April 13, 2020

Reductionists want to reduce our actions down to one reason. They want to sell the idea that you walk funny because of your dinner. But our actions, our habits, have a whole world of reasons, a whole history of them.



Landscapers trim the grass border, while father and son are walking to the bus stop. Geese! flood the sky


Endless Bloom

Could it be that I have pushed away pain and sorrow and failure to the point that I have nothing to gain? That I have dumbly succeeded and that is what drives my misery now. This normal ho-hum day cycling on and on and on. I can feel it, this cycle, I know it exists and that I exist within it, but I cannot see the whole of it. I feel it in my bones, in my tendons, ligaments, and muscles. This habitual energy flows through me. I’ve worked so hard to proliferate this endless bloom. 

Like Bricks

Like Bricks

I like to put words to images.  
To make noise is to vibrate is to create
A family crossing the street
I assign their thoughts to my head
accent on the usual. within my vacuum
footsteps fall silently.
Shadows burst
into fantasy.
Black and White become bullet casings and
spattered targets. Lifting the truth like a
burden or maybe
the bumblebee coming to rest on the sacred.
Resistance lives in all things, carves a night in your chest where
it
hangs a sign and leaves a broom.
Real courage is found
in the not resisting resistance. Traffic sounds are no longer
buried in the trees

brambles of branches tumbleweed through thin winter air.

varicose skies wonder why

mental vibration strung up a cataclysm of
moth balls like bricks through your window

I like to put words to images.
To make noise is to vibrate is to create
A family crossing the street
I assign their thoughts to my head
accent on the usual. within my vacuum
footsteps fall silently.
Shadows burst
into fantasy.
Black and White become bullet casings and
spattered targets. Lifting the truth like a
burden or maybe
the bumblebee coming to rest on the sacred.
Resistance lives in all things, carves a night in your chest where
it
hangs a sign and leaves a broom.
Real courage is found
in the not resisting resistance. Traffic sounds are no longer
buried in the trees

brambles of branches tumbleweed through thin winter air.

varicose skies wonder why

mental vibration strung up a cataclysm of
moth balls like bricks through your window