Rowell says, “Girls are all the time trying to be pretty, or to be liked, or to look right, or to prove something about their culture. We all are searching, in the way we are all inherently beautiful.”

But “beauty,” according to Rowell, “is about what lies between.” The saying has long been a popular one at Northwestern University. “If you’re beautiful on the inside,” someone would say to me in high school, “you’ll be beautiful on the outside.” And most of the time, this proved to be true. But I have also seen too many of my female classmates on those “best of looks” lists. To many of the people who tell us how beautiful we are, we are either “model-thin” or “in the mold.”

Sex, Math and Fortnite (part 03)

Our culture obsesses over finding the unattainable. Beauty feels like a competition. It’s as if we are being asked to justify why we are beautiful, like we are up for a popularity contest. People are constantly comparing us to other people we find unattainable. On the other hand, I’ve always felt that the standards placed on us are unfair. Girls are continuously told that they should be “a size two.” It isn’t right to judge a person based on their body. I believe that beauty should not be judged based on one’s self-image, but on who that person is on the inside.

Some people have it worse than others. Some of us have suffered from eating disorders. It is a misconception that you cannot become healthy and be thin and still be beautiful. I know I am still physically attractive, but I no longer try to be beautiful on the outside. I make it a point to not walk around wearing a red wig. It makes no sense that our culture is not OK with us being happy with who we are.

:: 09.28.2020 ::


FATAL THUNDER

fatal thunder was the best one had when she came to me for advice about his economic condition.

she was my first client, she said to me: My husband says I’m a fool for waiting for anything. I’ve been a mistress and a wife and a nurse, but I haven’t made a penny on my own. He makes a living as a taxi driver. I live in a modest bungalow and he has a sprawling country home. I make housework and keep the yard and the cars and two cars in good repair. We spend every weekend in our country home and whenever he is away he brings the mistress and the mistress’s boy and the mistress’s boyfriend and the three men together.

He was twenty-six and I was twenty-five when we married.

I’m not a fool, I told him, and here is how I earn my keep. First, I gather the money in envelopes when it is in my immediate possession. Then I write checks when I am told by the client to do so.
I keep the checkbook with me so I know who I have to go back and ask for more. I have a reliable mover. I have a reliable chauffeur. I have an accurate accountant.
This is how I do it.

When I get in the taxi, the driver asks me the destination and I tell him, and when I get there I get out of the taxi and tell him where to go, and when he takes me to the hotel or the house, I give him the key and when I am getting ready for bed I give him the bill for the room and then I turn out the light and go to bed myself.

In the morning I get up and say, “He’s a fool for waiting.”

I’ve been doing this a couple of years, but now I’m running out of the money I got when I first started.
I don’t get any more checks or checks with letters of explanation from my client, and the money is not growing with my business.
I’m sure if I wanted to I could get another job and earn more, but what would I do with all that time?

It might be difficult for me to do.

So silence and pain are my bed brothers. Love is my sister. Together we weep every night.

:: 09.26.2020 ::


MANY TIMES, MORE THAN TWICE

MANY times, more than twice have I seen the ghosts of family, friends and then some whose faces that I did not know.
Quaintly, with ethereal elegance they are silky touch, feather breath, and opal eye, outside of the tick-tock of father time. It is most inappropriate to ask of them to state their business or intended pleasure
extend your politeness over scorn I say. But if I may make a brief apparatus is there a paper in the room, a hall-cabinet or a desk on which a white sheet is available? Might I do with the sheet as a summons?
The respect that one owes one’s guests becomes tested with boredom, oft times probed with practicality of thrift for there is nothing useful to be erected in the holder of the sheet.
Only when it is needful to be done is the one supposed to write in it. The space for writing is too limited.
Must the words be in black to be read? Must they belong to make any good or neither would it do to pay homage to the white sheets anymore? Might I pour out some ink, some thread to fashion myself a gnomon of sorts. Searching the paper to be free from ink might I try another opal eye, like my mother and the razors my grandfather used?
To groom his hair, and his kinks, each time they wore them down, but never ending. Might I even fawn over a ghost. Might I shed a tear for no other reason than it would be distasteful, and uncivil, to not do so. The wrong that is done to ghosts, which is, who has time for them when there is death’s work that need be done?
It is said the uncle, being thin, frail with a rasping voice, would sit silent and tired; sleep nearly all day, never greeting the other relatives, as the family has dwindled to once, two at most.
That he would be found some hours before sunset, with no water and no food beside his dead little cousin. Who was his spitting image when his lips would open he would tarry another moment?
Recline again, only to open them and wander the empty halls, awaiting. Someone who could help him with his chores, is the scene I imagine. A half asleep and suffering ghost who will never rest as long as
he continues to obey the order of his keeper, waiting until someone pays his due respect.
Now the spirit, like some phantom to the nighthawks of the wind and the greens of the apple trees.
He moves as lightly as the wind.
He dances like the light of an airplane.
He looks to live yet again.
In a white sheet, with a black script which could read nothing.

:: 09.26.2020 ::
/maj. Rev.\


A DRUNK KISS & A SOBER WISH

I drank alcohol and now I am fat and laughing inside the dark cave wanting to take all my life back and to be the me I used to be; to be the music I used to sing; to be the sunrise I used to see.

When I reach for the stars and dream of roses above my circle of friends who I’ve fallen out of just like I’ve changed you. This is what love really feels like. Oh my! I wish it were not true.
This is how I feel when I sing but all I need is a kiss!

I had a dream once — a dream that a bottle of red wine got drunk and woke up. And came onto my hand and I dreamed I was singing and a beautiful lady in a wig came onto my legs and I dreamed I was dreaming &
I dreamed I was falling into a purple slumber; I told my in-laws I want to be my own man. I want the necktie to be the peace of mind I need. I want the dreams to be nice & not get me into a world of hurt.

I just want a kiss!

:: 09.26.2020 ::


WE KEEP TO THE FIRE

Other voices in the garden //They long for
the roses.  
They live, boast, play in the soil of a day
so precious.

Too soon the graves bury them all
below only to rise again in the light
as stars that stop burning
the earth, to spend eternity
at the throats of wandering stars.
We Who watched we so Embraced.
Faint.
The stone.
The earth.
A curious rustling in the grass. A boyish giggle.
A girl’s giggles make Light.
In a house where nothing moves.
Such a strange thing.
Reason.
That the stars should never
go out.

:: 09.25.2020 ::


TWO-CENTS COIN

a strain of realization beyond the eye-see
a touch of familiarity delicate is such wonder
a poised daisy in a field more expensive than mind
dropping tears in vast nothings-do
// a gleam of immortality dipped in fog-dew
the sharp tonic of vapor as sparse folds-
a delicate pinch from an errant kiss
giving you a taste of the divine

I close my eyes & find my way to you

A lone breeze takes flight into my mental
surf tossing around images carved in shadow-
in spite of my effort
I lose track of their finality

Tiny suction cups clinging to a crevice
catching fleeting moments like clouds in light
tingling within ephemeral light

THE petite heart-slight as a two-cents coin
quiet as a snowfall spewing light
into a cold, lifeless world

:: 09.25.2020 ::