What Force Is This Which Wakes Us...

Is it the anxiety of the alarm

sabotaging slumber in mechanistic machinations 

Is it the delight of a new dawn

illuminating the paths toward earthly aspirations

Is it the dynamic dream drawing-on

itself discontent to dream in discontinuations

What force is this which wakes us

The sun's cyclical rise and fall

like the Atlas Stone set ablaze

The tidewaters swell and stall

invading and retreating 

in and out of phase

The moon caught between it all

revolving and reflecting

known by night, ignored by days

What force is this which wakes us

As eyes open toward some vital vision

As ears perk to the tune of some transmission

As nostrils sniff to seek some essence

As tongues twist round sounds in conversations

As fingers fret to feel for some presiding presence

Is there some sense beyond core contemplations

What force is this which wakes us

Is the force which brought us to our birth

the same that exiles souls from earth

What makes the butterfly dream itself a king

and the king a butterfly adrift while dreaming

Do we simply shift from dream to dream

from this life to realms more or less extreme

What force is this which wakes us

Is it my mind which guides these eyes

or some force beyond celestial skies

Is there truth beyond all our perceiving

or is everything either confused or deceiving

Have I been waking while I've wondered

or slumbering as my life's been squandered

Is free-will something ever offered

or are we puppets playing roles as proffered

What force is this which wakes us

At times it's clear as I awaken

that dreams are not to be forsaken

that it's not dreams that come from us

that we come from dreams which lead to us

awakened to a realm beyond all dreaming

awake within some much grander scheming

I'm left to live as dreams remain awaiting us

to come to terms with what force this is which wakes us

The Tragedy Of The Page...

When it's empty
It could become anything

But it has to wait on everything

Perhaps even forever

Being empty...

Being nothing...

What is it waiting for

The odds are aweful

Most likely it will be used poorly

To hold scratches, scribbles, scawls

Of some nacent notion, or numbing notes

Left in lines so all too soon forgotten

Resting there unrefined and unimportant

Until dissolving in decay

Or being crinckled up and tossed as trash

Having been of little or no use at all

The page could find other fates

It may hold something to be preserved

For post-dated purposes

And become stuffed in a drawer

It could become a surrogate surface

To help some pre-conceived idea

Become born in a more fleshed-out form

On rare ocassions the page transcends

It's flat face takes on the form of something deep

As it's imbued with inspired images or insights

Which eyes may gaze upon with wonder

And wish to save forever

Or as long as the page can be preserved

What tragedies await the page

What fate awaits so final and forever

One entangled or emblematic of my own

Or one beyond my bumbling blabber

Are we mere pages unto fates

The surfaces of some higher hand

At work or play unto some scribbling

I pray with hands that mock and mimic

As they scrawl upon this page

Unto that higher hand unseen

Inscribing upon the surface of my soul

That these marks we leave

May mean something, somehow

And that there be more than smears

Upon this otherwise empty plane

Here as well as here, the soul as the page

Even now this page seems oblivious

Of every mark I've made

Am I so senselessly unknowing

Of unseen lines upon me now

The tragedy of the page

Is the tragedy of all empty waiting things

Being nothing

Waiting for anything

To make them something

More than just a flat oblivious thing

I leave these words here

So that I may move beyond them

And make my marks elsewhere

Somewhere they may do more 

Than stain the surface of a page

Unseen, unfelt, unread, unknown

So that the tragedy of the page

May not touch some surface

Be it but here, or well beyond

3xistential 3xcrement...

Here I sit all broken hearted
Tried to shit but only farted
How had all my troubles started
Are my dreams now long departed
As I sit and question this
Urinals are filled with piss
But I remain devoid of bliss
As my bowels let out an empty hiss
Sphincter now so strained and sore
Quoth my anus, nevermore

Try to push this turd by force
Which only makes my troubles worse
Is such pain an eternal curse
Some symptom of the universe
I've never been so full of shit
And unable to dipose of it
I try to ease this pain with wit
But nothing shall become of it
All seems futile in my fated fecal lore
Quoth my anus, nevermore

The hours pass, my shit will not
To what end are all our battles fought
When all that was shall be forgot
And we leave with no more than we brought
I always thought I'd die alone
But now I fear as I push and groan
That this turd will haunt me to the bone
Like some riddle or an ancient koan
Must I strain till I can strain no more
Quoth my anus, nevermore

I finally rise to leave this stall
Having left these words upon the wall
My contribution seems so small
Compared to mother nature's call
Even if it ends like this
With toilet vacant as a vast abyss
As everything seems so amiss
Like lips that never felt a kiss
I've no more will left heretofore
Quoth my Anus, nevermore 

For What...

The sun burning bright

The moon pulling the tide

The earth dizzying day and night

The prey trying to hide

For what

Stars die

Waters run dry

Rocks crumble 

We all stumble 

For what

Political campaigns 

Marketing strategies 

Celebratory champagnes

DSM categories 

For what

Every law is broken 

The coin is just a token

Victory cannot last 

A shadow's always cast

For what

Another day alive

A dream that just won't rest

Not enough to thrive

Yearning beyond what's best

For what

A place because we're here

A thing that holds us dear

The love beyond the lust

The drive without a must

For what 

It is because it's there

It thinks because it is

It sits upon a chair

It tries to pass its quiz

For what

The move becomes a journey 

The crib becomes the gurney 

The sun rises, falls, and sets

We live with vague regrets 

For what

The answer or the question 

The secret or confession 

The similarity or the difference 

The anxiety or indifference 

For what 

An Excerpt From Vitruvia 144 (End-Note #12)...

 

12.  There’s something about walking through doorways which I find almost mystically appealing. I imagine some silly part of me is always in giddy anticipation of what could possibly be beyond whatever side of a threshold I find myself. Even after I’ve gone through a doorway many times in both directions there’s always a subtle, subdued sense in me that this time could be different. It’s that same allure of standing at the entrance of some path leading into the depths of a forest which leads me to imagine that some secret Promised Land or New Eden is just waiting for me to transcend my own world by simply entering into it. Of course no matter what threshold it is that I cross or what room or realm I enter into it all inevitably just ends up being the next place I will yearn to leave. All the civilized spaces are just the grid coordinates which wrap the entire world within its vast yet cloistering cage. Even the apportioned plots reserved for nature cannot be occupied for more than a mere moment before a strong sense of ballagàrraidh (an awareness that I don’t belong in nature) makes me feel as if I’m being strangled rather than embraced by this earthly essence. It often seems as if the only welcome in this world comes from whatever place it is that I am leaving as it ushers me into any realm away from its own, as it only welcomes the chance to be rid of me. Perhaps I too tire of my surroundings in this same way, and this is really why I welcome doorways, so that I may avail myself of these realms which are far too insufficient to inhabit, and which I am insufficient to inhabit as well. I suspect that even when I am finally ushered unto that final realm of death that I will still find myself searching for some other threshold to cross no matter how dismal or delightful such an ethereal place may be. But enough about doorways. I want to move along into something else now.

A Vision Of Trees...

I walk through the forest

In envy of the trees

They don’t seem to struggle

To be stuck where they are

Or obscured by the forest

They don’t seem to care

What nests in their branches

As they reach toward the sun

Or what basks in their shade

Or what eats of their fruit

 

I stand in the forest

In awe of the trees

Do they know their value

As lumber, or paper, or pulp

Do they understand the fact that

All they have to do is grow and die

And they can still become transcended

As the woodwork of a beautiful building

Or the pages of some transformative tale

 

I leave the forest

While contemplating the trees

I tell the trees they are marvelous

But they don’t need to know this

They don’t need anything

Except for maybe a bit of light

And the occasional rain

Although they don’t seem to mind

When the clouds block the sun

And refuse to let go of the rain

Until the soil has cracked dry

And leaves shrivel to die

 

I dream of the forest

As a man become tree

I imagine the sun beaming down

And my limbs reaching high

As the earth embraces my roots

And the winds dance my leaves

But I wake as a man

For better or worse

Do the trees dream

Of ants, or of me

Is there any difference

As they look down

From their dream

Riddles...

A man wanted to see the universe 

He managed to take a picture of it

The universe continued to expand

Men asked him to tell them

What the universe looks like

And just how big it really is 

The man wanted to see himself 

He made an amazing 3d rendering

Time went by, he wrinkled with age

He kept asking himself

What do I really look like 

How old do I really appear

Then the man asked himself 

If he could ever understand 

all the thoughts he'd ever have 

If so, he'd wondered why he had

yet to understand all these things

If not, he'd perplexed himself 

wondering how he could possibly 

have thoughts he couldn't understand 

He kept asking himself 

about the scope of everything 

and how it all truly appeared 

He perpetually wondered 

What he might really be thinking 

How he could really know anything 

Eventually he forgot to ask

all of these desperate questions 

and remembered how to live

without ever realizing exactly 

what he was trying to do