301016A
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I have returned
to my own darkness.
To where I was before.
To all that you are not.
To everything that makes you
despise and abhor.
I tried to be
whatever you might love,
but I could see there was no way
that any would smile on us
in their playing high or low,
our shades between and among.
They recognized my solitaire
as a game they do not like to play.
We live in a world that is vicious
from the cradle to the grave.
Isolating dissidence and denial
the same as disease.
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301016B
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In dread of those places
where musty old men
talk in Scotch breath whispers.
Avoiding funeral parlors,
so as not to have to tell lies
about other people’s lives.
These wretched times,
with their ever worsening ways,
always bleed the life blood out.
If anything stood the test to time,
it gets broken down to being ruined
given something else above it.
In that way everything is sexualized,
to always the same ends
no matter which way we turn.
I grow restless and disquiet as Hell,
for all the bad things
that I should not really want.
Nothing is ever actually settled,
and life is made up of stoked hungers
that never chance to be satisfied.
Infernal and divine sales people
peddling their wares,
making all choices roughly equal.
It happens when we lose our faith
as to what we once believed
about romantic love.
Processed and variously confined,
into ever more ready for war
than ready for any sort of peace.
Made no longer sure if we know
what is really worth fighting for,
but ready to fight for it all the same.
After all it is better than doing nothing,
kept waiting in endless lines,
among perpetual cancellations.
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061116A
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Trying to watch the same episode
for the third time,
and falling asleep before the conclusion.
I used to be good at televison,
having started at it when quite young,
but having lost the knack in recent years.
I have to admit that it was where I learned
to watch girls and to dream of playing house
while always planning for happy endings.
Rearranging dollhouse furniture,
and moving toys around in the sand box
while gradually shifting the hills of sand
is where we learned to fantasize futures
that we could actually decide,
imposing our absolute will
on worlds where no one actually lived.
In that way childhood was godlike
and far from actually innocent.
We always ended up fighting wars,
having become overtaken by the boredom
of building the same thing
and then not knowing what to do with it.
We had to find a way to destroy
the otherwise perpetual cycle of actions
that looped us into that intolerable circle
of the same all over again
without any way to reach a conclusion.
We could always restart the game,
trying to come up with a new variation,
as if always trying to escape
rather than attempting to join civilization,
until building and destroying became so routine,
that they were similar to a junkie’s habits,
in the thrill of tearing apart and knocking down
whatever had been put together
as if there was going to be a prize for that.
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061116B
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Almost everything that we ever do in life
is becoming steadily redefined
as being a full time job,
even if none of it makes any money.
There is hardly anything left to pursue
that does not end up carrying the same designation
as to what it is likely to ask from us
in terms of time, effort and commitment.
Something else to take on
in an always already over loaded schedule
despite nothing quite ever really getting done
to any real level of satisfaction.
We begin to dream of having enough money
to pay someone else to do some of those jobs,
having been made to feel as if lives are businesses
requiring lawyers, accountants, and management.
We know that whomever is calling the shots,
upper management, must be completely insane
judging by the orders that come down the line
determining what happens to planning.
Ourselves having to do all of the actual labor,
but each required to carry an ever growing burden
of more and more, varied, expertise,
so that we can avoid the many types of disorder.
There are so many more types of disorder now
than there ever were at any time previously,
and they have narrowed all of the superficial standards
increasing all of the rates of rejection.
There is the constant nagging and lingering fear
that armies of bureaucrats are marching toward us,
carrying the banners of petrified beliefs
that they know what is best for us as to everything.
Despite that there are no actual and clear instructions
in any of the opened packages,
and no one answers the toll free number
that is printed on the external label.
The electronic device places us into a holding pattern
until our fuel runs out from not being able to land anywhere.
The pushing of sequential response buttons
leads to another loop that disconnects, or starts over again.
Life is never any better than a summarized version
of what it is like to suffer the Goldilocks syndrome
of being confronted with too hot, too cold,
too large, too small, and nothing ever fits quite right.
That keeps us shopping for hopes of better options,
as to any sort of fit, form and function compatibility,
while being led to think that it all went wrong
somewhere in design, at the drawing board.
The ingredients never actually available
to be able to complete any of the recipes,
but we keep trying to cook something up
to show that we still have some resourcefulness.
There are always those people that we hear about,
as if they are actual expressions of real interest,
that we never really know any more about,
the way a crowd populates a movie scene.
Mostly it all passes into obituaries
without any actual character development,
their relation to the plot vague and uncertain.
You wonder how they got on your story board.
Everything is the same as playing another scene,
until the camera stops rolling,
when the director says “cut” and “wrap”,
and everyone always disperses to do other things.
You get the feeling that someone paid them something
so that they would play that bit part role,
but not enough to get them to do anything more,
with almost no actually meaningful lines to say.
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