3.23.18 – Freestyle XVI – Fallacy, Malice

Understandably, reprimandingly, single-handedly so
compromising, unsurprising, undecidedly whole
counter-parted, broken-hearted, open-started and go
simply vicious, so pernicious and auspiciously droll

A coal miners son, fed to wolves one game day
a namesake afforded him but never felt the same way
after that, and no matter what you can’t have it back
the men in black amount to the means of seizing reduction

On a one-way vanderbilt, the man who built it stood stared
out on the whimsied winter, wondering what could stand it there
He hadn’t dared to be more than a keen observer
but sooner or later every nose gets a whiff of the fervor

Stir-crazy, a rat and terrier columbine
Shocked when I met you still you claim that you’re collar-blind
and hard of mind, how wonderfully wrapped in cryo-flame
centered on the wisdom you’ll willingly live to die or gain

Am I ashamed of the person who is becoming me?
Am I to blame for the one who wasn’t confronting me?
A honey bee would a sting a single soul for its sweetness
somewhere in heaven the mercenaries are paid back

Somebody claimed that a man is born just to see himself
to breathe in stealth but it seems we’ve turned it to greed and wealth
you needn’t help us, we’re well aware of our dire fables
So introspective, connected to all these wire cables

It’s all a fallacy, malice, I say it callously
no golden palaces, chalices, gleaming gallantly
In a million miles from now I’ll only be lurking
around the corner, working off a morning’s worth of insanity

We talked about how art means more than critics do, how everyone’s a critic and even the good ones don’t add as much to this life as the people whose existences they live to justify. The point was raised that you ought to at least be an artist yourself in order to qualify as a critic, but that doesn’t really seem to be a requirement after all. Everyone’s a critic, but what good is that? What good does your opinion of public expression do for anyone else? Is that your expression, your power, to glean your purpose off of everyone else’s? Shameful. I don’t listen to music or read a book or watch a movie because some other arbitrary individual with a title of authority suggests that I ought to or ought not to, I do those things because I decide that they’re worth doing, or that the art speaks to me, and no one else can make that decision for me. So why does anyone feel the need to spend their time qualifying anyone else life over doing something with their own?

If I were impatienter I reckon I’d be stationed somewhere…different from here, sure, but that means nothing as it sits. If things were different, things would be different. If I were less inclined to let myself be happy… more maybe that’s precisely the problem, and I’m only running in circles from myself, to be ‘successful’ or be ‘happy’… as if it were even a question worth asking. Masking your bullshit, the bullwhip’s got me pulled in and there’s profits on the line, stocking every dime, stop! there isn’t time. Binding, these mind games, wishes never penny-tossed for, many-crossed for, 3.25%. Blimey, what a time to be unwinding, right before my eyes a new environment in entirety, I see it shine and it inspires me, they could fire me and I’d wire the sum of my parts, no, more than that my common, two and essence back into my account of how this all ought to go, what we all ought to know, but are all too afraid of letting go. No more buybacks. No more life hacks if you just stay on the right track, act like you’re your greatest asset, facetous, masters are coming after us but what have they got on us, what do we think we need from them, aside from what we’ve already inherited, the greed of men, we bleed in the end intend to do something beautiful, useful with existence up to then. The tide is coming in and though we don’t know where or when, we ride it, glide but never bide or go outside it, we’re pirates, and life is an unmapped sea.

Measly me, seized the deed the dieties, to eternity, burn with me, for tomorrow you may live, and you’ll want to have a few decent stories to tell then. Fend for yourself, they tell you, as if it’s not the only thing you’ve ever done, as though living here means you’ve never run, well aware you were always the clever son but could they’ve made a better one? Better how, exactly? Someone more exacting, precisely civil forfeiture, torture, mortuary and no more. Boredom, sore cords in the throat, frozen open, totally silent. A recipe for violence, riled up little rhyme or reason craved heathens, depraved of even a time for being reckless, a crime for us to expect this life to be more than paid breathing to us, screw us, who us? Your brutal constituency, are you listening? Misdemeanor for tagging beams on the sidewalk while the guy talks about protecting coal mines, and I’m the dirty dealer. We don’t want to be what we were before, we want to be something new, better, whether or not we make it surely won’t stand to take any more of your improper-pander, slanderizing idealizers, scientists and final visions to halt the grimy emissions or at least incite the fines to drive these mindless men toward kind decisions, environment dying, buying ourselves a ticket to mars is about the lowest crime there is, time to ditch this shithole, fix ol’ red up for business, admissions exorbitant, commissions come forward my friends. Let’s end it here, or clear it up, dear god, steer us toward salvation from our own contamination, or make sure we don’t get far enough to fuck it up again.


Below, my first go at re-covering a book, The Poetical Works of Edward Rowland Sill, 1915. The book had been in my collection for years as just the textblock with torn endsheets, and after moving out to San Francisco, finally, I’ve found myself with a latent goal for all these volumes that I’ve rescued from dollar-bins and dumpsters, and that is to learn how to repair and conserve them, that they might be able to spread their insight for another 100 years with just a little assistance.

1.7.18 – Tipping

I don’t want to hear any more about what you ‘almost were once’
Your through-rose-colored-glasses-cast past-tense fantasies
Facsimile, similar only in the sense that you’re living next year’s story still
Spare me your good intentions, they’re stops you never made on your way here
Where did you come from?

What are you made of that your recipe doesn’t explicitly list?
What do I taste when I’m near you – I don’t want to hear you
Pining for the life that you too missed, all that’s gone unmixed
Unless your soul-stirrings render any sort of reality out of you
Unless you’ve moved to produce a new facet or two out of your confusion
It’s as ephemeral… and now it’s already ancient history, incapable and unworthy of discovery

Someday you told me you were about to… but then life happened
As if there were anything else happening
If life gets in the way of you living, you really are in a sorry state
You’re making it as it makes you, the beach between will and was
No grain waits for the waves to pause, nor does the sea seek an inland lap
But the balance is struck on just that front, and we call the sea as we see it, be because and in spite of it
The tide might guide you by its own logic, but those who tread in place can’t blame the water

Consider yourself a leaf on the breeze and you’ve already lost the will to live
Dropped off and ceded your green to other tree-steepled, fare falling to the whim of the wind
Is air too to be blamed for refusing to cessate, ferment along with you?
If ever there was a futile fancy it was in they who proposed that time alone will tell us anything
It will tell us everything, and you’re worse off with that than you are with a blank slate
Then, at least, you’ll have no choice but to be more, every stroke new, every idea a breakthrough
We would rather wallow in our insatiable search for knowledge than steep in a simple truth
That being that being is its own reward, and you’d spend your victory lap reviewing the receipt

Meet me at the crossroads of all that you will never fulfill, and we’ll drive in circles until we’re blue in the face
In the passenger seat is your fear, not of failure, but for your lack of a map
Your soul the backseat driver who’s never led you astray, still you mostly demand that they look out the window, stifling
And how clearly it all blurs past from that vantage point while you stare straight ahead
Unable to brake, and unwilling to challenge your perception of what may or may not be beyond the city limits

Climb to the top of a mountain, but before you do ask it kneel before you, place you atop itself
And after, look out over all those who were like you, and understand why it did not
It’s not a matter of anyone pulling the ladder up behind them – it’s the ladder which makes the summit worth anything
Would we be anywhere without going there, and if so, what would any place be but between the last and the next?
What a way to turn all the world to a snowglobe; to make yourself even smaller than you started
If only we would take a single step with our own feet, a single sidewalk would hold a new universe with each


That thing that you had been hiding for so long – didn’t it kill you?

Didn’t it claw at you from within; twist you to nausea like guilt so often does?

Maybe you’re just stronger than me – I know that’s what you thought.

It pissed you off that I always kept my cool. I made a point of keeping it, and I still do.

To you, my lack of hostility made me soft. I never knew what the thing that made you soften was.

Your entire life you were falling, and you never let me catch you until you were caught.


I’m walking briskly like the breeze

As it’s whisking through the trees

And we’re both doing so with ease

And yet I’m wary with good reason


For the temperature’s a tease:

It’s getting cooler by degrees

Still balmy, mind you, for a freeze

Is quite unlikely for the season


Still a skeptics heart would seize –

It seems it’d take only a sneeze

The skies to pop, populace flees

And dryness take a try at treason


But now… the clouds must hear my pleas

Deem them sufficient to appease

Without my dropping to my knees

The sky beheld – so quelled, a boon


Because for now there’s but the breeze

And time for birds and boys and bees

To sing and saunter as they please

Til nigh’s the rising of the moon


I wander the streets and ponder with no particular purpose

Besides deciding; confiding in you that all of this is perfect

For in between mean days, screen plays, curtains and curses

In this whole wide world you’re something that’s certainly worth it

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