Just Like That (words only)

just like that and its 2010. I'm 32 years old and we're getting a good steady snow today. I could be on the brink of a breakthrough, or not. I'm tucked away from it all in Cherry Alley Cafe, have my ears plugged with white ipod earpieces, am surrounded by printouts of things I've written. I bought three dollars worth of fresh orange juice that tastes like sweet gold.

Darren's right that "it seems possible for new objects to be designed in such a way or at the least be used in such a way as to conjure spirits through mimicry." (see previous post "A Real Post" with comment) as it turns out, I don't particularly like mimicry. I've been trying to discern what it is exactly that discourages me about the progression of things in the world.

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A writer whose name I cannot conjure talks about our impulse to establish a permanent (or the impression of perament) home to counteract the impermanence and brevity of our lives. one of the wrong turns we have taken is to think that by mechanizing and technologizing our functions and processes, we save ourselves time. we think that by shortening the amount of time for "mundane tasks" and allowing the allotment of time for other, more choice activities - will make us happier people.

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Time is severe in its unchangeable rate. we have what we have - life is a timed treasure hunt. God clicks his stopwatch and yells "go!" we're scrambling and stumbling in the dark. what are we supposed to find, where is it? should we stop and smell the roses? or fling ourselves off of peaks? or dig like John Henry for gold until our hearts burst?

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maybe mundane tasks help us to view our lives more correctly. perhaps they help us not to feel overwhelmed in the surge of time, swept away. they ground us - not in the illusion of permanence, but by entwining us into the life processes that exist right along with time. in short, they help us to coexist less abrasively with the steps of time.

The Etchings of Being Here

The Etchings of Being Here

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I am awake and livng

now

I passed you by

like fleeting breath

succinct, toneless

.

breathe me

while you can

while I cling to earth

and slide through

space

.

upon the meadow

up in the light

there!

we can be as day

as it was meant

to be

.

your turning

and my turn

to come now

beside, beside

alongside

the etchings of being here

Poems to Tuck Neatly Away

Extravagantly Pungent

there's a dog barking in my brain

somewhere, somehow

a barking rage

on and off and on and on

I turn on the wrong burner

on the stove

like my Grandma

almost ready

to burn down the condo

in her forgetful state

organized chaos

a mystery to repent of

the smell of bananas

too ripe

too extravagantly pungent

.

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Freedom

I like the freedom

poetry offers

pig-

of writing down any word

that comes to mind

jar-

letting them drop

into the sea of emotion

canopy-

to see

what patterns they make

polka dot-

on its surface

Liking Mike

it's hard not to like Mike. he's kind of like the impersonation of that little angel who stands on your shoulder and whispers encouraging things in your ear. except that this angel doesn't take care of his hair and has a giant goatee. the first time I met Mike, I thought maybe he was just a short Harley enthusiast - I could imagine his goatee flaming back into his face, flattened by the force of his big bike. but as it turns out, he's a potter. instead of bug stains, his clothes are covered with earth-colored clay and glaze.

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you wouldn't necessarily think Mike was organized, or even passionate - in the way he comes across. but don't let the man fool you. he's a dreamer, yes, but a very good dreamer. he keeps thinking he can make an oblong cooking pot, even though all the other ones have cracked in the kiln. the latest one is still wet, sitting on the table in his little "studio with a view". it's all about the view for Mike. he used to be a landscaper and it looks as though the view from his studio is in a constant state of flux - Mike's own little ongoing search for a quiet place in the world to call his own. I imagine he must be really close to finding it, sitting there in front of his little wheel in the wee hours of the morning, his steady hands working the texture and smell of clay until they begin to take shape.

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but making pots and mugs doesn't seem to be what really gets Mike going - (you know that he's going when you hear him laugh and use his favorite word "Amazing!".) and he's also willing to give up his view if and when the time comes to follow his real dream. he's sure that he can help undo the wrongs of the past, that his mediating skills can help turn this world around, and that dreaming of a church where everyone involved can come to the table and have an equal share in its creation is not dreaming too big.

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and after getting to know Mike, I think he's probably right. I told him a while back in all honesty that he'll probably make it into the top five people who have most impacted my life. if I have to part ways with Mike at some point, and we can't meet for lunch anymore, I'm going to make sure I take along one of his mugs with me.

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Grace

for my graceful sister

who knew not grace

beautiful in her clumsy form

breaking my heart

as it could only be broken

.

have I done you wrong?

waiting up all night

to check your breathing

and the pressure in your skull?

.

did we weep too soon, too early?

not enough?

did I laugh too quick?

did I forget or remember too much?

.

you push me to the edge
I cannot help but face it

the uncertain depth

the brittle helplessness

of the air we breath

.

I am running, have run

but can no longer get away

you are here, not here

no, not here! not ever again!

this is real, forever and binding

I am left to discover myself

where do I lie? what is my angst?

where do I set myself down again?

.

what is my repose? my rest?

where do I go to glimpse the light?

my path?

with what eyes do I behold the light

and your grace?

is it sufficient?