interminable iota

DSCN0366

I admit. I am rather happy to see this year end. It just seemed appropriate to repost this (from the 17th of Dec, last year).

~

that pause of minutest minutes

between the un and the furl.

the joyous window unwinding

that threatens the re and the curl.

the risk of the lean

into the breeze,

minute puts out its smoke

and falls to its knees.

it’s time to go sailing

 

maybe 999

IMG_20171201_172712

A picture’s worth a thousand words,

apparently,

but I’m pretty sure that’s an exaggeration

in this case,

obviously,

depending on your proclivities

and how you deconstruct images,

categorically,

but when I look at this photo I took today,

I admire the roses

unabashedly,

which have struggled against all odds,

eg, the many odd ways I have neglected them,

oh jiminy crickets, roses, I am so sorry!

(Thank you to my husband for rescuing them

and how tidy does my desk look?)

Wow. But, note to self,

importantly,

don’t open the drawers.

For the love of God

 

The moral of this story is that

well, there isn’t one, however,

in a quiet corner,

banished-ly

a small, black object sits,

object of scorn and derision.

I look at

disappointingly

 

my computer mouse.

My expensive, non working

computer mouse.

Yes, that’s right mouse.

You cower, like the coward you are,

cowardly.

But you also managed

to end up in an ironically, prominent

position.

Just like the narcissist you are.

Naturally.

 

Now you will tell everyone

it’s all my fault,

 

indubitably.

auto cortex (ode to auto correct)

IMG_20160901_211955345.jpg

it’s in the title

or it isn’t

I probably meant that

or I didn’t.

am I awake now

or I’m isn’t.

did I mean that

no you didn’t.

where’s the pilot

don’t look closely

but we want that

Process?

or

It

Will?

Only

You

Can

Decide

When…

(please stop eating everything.)

 

this was written after a chat with Tony Single. Thanks for the encouragement Tony!

 

Dismember the 5th, 1971

flow and ebb

lyrics’ webb

unseen scales

empty trails

of light unburst

municipal thirst

for meaningful muse

the clowns left clues

 

the wrong grave’s exhumed

 

lazy thinking

drowning/drinking

I’m not down for this up

inflatable cup

no thanks.

 

You can’t hear

what I’m not saying

unplug your ears

of all your preying

then light the fuse

follow the clues

or not.

 

Short sentences

are my drop,

 

they’re not wafting

to your heights…

 

22384116_1552242774840905_2528714517370755586_o

 

¬

Inspired by one of my favourite, satirical sites, Scarfolk Council, from their Facebook page, where every Friday is Friday the 13th.

This was, clearly, a very uncharacteristic (cough) stream of thought…but I had been in the sun for a bit…

she started to write it…

…again like a song

and the notes were prolific

but the _______ was wrong.

And every second bounced now

right off of the clock,

the humming how it deafened

but was unable to knock

through the walls of the translation,

giving up the only door

that opened to a palette

of contemporaneous score.

Her soul hoarse from acquiescing

to her psyche’s dual frown,

its analysis unimpressive

to her cynical eyes drawn down

by the weight of all the irony,

dressed up in metaphors sweet,

the egg had laid the chicken

with a pre programm-ed beat,

and with a glass of favourite wine

she smiled to calm the fray

her psyche saw it coming

she said before, it’s just a segue…


liar

 

what the heck do I know?

The older I get, the less I know.

Here’s what I do know:

sometimes

there isn’t a deeper meaning

sometimes

the layers are on the same plane

unzip your paranoia for a moment

and maybe I will too

but I’m pretty sure yours will take longer

so I’ll give you a head start

because

I know there are layers…

 

unseasoning the season

The immutable reality of change

the longing to keep “before” in range

it’s cratered the cortex of my being

and reverse refracted all my seeing

my inner core blinded by the white

lasering the absence on my sight

the snow in sympathetic silence

weakening the contrast in my blindness

reaching for the knowing of the past

the sewing pain of beauty will not last

or the hope is, it will, in fact, diminish

and these lines, for now, remain unfinished…

a little hungover WordPress?

 

 

First day of the year.

Evaluating movement through life’s substance. (Or is it residue?)

Remember when you told me Vaseline was made from gasoline, and here, have some for the healing…

Remember how we wanted that clown for the party?
Me neither.

(I tried to publish this three times and WP didn’t save it for some reason. Hence the title 🙂 …I thought it was just me. Maybe it is…)

resolutions

looking back over the year

I marvel at the resolutions I’ve kept.

eat more chocolate: check

talk about joining a gym: check

laugh heartily at myself for talking about joining a gym: check

comment on the unseemly passing of time at least one million times: check

tell significant children in my life I can’t believe how much they’ve grown then grimace as I remember how much I HATED that: check

promise myself I’ll eat healthier tomorrow: check.

And now I’m driving, pondering if it’s even remotely possible to improve this list, but all I’m hearing are the wheels turning.

you got me again you re-indefatigable resolutionary revolutions you.

then my coffee spilt as I hit that bump darn it.

I was hoping I could stop missing you…

origamied

The words of sages

supposedly wise supposedly.

 

Ancient repackaged as new.

 

The air choking with nuances amiss and/or askew,

complacencing my view.

 

The forest floor

thickening under my feet

as I run. (Is this running?

maybe walking. maybe crawling.

maybe breathlessly clawing.)

 

The impact

folding me in

until I’m sure I can’t be folded

any more.

Cutting in all those places

I don’t want to be cut.

Of course.

 

Living in hope

of being taken out of this drawer

and being in the understanding.

in the unfolding…