Blue Sorbet

listen.

i strive for good news. i want to look at you in the eye and know that this is all real. something flutters in the corner of my eyes, a blinking like bicyclists whirring past your window, when you are at the table in her bath robe drinking coffee because you haven't had any sleep, staring at the phone because you haven't seen her for weeks, fingering perfume, because its scent makes you forget and feel high.

why shouldn't the moon believe me
when i blame it all on you.

the thickness of my scars
is no way to gauge the pain
you've already presupposed me
to have felt.

i hold this bowl of water,
so that you may know my name.

to master something is to become the god of it. to be master is to be god. to be god is to master.

what then of those that seek mastery? how can it not be seen as self involved idolatry? whether it is mastery of an attitude, a sport, a past time, hobby, job, relationship, exercise, the fact that the leaden cowl of godhood is the end goal lumps these selfseeing visionaries into a potentially identical category. they seek to dominate. to become the apex, the pinnacle of a wide pyramid called ability.

god, by very nature, is a specific ideal. in this way, so is the concept of mastery. humanity, by very nature, is an infinite ideal. we are everything and nothing. when it is all boiled down to molecular soup there is not one specific virtue or atom within us. we are universal, infinite beings. to seek mastery is to make a mockery of what we are at the core level. it is to place blinders on an all seeing and all penetrating glow, shrouding a light with the false hope of intensifying the little that remains, into specificity, into mastery, into godhood.

truly we cannot make ourselves into gods, for that would be the greedy lord placing the mantle of mastery on his own shoulders, though he wove that fine drapery from his socks and trousers. we are gods, but not in the rigid definition we continue to demand. The object of Life Mastery, Enlightenment, those ultimately pure and holy ideals, is not done so that we might swim oceans, bend the wills of others or throw lightning bolts. The pure goal is to be the lightning and the lightning strike, to be the swimmer and the waves in which he swims, to be the bend and the will and the others. It is to be all.

never one. you must satisfy and nurture your infinity. never peer overlong down one rabbit hole, oh alice, for there are thousands in every field that is sunny and green.

so sullen is the day

so sullen is the day and i wonder why everyone seems to be so darn attratcive. everyone but me, that is. but what a slefish assumption. how terribly rude. boorish. blech. i bore myself. do i bore others, this way i torture my reflection? idon't think so. i am so often sad without knowing why. there is something amiss here. i am missing out on a critical part of life. what is lost? who is losing? i know not where i sleep. i know not the place i live, the sidewalks i wander, the rain i feel on parked collages of wood chips and wrought iron, painted.

please hold on to me life. i am so melodramatic wheni get like this. but i need direciton. i need success to give me that direction. but how? how does one arrive... i have matured in ways as the passage of time commences, but there are areas where upon i feel i have regressed, or become stupider, duller. there are areas that seem to be lacking. my self starter needs its own self starter. i only like getting high and listening to music. sometimes i watch cartoons. i think its d funny that i like the justice league so much. no commercials. great super hero premise. handles them all very well. good action. decent story. butbasically heroes kickign ass. i like the concept of heroes. i like to imagine people who are able to break oustide the norm and do something amazing.

i want to do somethign amazing. i want to be amazing, viewed as amazing, somehting.

how could i chieve this? where might i find a treasure such as this, in deep laid caves or high strung ranges? rock ragnes.

i am tired. its beena long day. it is alwaqys a long day when your love goes away. i ate to much this evening. i have been trying to cut back, trying to lose some of this flub that gathers around my waist. worst of all is the thickening around my jaw, making my face fround and moon like. i do not look well as a short, roly poly bearded man. i look better slightly emaciated, with a little heroin junky thrown in. but i need my comfort. i need my food. i hate food for that reason. i am addicted to pelasure. pelasure from eating. pleasure from pleasrue.

arg. i cannot see the words i am typing this evening. my montior went dark, and i do not care to fix it. i will simply press return and post this. good night. whoever you are.

ask oh ad libbed voice the secret's behind white lies. i miss out on the stars, when the sky starts to fall and the wind picks up outside my window, telling my cotton ears that the hours are best used dreaming.

i hate the ups and downs of a relationship. one minute the love simply flows, the next, you marvel at it having ever existed at all. at least, this is how mine have always behaved, covering all ranges on the spectrum. perhaps others share loves less fraught with storm, wind and breaker. or is love, by its very nature as a chaotic embodiment of the cosmos, doomed towards the tempestuous?

i wonder and i worry but it only makes me weary.

i am determined to not let myself go down without a fight this time, that much I know, clearly.

so often do i crumple when the heart's grown dry.

is it that love is so very seasonal? are there droughts, blizzards, cold wins and hail stones? for surely there are times when petals alone float on the breeze and all about you sift the gleam lights of spring. blue sky days and afternoon suns, sometimes warm, others hot, hot enough to burn, bake and by virture of its intensity dry choke that which its dancing awoke.

I want to know when it is okay to cut and run. when am i expected to stick it out, fight the good fight? how is one supposed to know? is it based upon the obstacles faced? the love involved?

..something else entirely..?

but more so than any time in the past does this love look impossible to preserve. and yet, never have i been more eager to prevent such a loss. oh love, what a chaotic cosmic conundrum you can be.

i die a little death everytime my hands let slip golden dust.

she lives far away and our lives are different. how might we ever cause these lives to collide and how were our hearts so caused? she is older. i am young. i am not ready to grow up. she wants to buy a house. i am not ready to leave my friends. she cannot leave her mother, who has leukemia, pre-chemo.

god
love is
tragic


i think about wanting a quieter existence, the way i was before her, in the breaks lived between those many high peaks, silhouetting the horizon of my heart.

mine is always the little hut, half in a rut, slack riding the hill side in slick style. books lie open in the meadows, half read, dozing in the noonday sun. it will always be noon on my moon, forever happy lunches and close friends with their close, convivial chatter. the weather outside my home is often warm. sometimes it grows so hot as to drive us all into the stream, before laying upon the back porch shade with our eyes closed spitting watermelon seeds into the air. there are days of wind when, in order to make it, you must wear sweaters and have someone to hold, when walking the paths at sundown. most of all i know when the weather will sour, when it will sweeten. i can emotionally prepare myself for the coming changes.




how am i expected to handle them in this reality?

i just hope it gets better.

he wanted to be the one playing
piano at the beach, sweet splash
bell sonatas, the surf wetting shoes,
socks, foot stool bases and melody pedals.
He wanted to wear fashionable clothes
lean jackets and dark trousers
hanging off bean pole limbs like
scarecrow rags or the rain
behind a lamp post
at dusk.
He wanted to be firm of jaw
with a shag mop do
an eye filled with pirate glisten
the curving lips just made for kissing
and hands the color of wine spit
all at once both milk soft and callous bit.
He wanted to know when to be happy
and when to be sad,
when to make others laugh
and when to make them cry.

~*~

A dark night on some old friends birthday
a car ride through night time black,
along green fir causeways that wind
about mountains like trails of wet wind
writhing across outstretched arms,
moon roof reaching for hidden stars
and something warm to hold onto
that would never let go.

~*~

I can silly sit
on this couchless veranda
waiting for sunup and Sunday
and listen for the phone call I know will never come.
I can walk around a lampless park
and shuffle crazy steps
through the cardboard wet,
sniffing in the sick nose drizzle
for the blueberry sex scents
of naked mornings and breakfast pancakes.
I can pretend we never ate candles
or drank hot wax,
that I had any yearnings
for what would be next.
But what i can never do
is talk about the present
like I've already forgotten the past.

a bee wigging out on the sill, desperate and surprised, he seeks only to escape, though the freedom of sky is hidden, as by some phantom hand, by the simple, thin glass of my window. what a buzzing!

a disease called forgetfulness, left over on linoleum, juice planes on the tarmac.

something about the phone call last night, made me not want to smile, made me wake up this morning full of shower and cloud. how can i believe in love, when this continually seems to happen?

but i do believe, i cannot help but be a liver and taste this trickled sun, lap the tallow drippings from the moon, feel love and return the touch. how can any resist it, having tasted once? how do some find the pool rust flavored, sharp, enough so to never want another sip.. i cannot help but come back for more, again, again, despite the perpetuity of cycles, those whirlwinds that at once bring souls together, while simultaneously pulling them away.

i want to stay put. i want to find one who will stay put with me. but there is so much at stake, at this point in life, who among us is not like a marionette, all thin wires pulled by hands high up in the shadows? so many responsibilities, loyalties, allegiences and attachments to the loomed figures of our pasts. it seems impossible that we can meet another and make room for their line, leaving space for the tug and pull of their being and its corresponding essence.

beyond the difficulty of meeting another who is capable of loving as you love, there is the added obstacle of time and place, of availability, of slots in ones emotional schedule. because there is such thing as having no time for love. i have seen it, felt it, lost it--- once again i face another ending, because of it.

but, does that make it any less a real love? or have we become cultured to no longer view love as the highest, the deepest, the most profound language in life? how else could we act enmass identically, continually sacrificing pure beauty and loves laughter for jobs, parents, drinking buddies, or a lifestyle lived in complete abandonment of the basic virtues concerning the universal power of a soul/body/mind connection.

Meet the twenty-first century: the time when happiness is made out to be inconvienent.