to feel what those meditating pros feel: nothing.

When I shut my eyes, I open my mind’s eye

and I have to say it is quite a sight – anything I focus on

I can see whether that be chirping birds or smelly trees

creaking cars, or big ass trucks releasing their air : chchcchchss

But this is the realm of the senses that are present to me now,

I find that I can go backwards in time and somewhere in space

to childhood and there is candy in my cereal bowl ( or so I thought at the time)

Cocoa Puffed up with more sugar than most desserts but still we added our own spoonful

Ah, sweet lordy – Mama I want more !

And prizes, we want prizes – what good is a box without a prize

who cares if the decoder ring does not fit – its a prize for gosh darn sake

(we had to say it that way in front of mom but outside we told each other the right words,

the ones that were way more fun to say)

And now the future, this too I see, ‘cept it is fuzzy and slippery

like a kitten that does not want to be held

you keep grabbin’ at it and it keeps trying to get itself free

I see people paying me with checks and cash and chickens

and I am excited because it tells me that I belong,

that I am doing something people are willing to pay good money for

and there is love exchanged and we all are happy:

me, them folks paying me and the chickens who I set free.

Lordy, I have rambled on here – this was to be a poem

about nothing except I was having trouble thinking which

particular nothing to write about – I was going to say I got nothin’

and leave it at that but then nothing but nothing came to mind and

well as they say, that is that – yet I got more words still but they’re nothing special

Best leave it at that.

appears 

to be

what it is

supposed to be

on this day of all days

It is as if

everything

has turned  

to jello

leaving me

with

nothing to lean on

I 

want

to go on

but there is nothing

that appears

to be 

needing

me

and that seems enough because

then it is not dark anymore.

But darkness is not wrong

and light is not right at least

in the absolute sense – every day

has both, right ? So this gets me to thinking

and thinking gets me to writing and this poem

is the result of not drinking too much coffee

which is dark in the morning which is light.

So I get muse that perhaps there is some wisdom

there in the harmony of the two, dark and light,

since both are experienced by me and I am happy.

I thought about extrapolating this theory into 

something the rest of the world could use to conquer

its problems but I realize that will take more

coffee and more mornings. So I put my start here

and I am content to dream of tomorrows, coffee,

and light.

They are moving in time

to places where they’re supposed

to be. Each is aware in various degrees

whether in a gnawing ache or stressful tension,

some sort of gnatty pest of a bother that won’t

seem to go away, in the quite times.

So they busy up themselves, packing more in the

day than ever before just to stay away

from these quiet times. I know too well this feeling,

having had this bad, bad madness stalk me mercilessly.

I ran by being busy as much as my body would allow,

I swallowed the liquid liquor, wallowed in the stupor,

no relief, I could not smoke out this ache of the heart

and I could not forget it either since I did not know it s name.

But that is the part of the poem that tells nothing

unless you are into suffering which I did. Now I have changed

and to my dismay I am the same. That which stalked me,

caught me and finally I realized I was being chased by myself,

my soul, my salvation. There is no preacher here, no hypocrite

telling half understood truths skewed to their own biases. No,

I am telling you nothing about how to be – I am telling you how

I choose to be. Take it or leave it. The blinders are off my eyes,

I see the truth in everything. It not a dream of eden – it is a

dream of eden coming to be. We grow slowly in geological time

it seems but we grow. Each and everyone one of us. This much I see.

Pond surface

gossamer on wind
wings flit taking unseen paths
dragonfly flies by

Upon meeting in a Train Station
cacophonous din
echoes in abundance
induces a timorous response
a tatter of composure
duplicitously frivolous

Be careful what you write as Satire or Parody because these days there is always someone who will take you seriously, dead seriously.

I never forgot those words, but occasionally I have misplaced them in my head and when I do that I attempt to write parody/satire.

Once I wrote story about a talking dog that talked about nothing else except how good my REALLY GREAT NOVEL tasted when he ate it. I thought out loud (in the story) that since my words were hard for most people to digest – I would give FIDO some ex-lax and maybe he would pass my REALLY GREAT NOVEL intact.
Well, I thought, no one would take me seriously about that – but I was wrong – several women in the room in which I had just read the story out loud wagged their fingers at me – shame on you for doing that to a dog, you could kill it giving it ex-lax.
And I did not own a dog, a talking dog, nor have I written A REALLY GREAT NOVEL.

I asked my professor what she meant by saying I should not read satire out loud to people (which is another thing she told me.)

She said: “Because you have a sincere face and people tend to believe everything you say.”
I rolled over in bed and spanked her on the butt and said “Are you ready for more ?” She giggled.

I”LL BET YOU BELIEVED THAT TOO. It never happened – we never went to bed together but we did talk about why I should never write parody.
I said, ” No I will not sleep with you but do you think if I write satire no one will take me seriously ?”
She said, “Your grade depends on this – I will not give you an ‘A’ unless you give me something – and No, people will always take you seriously. You have serious eyes. Bedroom eyes. Seriously.”

I did get an ‘A’ in that class but I did not go to bed with her. I made her laugh, then I pulled my pants back up.

But she did give me some more advice – HOW TO TELL IF YOUR CREATIVE WRITNG IS ANY GOOD

“To be any good,” she said while rubbing my back, “a piece of writing has to pass the WHAT and the SO WHAT test.” She reached around me and touched my thigh and purred in my ear.

“The WHAT test is: Does your work do what it was supposed to do ? Is it a critical essay ? Is it a sestina about fine china ? Is it funny, whimsical, or serious?”

She ran her fingers through my hair and unbuttoned the top two buttons on her blouse.

“The SO WHAT test is – Do I the reader care ? Do I the reader give a ShhhhT ?” Is your writing engaging or interesting in any way ?”

“So what you are saying is that even if I use cheap tricks like describing a sex scene to keep the reader’s interest my writing will be good ?” I touched her on the cheek and held her close. I could feel her heart beating fast and excited.

“No,” she said as she grabbed my shirt and ripped it open, “What I am saying is this will make it easier to sell.” She ran her hands down my chest and grabbed my belt. “People like being entertained. They will buy your book if you entertain them.”

For some reason I do not remember what happened next but the point of my whole post was to say that I think I have been thinking too much on what to write and I am going to just write what comes to me – and if that is humorous so be it !

At that moment, the moment for climax for both us – the moment we had been anticipating – a moment of OHHHHHH – was interrupted by the arrival of FIDO upon the bed -
“I want another book to eat, ” he said.

laptop living up to its name – she is writing she says – shhhh, do not disturb

A warning that draws me in – a sweet siren’s song of leave-me-alone

I must know, I have to know – what words need her focus upon them 

as I crash upon the rocks of Go-Away, I catch a glimpse which though fleeting leaves its mark upon me

It is a poem she writes (for some other face, for some other book, perhaps)

about love

using words against their nature

ripping, tearing, wounding love complete with scorn from ones abandoned, rejected, and used

cliche pounding cliche, subtlety discarded never played, 

her message is blasted with rock concert loudness

“I Love You” it says (and you-better-love me-back-if you-know-what-I-mean-because-I-can-be-mean)

This is harsh razor blade in your face love poetry – one you survive reading and like all good wars you don’t want to go back there again – one that makes you look for the closest exit because this poem- is-getting-scary-and staying-scary.

But

She the one that I currently love – whatever that means – radiates passion and attacks life with a zeal-ly zest that both mesmerizes me and lures me in – I want her, I want her fire, I want her love.

Do I pet this scorpion, knowing I could get stung ?

I want to – there is something alluring in the danger of it all

So I stay, in the same apartment, together with her fire and spit, she is my tigress 

and as

We all sit on the couch to together, now the real danger comes squeaking out (of her mouth)

“Look at my poem and tell me what you think.”

“I neither play by the rules invented by men long dead
nor by those secluded deluded fool-uded fellows you hold in good stead.
My rules are not what you could follow since they come from a dark place in my head.

There is but one objective in these lines of mine
never to reason, never to rhyme, if these commit the crime
of placing proper-ness over passion, sense over sensation, and/or method over message.

The power of the poet is touching the untouchable
putting words to silence
and piercing the heart of unknown readers
who thought they knew what they knew,
(little did they know it wasn’t so)

So back get ye to the nether regions of the page
dark upon the shelve – gather your dust -
I claim my spot among your memory cells.
You might not like it but it you will not forget.”

Taomaster 2009

What is the next step ? Will I know it when I see it ? Will I reject it because it doesn’t fit with my current view of the world ? 

Who is to say what the best way is ? Is there more to life than acquiring material goods ? Am I not alive ? Doesn’t just being alive mean I have a chance to learn and grow ? Doesn’t this mean that I have a chance to become more than I am now ? Isn’t that enough ?

Why cry over spilled milk ? Why not just get the cat to lick it up ? Is not the loss of one thing just making room for the next thing ?

What do I gain by being negative ? What do I gain by being positive ? Which is better ?

Is this a good start ? Or do I have to ask more and better questions ?