City Poem

A while ago I said to a friend of mine that when I travel to the city I feel like the city is a big jelly, or a jar of jam, or something like that, and I feel like a penny that got dropped in the jelly. Like I'm hanging there suspended in an environment where everything else seems to seamlessly fit. My friend advised me to consider if maybe I was actually a penny made of jelly. I liked that idea, and, in conclusion, who knows.


City Poem

Again with the tides,
To the place all things go,
To where we are bound,
Where those without have a home,
Where everything is one,
Whole incomplete mass,
And out of that jelly,
Churn infinite stats,
The source of all hope,
And its lack just the same,
Where the haves and have-nots,
Can't begin to refrain,
From comparing and contrasting
In their shared space;
Their gelatinous collective:
Their pride; their disgrace

End To A Means

Muffled but loud, past the door I hear words,
Not that I make them out, I hear the shape in the air,
Creative license  bestowed on the moment misinterpreted,
I can make sense of it. I was there.

I mean, there past a wall, pockets of air space divides,
Past rooms with windows, sealed shut from outside,
But even considering, that meagre tidbit of fact,
I saw their shape in my mind and my mind had to act.

I see what I heard and I know what I found,
Interpretation is mine, in my mind, that I mined,
For any loose change, any mineral rich ore,
I seek from the word shapes I see beyond the door.

But the everything I know is comparable to naught,
And the meaning I communicate is powerless and gaunt,
The you that I know is not the self you project,
The word shapes through spaces my mind can’t inflect.

Restless Mind

Restless mind, restless soul,

Restless body, restless hole,

At the sole of the basis

Of the that which makes me whole,

What’s a restless mind and body

S’posed to do about its soul?


And the next door hypothetical

Recipients of this meager

Self-writ note,

Are impervious to realizing

That I sit or that I

Tote, the utensils

That jot and illustrate

The that which I hath wrote,

For though they are my distant

Friends I lament

That they’re remote,

Or maybe I am I confess

As these words, escape my

Chest and now I sit

here late at night

without fear, and

without spite,

I just sit here restless, listlessly,
and remember fairly insistently,

The persistence of these

consistent misfit moments,

and contextualize all that

I certainly can’t despise

And so try to analogize,

Appropriate synechdoches

Attempting to adapt and

Feed on the spinning

World that is current and

Abounds and all I do

Is make wretched

 Sounds, for now it

Is quite late at night,

But I’ll match my neighbours,

And without spite! 

It Started In A Garden

It started in a garden,
I read it in a book,
The ink was pressed down soil,
The pages made of mulch.

An evacuated aroma,
The pungency of sound,
In the garden where things started,
To be permissed or disallowed.

And the flocks that would unravel,
Down uncharted consequence and time,
But let’s all remember gardens,
The stadium of life.

Janitorial microbes,
Dusting off apparent dust,
So clever and yet guiltless,
And deserving all our trust.

The unity perceived,
Feels so sacred and so whole,
One might feel inspired,
To take up a rural pen…

And share what feels as though
It could be delivered from above.

I yelled to my friend,
“What did you say?”
And he said something about God.

Contextual Evaporation

I was beginning to realize that syntax would do nothing for me if I couldn't seek out context to wrap everything around. Context was the most dying aspect of my life. Nothing mattered. Words came from everywhere with no purpose or direction, they passed me by in the wind. I wouldn't remember them because the moments were never significant. I was alone, losing my irrelevant memories for all their irrelevance but losing myself too. Wanting to remain, here, myself. Feeling myself get pushed along with the wind that refused me to couple my words with context. I could say anything to no effect. I could say everything for no reason. I wouldn't. I didn't. I did it less as hope vanished. I typed fervently to the none-audience. I stared at my hands angrily. I can`t relate to people, or vice versa maybe. I don’t want to. Or maybe vice versa. I want to see a Nissan Versa get smushed in a vice. Or vice versa. I want to be excited about life. I want to be appreciated, I guess.

I just watched a bunch of Tosh.0 on another Sunday morning of waking up to lonesome boredom and consideration. I don’t even think I like the show, except it makes me laugh sometimes. I don’t want to get onto my ethical high-horse but of course some of the jokes are too much. I laugh at a lot of them. The videos that get shared on the show observe some sort of twisted spectrum of human indecency. All seven of the deadly sins appear to be showcased by these grim wielders of technology (I analyze everything through the lens of the Old Testament so as to lead a life free of fire and brimstone). Everyone is shameless. Mr. Tosh's jokes are too quick for the laughs they provoke. I would hate to be in an audience laughing at stuff that I didn't get. I'm slow though anyway. The show is a celebration of the evaporation of context in a world that is becoming too busy for itself. It is a celebration of entropy I guess. Temporarily suspending my own critical voice while I observe these absurd spectacles, I wonder what good is it that I do so? I remember, I forget.  

Office.

Pop culture speaks,
Policy wreaks,
The status quo shall Starkly
sway,
new thoughts we`ll create today.
Old imagery will make new
moments
Interpreted by brave
opponents
Trying to see cause and
effect
To evoke change for more
than just a sec.
To be noticed here in this
empty place
By the empty ones who are
just like them
Who are just like me,
Anonymous scribe,
Boring myself to stay alive?
I`m so confused by what I
am,
And the future, and the
me it has then.
And I hope that in this one
example
My deftest fingers keys do
trample.
And leave imprinted in the doc,
The darkest copy, for the
one-man flock.

Indubitable, Undeniable- The Double Entendre

Which entendre was intended?

A blushing, blazing remark descended

Upon a room of cold stone faces

Allowing our speaker to demonstrate this

Uncanny notion from bewildered heart

That meaning arranged is unknown from the start

From intenders attendantly brandishing wit

To receivers with clasp`d hands who uncomfortably sit

Insistent intendants who are stuck on the merit

That lips utter stuff in an effort to be apparent