Posts Tagged Seeking God

America, 2016, Unnumbered, Crashing Crumbles Aboard My Late Train

Confusion

from concrete, crumbles

spray grain dust,

curling light,

crushing spirits that fly, creeps

crimping my dead brain.

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Yet another Dystopia Today shot from the amateur Carl in some very small town (somewhere hidden in the midwest) sometime late in the Summer of 2016.

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When the lightness of sky, darkened and shattered by winter branches, showed me my fears

Pierce my will-

ingness, make me sail

over shocked

towers fir-

ing waves, that iron jumps, kill-

ing angst, making m’love.

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How I Want You to Let Me Go

When I’m Dy-

ing, over last for-

ty-six breaths,

camera

points towards cloudy nightmares

crashing heaven’s might.

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The Sharp Brevity of an Isolated Spiritual Experience

For most of the day,
I had been treading
carefully, waiting and hoping

the tiger would eat me,
or leave me, and my daughter,

suffused in weightless smiles,
happiness. We had walloped

golf balls, hammered them
and missed them and whiffed
at them, so our energy

had been expelled. Driving
east in a smooth vehicle
like an oblong bubble. It was

evening, the sun in the
obligatory west, and maybe

it was a rear-view mirror,
but we were bathed in
gold, bliss and blessedness

on Highway 10.

 

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I Want a Robot (3)

to sit amongst the tans,
the creamy, sandy blurs
that don’t muffle, but seem

to punctuate the sounds of
gossip, soap-operatic gifs,
and cackles that reopen all my

wounds, to sit there,
punching the numeric
keys and alpha, as needed,

to be a steel case, undisturbed
by the chaos of death wearing
down the cubicled, doing my

job, so that I might wander
in a normally-hopeless search
for my life, for my reason.

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I Want a Robot (2)

to permit me a walk
on the fantastic stairs
by the architectural

wonder, feeling the winds
from the South, full of
future lives, to only

reflect on sharing experience,
hoping it helps or comforts
or perhaps alleviates wounds

of loneliness.

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Tanka for Buddy

Waning, my dog said
goodbye, and I understand
why I must hope for
heaven for dogs, for without,
I want to hang, dead as mud.

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Shielded After Lunch in July Sun

Blurred down comes, July
sun, but today, my Devine
brought in gentle warmth,
deflected unneeded heat,
and a soft bathing bird smiled.

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Revolutions – This Isn’t a Poem, but I Don’t Write Fucking Essays

Here today, things started to change dramatically.
Do you know, when I just said that, I knew it was false,
but it’s hope, so fuck ’em. So for a few minutes, I thought,
I might be a writer. To me, that meant I might be a decent

human being. I have this blind sense that humans need to
have a central purpose, a reason for going on despite all
the facts that seem to recommend action to the contrary, but
it is blind because I don’t know other humans well enough

to know that they need a purpose. In fact, often, I wonder
how these integrated, bloated masses of people get along
without purpose because they simply trudge through, yes,
contented, but vacuous, contented with eating three meals,

with chips and snacks and pops, and weekend trips to the
lake ( THE fucking lake), and working on these schedules
that are preposterous, barely having time to hug the dog,
rarely awaking without an alarm designed to send humans

into blind destitute, where they don’t know how empty all of the
facades are, and I sit here, wanting to spit on my new pants,
wanting to throw the cafeteria tray across the room, blowing
out the perfectly-clean window which teases me with a Zen

garden that is never used for true purpose, not for lack of need,
but because the minds are entrapped in this buzzing hum
of doing what responsible adults and other gurus have told us
we are meant to do, despite our god-given sense that we waste

this gift of life every day, each day with these millions of
moments that spin down clockwise through snake-cleaned
drains made of the detritus of all of the gold we mined in the
good days when living in a tent and eating smoked rabbit

was a good thing. Here I am praying for a revolution that will
turn me into a writer and allow me to live out my days,
comfortable in some sense of purpose, praying that there
are people who might read and might be changed in the

slightest, because if I can touch a few people with writing and
eat a bit of rabbit, what would be wrong with me, but I’m scared
in the end, remembering those nightmares of walking out of
my tent and hanging myself with heavy rope on the sturdy,

horizontal limb of the old oak tree, ending what seems to be a
useless quest, a useless longing to rid myself of this vast,
empty purposelessness. And here I am wondering what kind
of stupid fuck would write about writing, and I stop. I’m due

back in my cubicle.

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Brahms, Revisited without Tears for Today

Johannes Brahms

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Brahms, Revisited without Tears for Today

Brahms has the twitchy fuse,
lighting me in acidic
flames and the arguments inherited
from old elephants, between piano and orchestra,

are trudging – me, I verses the world,
and I’m losing
but I’m pounding the keyboard
until I get a break, a breath, a sigh,

and I show this grace
that is un-Brahms
but is
Brahms at his greatest,

and when the horns arrive
in red army coats, you know
victory is grasped with dirty,
dry, crisp finger nails, but it

never happens, never consummates.
I am finished, a heaping
pile of slippery dung
when Brahms is done.

And as a practicing drunk, the tears
would wilt tarnished cheeks and create heat
emanating around thorny eye sockets,

but these days are desert dry, pain layered
and hidden and only Brahms, only the
master knows, knows the truth, and now,
at least I rest, I stop, I pray, lost.

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p.s. – Embedded below is the referenced piece, performed by my favorite conductor and one of my favorite pianists. The exposition of the first movement lasts 3:45, so patience is needed in waiting for the arguments between piano and orchestra. The climax/recapitulation of the first movement at about 13:20 is one of the most intense sections of music I know along with the ending of the first movement. It is immense music. The third movement is a kick ass jam if you make it that far…

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