Please do not remind me so early in the morning about everything I will forget to do tomorrow.

Like grabbing a capucino in some coffeshop in some quaint small town

on the otherside of the river, upstate from some big anonymous city

in some independent film backed by some heavy hitters in the tech world

who started production companies with names that make the viewers and the

stockholders alike think of the wilderness or taking on the extreme but

are really run by middle aged Gen X types who are watching all of their

fight for your rights slowly dissipate into them becoming more uptight and

out of the loop but are still happy to pay eight dollars for a bowl of over priced

Fruit Loops to help them stay in touch with their childlike side, in some beautifully hip

and comfortable looking coffeeshop in some quaint small town on the otherside of the river,

upstate from the big anonymous city that they fell in love in, got pregnant in, established

a ratio of 5 to 1 failed start-ups in, then decided that it was better off to raise a family somewhere

that smelled of engine oil, fresh baked sourdough bread and fermenting IPA beer, which took this

unsuspecting overeducated pedigree couple to a quiet little place tucked away between the mountains and

the sea, in a small quaint town where the foam on top of the capucinno from some indistinct but

full of charm coffeeshop in some low budget but high profile produced independent film, rises high

above the coffee cup, like some sign of small town rejuvination, a healing process in the minds and

bank accounts of those willing to exchange everything they thought they ever wanted for something else,

like two eggs perfectly scrambled served on toasted sourdough bread with a side order of

sweet potato country homefries, fresh squeezed orange juice and a damn fine looking cappucino made by

some young woman born and raised in this small quaint town, named Barbara,

but is in reality just a young woman from Texas who has been busting her ass

out in Hollywood to make her dreams of becoming famous true and this independent film

where she plays second fiddle to the metaphor of the foam on a cappucino will be

the sign she can send home to her family to prove that

life on the otherside of the river

be it in an independent film or reality is currently working out

for her.

The dog says in no uncertain terms

that he Needs to go out.

So, we go out.

So, let's not start this morning with worrying 

about what happened before but about what comes after the fact.

Not even fully awake and already trapped 

with looking back.

Not only over my own shoulder

or in a rearview mirror contorted like a DMT 

visionary dwarf but

by the scrolling through memories that will supersede

and suck out the energy of this new day.

By reminding me of what I

actually found so important that I had to share

it with the world,

what caustic and declamatory words I just 

had to say 

seven years ago 

to this very date.

 

Good morning winter sun,

I am already in a strange mood and the day 

has just begun.

I will attempt to find my balance once again 

upon a pile a mile high 

of self reflective books 

that keep me pondering during

this time of crisis.

 

Questioning the question of the why of all of this 

and the continious question of whose book 

of questionable wisdom will I decide to order 

and have delivered to my doorstep

next. 

Some enjoy being scrambled more so than they do fried.

 Some enjoy being scrambled more so than they do fried.

 

It is Monday morning and the body and the emotions

start laying into you for who you were and what

you did over the weekend.

With a sigh you allow shame to come over you

than you jump into the shower and let the

warm water and kerosene wash it away.

 

Finish cold to stay warm,

you heard that on Youtube somewhere.

The second impeachment was again no success.

A cesspool frozen over to skate upon

will still be a cesspool in the spring,

 

oh, but all the memories we

shall have.

Mind of State

 some sentence structures are build to crumble upon fragments of foundations.

there are points to made and fingers to be pointed

coffins to be constructed and discussion points to be

de-constructed - 

in an opinion based economy - the problem is you and never me,

subscriptions to the new age crucifixtions

Subscriptions to the new age crucifixions.

 

Artists no longer worried about selling out

but about what they can pass off as content

and sell off.

 

Scramble to create content - suck down your discontent - 

 

make everything paper thin and apparent 

 

and desperate to represent.

I can yawn and go crazy all at the same instance.

 I can yawn and go crazy all at the same instance.  But that is just something personal about me that probably doesn't really mean anything to you.  Or should it.  It is just a random made assumption about myself that has no baring on anything else between you and I.  A yawn is the bodies way of waking itself up from a state of boredom.  And yawning when we see someone else yawn is a way of saying, yes we are bored too.  So that reflective yawn is a good way to share in the quiet conspiracy between yourself and that someone else.  To a certain extent these quiet conspiracies are one of the few things that we have left between us that exist outside the digital/online world.  Though will seeing someone on a Zoom meeting yawn cause you to yawn as well?  I do not know.  Need to Google that one when I get bored.  Yawn.  I am bored.

If we can use words to create worlds, why can we not use them to save this one.

 

If we can use words to create worlds, why can we not use them to save this one.

 

Carrying disbelief up a hill is almost comparable to carrying your own child up a mountain. 

There is a weight to both, that one can see as a burden but at the same time such a burden that you can’t just put it down and leave it behind for the wolves to eat.  Like at times being plagued by metaphors that tend to eat their young, canabalized words that turn upon themselves at the end of every sentence.  But it is ok.  The world does not need me to save it. The world has a way of rebalancing itself after every cataclismic shift.  Like the silence of the sands as they pile up over you as if your life were a dream.  Only to wake up and realize that you were not dreaming and that there is sand everywhere and your mother is yelling at you to get up, that you are late for school and why does your bedroom resemble an MTV Daytona Beach Spring Break party with Downtown Julie Brown lying half naked in bed next to you.  It is them that your father pops his head in the door and lingers just a bit too long, staring at Julie and then at the poster of the dogs playing strip poker that hangs over your bed.  You notice your father’s envious smile and know that he always coveted that poster.  And you curse yourself for not taking down the damn poster once your older sibling went off to college and you took over the big bedroom.  Which on the very same day your mother turned your old room into a BDSM playroom.  You know that life evolves everyday in ways that we can never expect.  Youtube taught you that much.  And that is exactly the gloryhole signifigance of it all.  Or at least that is what I remember my gym teacher telling us as he passed out the athletic jock supporters to us back in 9th grade locker room before we had soccer tryouts.  He said that we would all one day look back at that moment in time and feel the pride that was intrinsic to the life of a Nanuet Golden Knight soccer player.  I think he was arrested years later for having a relationship with some student from his Health Education class.

 

A sun drenched February morning, a walk in the cold, the crunch of the frozen snow under my boots, a string of thoughts that have nothing to do with one another but puzzled together can make for some damn enjoyable typing. 

 

Spinach smoothie.

 

 

 Question the resources when the resources are questionable.

 When the potential for quiet is there, then it is better to just tell yourself to remain silent.

 

This morning,

it is, for the most part

all still there.

Some of it brushed or blown to the side,

some melted down then made solid 

once again.

But for the most part it is 

all still there

just as you left it

when you went to bed.

 

And this,

has nothing to do with

the snow.

The lesser of the known lost its way 

and was happy.  Or what it thought to be happy.

The lesser of the known had often wondered about

losing its way and why it may end up being happy 

in this way.  

The lesser of the known had often heard others

question what happiness was and often wondered

if others would not be a bit happier if they too had 

every now and again lost their way.

When the lesser of the known offered up 

this idea of losing its way and happiness to 

its often regarded peers, the easy to digest,

the ever so cautious and the something to fall back on, 

it was laughed out of the think tank. 

An honest days work for an honest days wage

escorted the lesser known to the door of the duplex

and said that it was best that the lesser of the known be on its way.

And that is when the lesser of the known knew that its hypothesis was correct and

immediately began to feel happier that way.