Another one on Perspective

Lessons Learned

One of life's,
Main lessons learned,
Is the pain by which,
Perspective's earned.

Muse

MUSE

A cafe to share remembrances,
And in the corner,
The lurking shadow of truth.
The muse,
Within the heart,
Never dies,
Or fade,
It is we,
Who erode and accumulate….

I wrote this in response to the line by Illyria, “the pay’s reliable. muses get old. they die.”

Falling into life

The speed at which the years pass can become frightening.
Life
is like jumping off
a very very large building
First the fear of flying
then joyous abandon
to the freedom of free fall
then the casual consideration
of
the possibility
of the ground,
and then finally
the absolute certainty
of the ground's
inevitability.

When I die I hope that I get a glimpse of the title of the booklet of me.

Nested garden?

When I was a young man just old enough to ask interesting questions my father told me, " Life is like a garden and when we are young the garden is a small one contained safely behind the warm walls of our parents and our family and as we age these walls are replaced by the walls of our friendships and as we age further our jobs become the walls and at the final stages of our life our mortality becomes the walls.
I am glad I have seen some of the garden.

Amphetamine Wide Awake
A city,
Expression,
Of human anger, with,
It’s tightly,
Controlled,
Flows,
Of containerized pretty people,
To be disgorged only,
At some specific,
Edifice of concrete and glass,
The lesser beings,
On bikes,
Smoking motors,
And bag ladies pushing their carts.

A city,
Expression,
Of human frailty,
With it’s,
Angst thinned skin,
It’s velvet scary,
Smooth,
Occam’s logic,
It’s hunger,
For something,
Somewhere,
Lost,
In cacophony’s,
Caress.

Thnx {I} for the title

She is my partner

I've alway thought of her as a partner, riding towards the same destination as me. Me on my short but reliable mule and she on her great white percheron clippity clopping down the road of life, each leaving little bits of ourselves as oderous tell tales for the other to find and wrinkle their nose at. She is always there on that trail, maybe a little ahead of me or a little behind, all's I have to do is call. We rarely camp at the same crossroads but when there is a river or creek we will always stop to swim together. It is the most fun in the winter when we freeze our selves to such awareness and then lie next to each other on our collective bedrolls just breathing. The air is alive at those times.

On Being

Lines of life
pain and strife
Color this canvas of skin

Sweetest wines
Sourest rinds
Soften this fabric of skin

This cloak of color
That softly covers
This sole heart
Within

Silence is a blessing

All souls journey through the void as voyagers. We always awaken changed by the night of one life’s eve just so we can see the dawning of the new life’s morn. The best path to perspective is a healthy dose of time. It can have positive additive effects and poetry does give true catharsis. That the void is empty of all but silence is a good thing, silence will give the soul what it needs if you let it. The contemplation of self is not what we want but what awaits us around every corner and if you practice looking for yourself I promise you will see yourself smiling. The journey is what makes everything happen.

Touching the Infinite

I use to think that touching the infinite was a myth, a pretty story to be passed out during deep philisophical conversations with my fellow armchair saviors. The truth is we are the luckiest organism on this planet. Luck has given us the capacity to remember and communicate our experiences to the generations that follow us and to recieve that same wisdom from those that have preceded us. The world is incredible. All of the living things of our world in their many many expressions have a passionate desire to live. You could say this a no brainer but when you briefly glimpse the true magnificence of our existence, or maybe better yet when you transcend this endless rat-race of our culture for a second, this desire to live and the awareness of it in all others is a thing of incredible transformative power. It is unfortunate that it is always a transient sensation.

In response to a poem and a friend.

Like Plato’s Cave, we see,

On a small wall lit by light of cheap reflections,

Shadows.

Setting reflections free in our imagined dream,

We make this shadow world live,

In Rich, Bright, and Brilliant,

Colors.

Living is color and light there is no dark night

A person is thrilled to experience,

By dreams and aspirations.

A leap of Faith?

Perhaps jumping in,

Faithfully thrilled to experience.

Are you experienced?

More bouncing off Trans

"Put my hands where you wanted my memory to be,"

Holding to our beating hearts, embracing
gentle touching hands,
understanding our paths parting
may be lost in the worlds
moving and shifting sands.

I watch you sleep contently
in my now safe keeping
while tommorow speaks of time away
for breakfast I'll make you an omelet
with buttered toast and tears
the last glass of orange juice
with vodka I'll drink today


God Trans keep Musing

Bouncing off Trans

The verticle smile calls us with a siren song of pleasure. The sea we sail as men is not so wonderful, a life of puffed out chests cock of the walk egotistical crap is not totally fulfilling so when we answer those silky folds it rarely goes perfectly swimmingly as we are easily led by the thought of what we think we hear.

Isn't love great
it opens
it closes
and leaves
hearts
awake
sometimes wounded
oft times freed
the power
of sensation
fire, ice, and bleed

I remember

• I remember the smell of summer air, heavy with the rain, noticed just in time to run for cover. Tennessee thunderstorms made me so high.

• I remember I would run outside without a shirt with my hairless adolescent chest soaking wet and puffed out as lightning and thuder crashed and flashed around me.

• I remember I felt like I was a god.

• I remember the summer storms of lust, lust so strong I would cum if I moved right/wrong.

• I remember doing so, often.

• I remember the sound of hounds barking in the distance, one of my neighbors treeing a racoon.

• I remember catfish from the Cumberland River.

• I remember my Mom saying "you want to eat that fish then skin it yourself."

• I remember how timeless it felt, no thought of any-time but it's own lost "now."

• I remember when I lost that feeling of timelessness, it was when I joined the service.

• I remember that it was after my last plea to be rescued by my parents from basic training.

• I remember I cried for about five minutes and stopped.

• I remember I went in to the PX bought a six pack of beer, drank it, and walked back to the barracks.

• I dont remember crying so freely ever since.

• I remember that I was more than human once, I was young, innocent, and immortal. I go back to that summer place by walking the streets my heart's intense city and when I get there I play for an hour or two.

An ode to Jonnie

I can't tell Jonnie's story without skateboards. A skater's path, is one of hard unfeeling concrete that is full of potholes and traffic. As a philosophy Skating is a non-verbal protest against a far too conservative establishment. In action it is voicing that protest by performing upon it's yellow twisted gnarly spine a long, loud, and aggressive railslide. A skater's primary fuel, second to beer, is his anger, an inate hostility, a qualified hatred of all obstacles in his path. The only truth a skater really knows about is crisis on concrete, pulling a trick off perfectly, and party, party, party.
Jonnie was an agro skater; he would skate with his entire being; he would skate until somthing broke whether it be the skateboard, the pavement, or himself. Jonnie went through his life on a skateboard. Jonnie was also an artist, and Jonnie's skater's heart made all his art a mixture of brokenglass and vomit; it was angry, painful, but above all, it was true.
When looking through the odd peices of Jonnie's art that we all had brought to the party held in his memory, I was struck by the intensity of feeling I had experienced. Everyone of us had a piece of Jonnie's art work to bring, I brought my Colors, he did the crossed skateboard and hockey stick logo. I think the one piece of art that was the most revealing of Jonnie was his antithetical Wellspring Man. This picture was a small black and white sticker made to stick on skateboards and stop signs. The picture depicted a sitting man whose head was an open commode in the process of being flushed. The man's hands were tightly gripping the open rim of his skull and his facial expression was tortured. I think that in some ways Jonnie was the Wellspring Man. Looking at the original picture I could feel Jonnie's anger, through his art I could almost sense the skater's hate that it engedered in his soul.
Jonnie was never untrue to his friends; he told all of us to goto hell. But despite Jonnie's sandpaper personality, he was liked by all of us. Our respect for Jonnie was not built on any need that he fulfilled or any of the "gimmee gimmees." Jonnie was more an experience, never expected, never boring, and always full of life. And it was this I think that we respected most: He was a better "skater" than any of us; he skated from the depths of his soul.
I remember the afternoon my girlfriend came home and told me about Jonnie's death "Oh Damn" was all I said. Jonnie died trying to ride a great white horse and skate at the same time. Jonnie died a long way from home, up north chasing a piece of himself that he had lost or forgotten at one of his lifes too many parties.
As a skater, I play the game of life in my own way, I am a skating fundementalist, with stress on the fun and mental aspects of the game. I don't believe that Jonnie played the game so hard it broke him, I think Jonnie was just too damn heavy for the thin ice of this life. I know that Jonnie the skater, the artist, and rebel is now in Valhalla. He's up there making Old One Eye blink his single eye in suprise at the airs he's pulling off. In conclusion all that I can say is "See ya, Man."