Sunday, February 7, 2016

The Boat to Australia

How are gravity waves formed?
By talking to one's therapist, or...
Sharing a secret with friend?
It seems with intent we fritter away energy
Changing our angle, shedding our clothes
But what creates that wave, merely a pulse,
Where an excess creates a lack in a low?
And what's changed besides our mass index clinical diagnosis
Perhaps it's that and those around us that do the changing, I suppose.
Because I might feel lighter and smaller
Or I might feel big and tall
Often I imagine letting go of all, only for it to come crashing down
Back into my world to figure out what to do with once again, after all.

Maybe that's where I'm sheared
A taking off of imagination, plodding to pier
Where someday with phone I'm sitting on the dock after dark
And friend says we missed the boat, It's never coming back, I fear to myself.
And I see it floating off slowly to the really un-real in the land of nod.
Happened years ago, and everyone still worries I'll find a ride.
It's all gotta be low-key don't it Tricky, don't it hyde...

And maybe that gravity wave is only now hitting you
But you cannot see them and never will
However things are different now, you can tell
Instead of my dock, it's a cliff or walk or garden to grow
Or maybe a pile of wood that's grown moldy for all I know
Or it's a kayak never bought, or maybe a fishing trip with dear old Pop.
Or maybe the loss of a Mom, or maybe some clay lying in lot.
And like sand with gravel in it, there's big and small
But it's all been weathered and kept away from me far.
The sea is gone the smoke put out
I've been left to rot, and been left out.
Someone stole a piece, and now they're gone.
I've been ignored and taught in off-hand attendance.
But the truth is I've been neglected, again and again.

I think one day everyone will remember me, but have no boat to fetch.
And in remembrance will definitely say, "we screwed up leaving him" Yet,
Why? I don't know perhaps it's this shiny phone that powers up God!
Though I've yet to get it to work much for anyone else.
Maybe because it's a secret as big as one gravity wave,
Something we can't see, but believe you me, it's Gold with circuitry...

Monday, February 1, 2016

Born This Way

I've earned my insurance
I can feel good about this

Why?  Because I can type
On my worst days all I can do is click a mouse, true
Why?  Because I can answer a phone
On my worst days I let the phone ring as long till voicemail
Why?  Because I can relax
On my worst days everything is an omen of dread

Why?  Because my computer works
On my worst days I'm reinstalling software or deleting programs
Why?  Because my house is warm
On my worst days I forget I turned off the thermostat, radio what-have-you

Why?  Because my life has work and love
On my worst days I can't find or create meaning and purpose
Why?  Because I'm listening to music
On my worst days I can't hear anything but whining overtones of electronics or light ballasts
Why?  Because I have a fine picture frame
On my worst days I am tempted to throw everything out because it has no place to go

Why?  Because my fish entertain me healthily
On my worst days they're trial and error and sometimes have to be flushed
Why?  Because my lamp is off healthily
On my worst days the whole house is off because I threw the breakers
Why?  Because I have food in the fridge healthily
On my worst days there's no fridge, no food, no house

Why?  Because I have bright colored paint on the walls healthily
On my worst days I'm living somewhere I can't paint the walls
Why?  Because my worn rug keeps my feet warm healthily
On my worst days I haven't vacuumed and I get splinters
Why?  Because I can list things I'm thankful for healthily
On my worst days I forget I can even write with a pencil

Why?  Because I am breathing easier for my ventilator healthily thankful
On my worst days I choke wheeze spit and cough from lung congestion
Why?  Because I worked at getting someplace that I could live with healthfully and thankful.
On my worst days I am ill and die thousands of times
The problem you have issue with is one- of a -hundred that I deal with!


Why can I feel good about this health and thanks?
Because it is mine, God is good, and I'm good to give thanks!

The Paints of Soliloquy

The painting lowly clings to the wall
Gripping tightly it holds the all
One world, in miniature, an instance
One can dream in

And in that world you can hold your breath
One could float and drift away from the really unreal
Or perhaps your cat who shat upon bookshelf
Or dishes, or the perpetual problems arising from chaos
Like a sweet song will carry you away from stress

That sweet song, that caress of soul relieving...
Could be made from the bones of the world
Like this poem   Simple in reflection but tied to real worlds
Like a visual vignette portraying fantasy perhaps
With reds of the sunset splaying and dripping up into sky
And blues of deep waters floating mountains rising
And greens of people playing in fields of barely seen haystacks
Blurry, textured, transmitting to you all their realness

But in that paint is power unseen
The cadmium can reside in Livers for years
The lithium could buoy up dreams of living
The rose madder could speed up metabolisms
     like the brown from st. Johns wort certainly does
All if eaten and consumed
     Poisonous in consumption
           From the Cobalt waters to the shining sea

           This thing that freed your life from misery
              Could totally end it so dangerously
           By the very thing that took master to create
              In a tube of leaded metal

Isn't that existence

Monday, January 11, 2016

enroll now in "Cinderollo's Passive-Agressive School of CLEANING!!! --wanted one butler and one maid and one maintenance guy and one day-laborer to split 400 dollars a month Plus Tips !!free Coffee!! Arbeiten macht Frei


Can't walk hardly, always in pain
spends all day dreaming, television and laptop screen
dreaming and games she plays
But the worst of it, she thinks is she can't do a thing.

Can't vacuum the carpet, can't wash dishes
Can't clean bathrooms or take garbage to recycling places
Can't change table clothes, can't wire cables
Can't fix door knobs, can't fix ceiling fans
Can't defend republicans
Can't fix a fire, can't turn the house down
Can't pick up cat litter, can't keep house
Can't participate in family exercising
But she thinks I like being dominated
And uses her tongue to keep it fake
While I do all these things for heaven's sake

Whether through reason or domination
She's talked herself into this...
          ...place where...
            it's not true
     
       just that she can do little things
     with the 12-year-old strength she ruled
 by reason and authority all her occupational life
   (and I'm her 12-year-old adopted student)

Except I already learned lots about life.
For one, I don't care for BDS&M.
And most of kindegarten skills is all I need to get by forsooth.
They can hire a maid and butler and be snobs they like, in leaving their work behind.
Work they think justifies mine in double-standard perfection of hypocrisy.

and so with her 12-year old strength she'll look for new student to abuse
rather than making someone wonderful, she'll suck the fun out of work, too.
unless she learns to change her own narrative of this shitty...
                                       "I can't" she keeps under lock and key
to alas, use her 12-year old strength for smaller victories.
And this is the most grown-up thing I have to say about her attitude.

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

Dysfunction

I saw five chickadees and red-headed woodpecker
In deep winter amongst rays of sunlight, today.
We might not be solar powered, you and me
But I tell, a day without light is a dreary day
Full of gloom, doom, despair.  Like someone shot the dog,
Though that sounds like a good idea anyway, both of them.

The Mr. has gone back to sucking his teeth.
He's still hard of hearing, and plays word games with forked tongue
Saying abusive when he means angry
Saying spy when she means sucker
Saying browbeating when I swear
It's hard living in this perfect family...
    mainly because it isn't real.

We spend most of our time playing videogames
   or games with each other's feeling
Over lice nobody has because we're so worried about appearances as gentlemen.
We have better things to do than nit-pick and worry each-other,
But without fail, we are hardest on our family.
And yes, even our in-laws get in on the action.
Seems... there's a word for it... I can't think of it right now.
With the 'less thans' getting the brunt of it, and 'majors' needing therapy.

One-on-one therapy works, CBT and other patient therapist relationships
I learned with my therapist...
       that I need therapy to better cope with those that need therapists.
Isn't it all so clear as mud?

Sunday, January 3, 2016

Humanity Wins Over Understanding

The construction was a derivative
A break-down of elements
Computationally arrived at, as in this case,
Without art...

Maybe though, that is precisely what art is...
Computation by brains in humane beings called homosapiens
As ball is caught by footballer
Or pitch hit by batter.

It is said frameworks are made by Artitechs, there's a neologism for you.
And these Artitechs draw, don't they, making stuff
And making stuff real!?

And when made, the room with a view, isn't any bridge...
So perhaps Architect is a misnomer,
Subjugating me to years of misplaced pains,
Un-needed and unwanted tyranny.
Or perhaps IT was once a new word considered neologism.

Architect is a poetic word
Bringing a sort of romance to liberation, though,
Sheltering us from the many stressors that is life.
Keeps the rain off me, I know, though feeling put upon
Describing to one such as you, the meaning of art

And there is art to such things as titles...
I could name this summation of vexation
I could name this 'It is inevitable'
I could even name it,
    "What could you possible care about a neologism"

But the truth remains, you read it, and you wanted it
to be titled, "If I truly judged you correctly"

Friday, January 1, 2016

Something Found, Something Created

I watch this show that's edgy
Like my therapist's lasting contribution
Both kind of ironic voyeurism
And a sense of wish fulfillment
Because they've both been paid to be my friend
"And if I like it, I might twitter..."
Like some bird about food or sunlight or danger...

The manger-scene holds the arrangement
Estrangement from controversy leaves little but method
Like Freud and his projected daddy issues
Perhaps that's myth, perhaps that's truth...
In Real Life the complicated breaks leaving crumbs
That are then consumed, too, by natures recycling earth and birds
Rather than gossip, whether behind closed doors or public screen.

The manger-scene holds the method
One family, angels, wise-men, and shepherds
All figuring out how to win and what prize they might choose
In a still, and silent night, they got together and networked
They figured, gifted, worked, conversed, and probably ate energy
Like any CPU with ticking silicon chip sipping electricity slowly

And outside boardroom or makerspace or manger-scene,
Enacted by surly bean capricious with dreams,
Plans and methods escape the singular, inform the plural
Indistinct from ingenuity or individualism.. as conceit or invention
Why not? we're mobile unlike some tree made from silicon dioxide
Or doped silicon and fibreglass for that matter on motherboard.

We can be anything we want.  Do it all...
And dream the possible in our dreaming of everything