20191031.0430

It is not today that I play dress-up
Not today that I put on a costume and act strangely
That will be tomorrow
When what was will be again
If only in a shadow of what was before
Seated among successors still clad in blue and gold
The offered presence itself an offering
Opened to any if taken by few
Too few
Yet more than might have otherwise been thought
And perhaps happier

20191030.0430

An oft-cited adage
It's not the size of the boat
But the motion of the ocean
Does it forget or acknowledge
That the sea will take a ship of any size
And sink it?

20191029.0430

They say to get some skin into the game
To get out from behind protective screens
And experience it in the flesh
But fucking is good even with a condom on
And they caution against taking doing it raw

20191028.0430

Two brazen sentinels stand together
One half the size of the other
Waiting to sing when they are fondled and kissed
When their wood-like tips are taken into mouths and tongued
And fingers flicker over pearls
Working leather
And sliding across gaps lower down

20191027.0430

The air does not run with the wolves here
Nor dance with them
But instead carries the calls of mountain lions
Warning others to stay away
Not to go out into the darkness
Lest they be bitten

20191026.0430

John is still pulling away
From Marianne and Michel
While Sam struts about with his hand in his pants
And a brown bear looms larger and larger
Waiting to maul all it sees

20191025.0430

The tom has been fed the curds that were in the whey
Gobbled some greedily, scattered the rest
So that the strange stepchild that Sam indulges
Holds up to acclaim for every little thing
And every little thing is another tantrum
Can have another feather for a cap he never wears
Despite the sunburn that has to be scorching his scalp

20191024.0430

She said
Not to infect her
With the chemotherapy that is the world
But if such a world as this
Is poison
Taken because the alternative
Is worse
What is the cancer
For which the world is a cure
That does not always work?

20191023.0430

There was a bit of a chill
But it is gone now
And I have to wonder how much longer
We will get to feel such things
And I have to fear
It will not be long
And I have to wonder
How much worse it will get
Before it gets better
If it gets better

20191022.0430

If he is quiscaline
Who sits in his dim-lit cave
And croaks loudly and harshly
And gathers a flock to him
What word is it for me
Who sit in better-lit cave
And hear the songs other birds sing
But lift no voice so loudly
Nor have so much company?

20191021.0430

What once again that avatar has wrought
That followers of Stupid God once sought,
And that to them did Stupid God allot,
And to the rest of us who otherwise would live--
Who that damned imposition may forgive
As soon as that one sails within a sieve--
Should come in this late day as no surprise
To any who have looked with any eyes
Or none. That every day is filled with lies
From those on high is long a commonplace,
But still adjusting to the ragged pace
And rapid called from th'avatar's place
Makes the legs of those running sore
And shakes those who stay seated to the core.

20191020.0430

They struck up the bands
And some were struck down
Packed up and sent packing
While others march forward
But there will always be another performance
Another concert
Another contest
And the same is true for those that press ahead

20191019.0430

The eternal chant of the creating syllable
Impediment to current called the end of things
Futile though it is called in a collective voice
It will still be offered
Certain as death and taxes
And as like to pull things away until an end is made

20191018.0430

Today is a day that marks at least two occasions. The happier of the two is that today makes two consecutive years of daily publication in this webspace. The sadder is that it is the thirty-first anniversary of my grandfather's death. It's something I've often heard referenced as the end of family cohesion and lamented therefore, but I do not remember it. (That's also been lamented, and more than once.)
I've not much to say today other than that. No poem will proceed hence, no essay of varying length and middling quality will follow. The marker is enough...for today. Tomorrow is a different thing altogether.

20191017.0430

How strange it is
That a single day
Spent well
Seeing what was not seen before
Doing what was not done before
Can make such a strain
On going back to what was seen and done before

20191016.0430

Another suggested an idea
I thought it good
Opted in
And now it is mine to manage
And I do not know if I can
Give it what it is worth

20191015.0430

Emerald shifts to ruby and gold
Begins a slow rain to earth under leaden skies
And jackets emerge to wrap up arms and chests
And take hands into themselves
Thrust into soft warmth
Seeking comfort
And hoping that a past self
Left a strangely colored portrait in a longer setting
Where it can be picked up now
Too often in vain

20191014.0430

We honor those who lived before
Italian ravager came ashore
And for Spain put to wrack and gore
They who had been mighty
In this late day, we raise a glass
To those who suffered in the past
And whose descendants will outlast
The imposed society

20191013.0430

There are always some who think
Hiding behind a shield
Allows them privilege to abuse
If
Perhaps
Only in minor ways
But when they do
They mark the emblem they bear
And so long as it remains in place
It endorses the conduct
And that does not inspire respect
Nor should it

20191012.0430

The sprig of oak
Given as a gift for an anniversary
Suffered from being out of its native soil
Taken northward to try to grow
In red dirt
Was it the transplant that killed it
Or the wind-swept soil that yields much
But not enough
And not to the greater benefit
Or the inept hands of its gardener
For what is planted in the old accustomed soil
Seems not to grow straight

20191011.0430

The time has long since passed when I
Might the works of the past well try
For meaning that surpassed another's eye
But though it's fled and I'm behind
I am well sped and do not mind
Since I am fed and life is kind
Or so I try to tell myself

20191010.0430

Sometimes
It is like running water
A relaxation and an open flow
Tinkling into a basin ready to receive it
Or making a mark on what is seen of a standing tree
Sometimes
It is oozing blood
The leavings of a sharp edge struck suddenly
Seeping forth for a time
And scabbing over
Sometimes
It is a strain and a start
And something plops out
Accompanied or not
But seldom quietly
And often leaving a lingering odor
Sometimes
It is emetic
The natural and appropriate result of having
Choked down something foul
At which the innards rebel
Rightly
Sometimes
It is the work of hands on a rigid cylinder
Repeatedly pulling at it
One way or another
Until something comes out
And more likely a waste than put to any good
That might pass down a generation
And though it has not been
For me
I am told that
Sometimes
It is a throbbing thing
Pulsing
Waiting for the merest touch of someone
Who knows what to do
For release

20191009.0430

They say
Whichever they it is
That the pendulum will swing back
But following the metaphor reminds
That each swing goes a little less far
And there is always the chance
That the chain on which the swinging weight hangs
Will break

20191008.0430

Ever does the work go on
Ever are days swiftly gone
Ever we seek to belong
In some place in the world
But just as work will find no end
And on days' passings we depend
We may at times find a new friend
But never everlasting

20191007.0430

There was a time
I had a goal
A cluster of letters at the end of my name
Or another one
And there was a clear course to get where
I could earn it
I followed the course
Did what I was told
Over and over again
Without fail
And with success
And the two are not the same
But who will tell me what I need to do now?

20191006.0430

Even now
With a cushy office
And a fancy title
To go with other fancy titles
Earned in hopes of finding another
That I have abandoned
I keep abreast of postings
For positions I hope never to have to fill again
But worry that I will
And with the trouble I had with it last time
My stomach threatens turning at the thought
Of doing it again
But I cannot escape the thought

20191005.0430

Even now
In this late year
I strive to reach out and touch someone
Many ones
And many times
Often
They respond
And gladly
Sometimes
I am told I have the
Wrong number
And I do not know
If I am suddenly named Ripley

20191004.0430

Today may seem to claim to understand
To have heard and acknowledged
Maybe to have agreed
But that claim is one forced upon it
And not by all
So does it really understand?
Does any day
Ephemeral as every day is
Passing by in succession and without let
But always happening again?

20191003.0430

I sit in a new chair
Hunch over a new desk
Typing out strings of numbers
Short phrases
Descriptive labels
Not a narrative
Not a poem
Even if a story can be taken from them
But the chair is too big
The desk too high
And it hits me just below
Where I breathe
And I am never comfortable

20191002.0430

The wrinkled citrus avatar might well be pushed aside,
Its too-small hands may not suffice its ignorance to hide
And centaur-stance be broken as some clamber off the ride,
But many still will be the back end not on film espied,
And those who'd drink the orange juice squeezed from a fruit decried
By Rosetti's twisted market vendors will not be denied
Their long foul draughts, if not from hoary hairy toadstool pried,
Then maybe drawn from still red pools left by those who have died.
They listen, after all, full eager to those who have oft lied
And form a partial jury against which some have been tried
And been found guilty of such sins as sinfulness belied--
But truth matters but little with Stupid God's arms stretched wide.

20191001.0430

We noodle around in eighth-note rhythms
Syncopated and erratic
And think that those before played measures made of four
Or two
Or one
Or even longer
Though the mark for those is rare and strangely named
But those who played for those dances thought of themselves the same
Racing along in merriment against their elders' plodding
And looking on with some chagrin or fear
At the sixteenth-note runs their juniors play
And marveling or jealous at two-octave hops
They can scarcely hear before hearing them played
Their fingers flexing in futility
Unable to compete