Quandary of Time and its Significance: Thoughts in Brevity

It is the end of another month. One-twelth of the year, thirty-one days or seven hundred and forty-four hours. Time flows away like petals on a river; or, does it? Is all a still-standing, singular point in the universe, measured only by deterioration and cyclic, habitual births and deaths. A page turns, the chapter ends, you sigh and shut the book for the night; turning into to the warmth of bed, promises of future solace in vacant slumber fill the corners of your mind. Life, life, what is life in the face of tomorrow? A day in the looming shadow of a month, whereupon even he, the month, is overshadowed by the visage of the year. All melds into one line of time, or merely ceases mattering as its usage is spent.
I was feeling poetic, and now I am not. Time to pass on to the next second.
Adios.

Two Poems, Both Untitled

memories like parasites cling to and bleed me dry
like barnacles on the hull of some wrecked ship
i am at the bottom of the sea
i sleep with the sharks and brush their teeth
missing eight fingers and i'm uncontrollably bleeding
so i punch the concrete wall and grimace on the outside
grin on the inside
my knuckles turn white and cold is the water down deep
black and shattered i'm flattered really
but i can't accept your gift of salvation on a silver plate
i found it much more of a challenge to carve it out of obsidian mountainsides
jam it in stick it in ram it in again again
down here the wind is freezing
the fish are sneezing
an ocean of salt and pepper
i'm not amused but they look bemused and
God bless you my son
where's the fun in not having any reason to run
when the day is done look who came by to deliver the sun
and put down that gun

--

go ahead and waste away your energy trying to salvage what's left of me
i am a pile of scraped wreckage at the bottom of the sea and
this is where i will lie until the day i die because
when we're born we begin to sink
when we're born we drop like rocks down below
the ship has been swept away by the stormy waters and
when you dry your eyes i think you'll see that
i am not the only one who drowned so long ago because
honey you're right next to me down here at the bottom of the sea
at the end of all time in the drink
we drink our wine and dance in time
the bubbles the music the orchestra
so entrancing so silent so malevolent so benign and
the rhyme the rhyme the reason we all die
the one metronome that ticks away our hours
the God above the Hell below the Earth is spinning into nothing and
something tells me that darling you don't see it

My Peripatetic Existence, or How to be a Pedestrian on the Road of Life

So, I'm snowbound from work and classes, today, which is a shame: I never have all the hours I should for my biweekly timesheet. I write that as though anyone who may possibly read this would give a fuck; every once in awhile, I get an urge to create context for what I put up here, but you all can see how consistent that trend is. I derive too much pleasure from the construction of complex sentences -- You know?

This'll be short, I'm only addressing the remainder of my life. So, I've never claimed to ever have a damn clue what I feel is appropriate to do with my life, careerwise. When I was young, as in third to fifth grade, I desired nothing more than to be a cartoonist. No, you asshole, not the guys who make cartoons: those are animators. Cartoonists are the poor blokes who draw comic strips for the newspaper, and, in more modern incarnations, the internet. You may or may not remember that incredibly dreary entry I made ages ago about the state of comic strips (Orotund Brio, or somesuch). Yeah, it's a slight interest of mine, whereupon I cycle through nigh on thirty comics a day. However, my habit of doodling in the margins of notes in class evolved, over time, into a full-fledged obsession with art, artistry, and art history. I still love comics, though, and, every once in awhile, I design a few. Somewhere along the way, I lost that drive to be a cartoonist, though.
My secondary habit became apparent at about the same age I was drifting away from my dreams of being a cartoonist. Nintendo led to Super Nintendo led to Sega Genesis begot Abel and Cain begot Apple II begot IBM . . . Electronics and technology transform me into a giddy fool. Were you to, you would not be the first to see me break into a fit of an elongated, "Oooooh!" at the sight of new gadgets. Afterwhich, I make it my mission to know what every button and combination thereof will do. My parents bought a new phone and I had the day and time set before they could open the instruction manual. A blinking "12:00" bothers the hell out of me -- Set your God damn clocks, people, I swear.
Uh, yeah, skip to today and I'm a programmer: not the greatest, but up there. Logic and mathematics have always been my friends, so it was a merely a matter of time when that part of my brain bumped into the part of my brain that obsessively figures out technology, throw in a computer somewhere, and I've taught myself how to make a tiny ASCII man dance. Heh, my first program ever -- a short, BASIC instruction set to make a series of pipes, carats, arrows and hyphens leap about the screen, crowned with a large 'O' for the head. Have I ever mentioned how few friends I had as a young boy?
You would, possibly, believe that the conclusion to those previous three paragraphs, the topic sentence that makes them entwine together and complete the puzzle, would be something like, "Today, I am striving to become a graphic/web designer." Shit, no: I hate web-based programming languages, honestly; moreover, I hardly do any art on the computer. If I really mustered the energy, I could be a webcomic artist, but, as stated above, I lost that childhood dream to make comics. I have all these various talents and hobbies that don't interchange with each other. I'm sure I've put here before that I'm a double-major in Computer Science and Fine Art -- Double-minor in Mathematics and Literature. Pause for a moment and imagine the clusterfuck that is my class schedule, how the universe in my head teems and bucks everytime I walk from one room to the next, lessons learnt veritably mutually exclusive. And, at the end of the day, I don't know why I put myself through it all, making myself learn subjects I am clueless how to apply to my actual life.

It occurs to me that this Blog is here only to make the readers wonder, "What in the fuck is wrong with this guy?" No, I'm not finished, but I digress, for the time being . . .

Adios.

Life-like Abeyance

I find it odd that emotions can be forgotten, that something which is so intrinsically tied into being alive can fade into memory. That I can, at one point, blink and realize that I hadn’t felt much of anything, or, at least, noticed any real feelings, for weeks and weeks on end. Granted, any armchair psychologist could tell you that such a state of mind would be the resultant of overwhelming, looming emotions that are overwriting the smaller, flitting ones, but, still, I find it a strange circumstance. Perhaps what it may be the case of is what is classified as “seasonal depression,” wherein the shadows of some aspect of my past, connected with the time of year, blanket over my day-to-day happenings. I find it more pleasant to call it something with less downtrodden connotations: an emotional hibernation of sorts; every Winter, at the Turn of the Year, my mind grows cold like the wind, as everything turns into and around my own self and folds into an introspective, contemplative ball, huddled before the fires of old, rekindled. It’s an annual occurrence, yet I forget, each year, and am surprised to find myself standing halfway through January, struggling to recall the taste of solace in satisfaction. A silly man – A silly, silly man . . .

A Yarn

Press my fingers to the glass,
In the museum, we're told not to touch,
Eras past and epochs lost encased, entombed,
Monument to the ages, memory of time,
The irony in the fact it still exists today,
Makes me giggle, as I grow grey.

Wind will wear me thin,
Rain will spoil my clothes,
As I walk that road unnamed,
As I wade from black waters,
I wander from place to place,
Learning a name from face to face,
Living in a series of locked patterns,
Day to night, autumn to summer,
Green to gold, rust to dust,
Twined in the one-eyed's loom.

Father of none, not husband nor man,
Blank page in history's text,
Title passed from tongue to tongue,
Borne to light the furthest reach,
Of the deepest cavern, reddest rock,
Forgotten, forsaken, forgone,
Built and eroded, one to none,
All to all, this is how we fall, fall,
Wrinkle your nose against the smell,
Close your eyes, wish it away,
The monster is with you under the covers,
The devil tucked you in, kissed your hands,
Lost children of the universe's son,
Welcome to this land of missing parts.

Post Haste

Yesterday, I awoke with a gun in my lap,
Dirt in my hair, smoke circling my eyes,
Wartorn, far away station, my home, my home,
Loveless, hostile nation, make to break or run,
My gun, my hands, cracked and oily,
Load and cock, I dreamt of my love, my love,
As sound fades to dull buzzing,
I make the break to run and gun.

The past, the time, so fast,
We come and then, we're done,
It doesn't last, long enough,
We live and breathe, we're fine,
No past, no time, so fast.

Yesterday, I awoke with my bundled child,
Young, virgin eyes peeking out, curious,
As the gum-filled mouth smacks its lips,
Little food in cabinets barren, to sustain,
Hold it to my breast and wish, and wish,
Left for sex, lust, power, greed,
My son, my pride, cracked and spoiled,
Beg and smile, I dreamt of my love, my love,
As sight fades to acrid, foolish, teary blur,
Lord above, lord below, make to decide and divide,
I cradle it in my arms and shiver, nervous,
I make the bread to break and feed.

The time, the past, so fast,
We came and then, we left,
It's spent before, not enough,
We walk and talk, we're alright,
No time, no past, so fast.

Orange sunset over crimson mountaintops,
A field of high, lush, green grass swirls,
Caught in the breeze of Fate, spin and twirl,
Like a pretty, dancing girl on the wooden stage,
Clacking shoes pivotting through synchronised steps,
Built to order, built to comply,
Finite paths to choose to take, make to fail or win,
Lay down the boundaries in early years,
Only to destroy the fortress you so carefully built,
Find out the impossibility of hiding it behind,
Under the straddling clouds of puffs of mist,
In the morning fog, all comes clear and singular,
It makes the road to support and lead.

So fast, the time, the past,
We found and then, we lost,
It rose before, high enough,
We speak and laugh, we're alive,
So fast, no time, no past.

Yesterday, I awoke with a book under my nose,
Trails of saliva tracing sentences down the page,
At my desk, I dream of my love, my love,
Fingers cramped around broken, empty pencil,
Ringing of sirens and neighbourly racket,
Pitch of the dead television greets the day,
I stretch my back, I pop my neck,
Flinch and blink, the cold seeps in and chills,
Smell of the dead from below, baking above,
One other in existence, one person to have,
No future in stock, no profit to gain,
Too much became so little, in due time, they said,
He knifed her eighty times in the chest,
That man that I used to call Father,
The crime was not by design, or so I would hope,
I make the journey to forget and forsake.

So fast, the past, the time,
We move and then, we stop,
It seems so little, more than enough,
We read and write, we're human,
So fast, no past, no time.

Yesterday, I awoke with a cat by my side,
Asphalt cushion to comfort street dweller,
Stained, rank cardboard blanket to warm,
Used to be different, I think, I think,
Before she left, had it all to give,
Gave it all to save the broken-hearted,
Under cement skies, I dreamt of my love, my love,
If lose could weigh, I'm feeling fatter, today,
Groan and wheeze, my disgrace written on the wall,
The city deigns the wealthy and poor,
I make to set my stake and pour my soul.

Black lettering on white grain,
Chapters written decades ago,
Tragedy in comedy and romance,
Blood spilt to appease what thirst,
Tears dript to amuse what audience,

Play wrote for parts unfilled,
Take the lines, take your cue,
It'll take you, take your life,
No God to save, no Saviour to diefy,
No blame to pass, no excuse to blame,

Game made for players unfound,
Take the ball, take your turn,
It'll take you, take your life.

The past, the time, so fast,
We come and then, we're done,
It doesn't last, long enough,
We live and breathe, we're alone,
No past, no time, no you.

Everrest

The colder I get, the slower it comes,
In the snow, I carve my image in the ice,
A mosiac built out of fragmented memories,
Blue and white specks of lost faces,
Gusts of cold fixate it for all time,
The colder I get, the slower it comes.

The masterpiece of wintry life,
Perfection in white peaks and cutting skies,
The quiet of the stoic forever-frozen,
In the caverns of polar regions,
The walls spell more than we know.

As the red Mercury moon teems,
Giants of old, drink and dance in the open,
Mythologies never twice spoken, fall in place,
Step into the Decemberland, greet the blizzard,
As the red Mercury moon teems, it comes so slow.

I don my coat and hope to be alone,
The rest all inside, teething cocoa in huddled shelter,
I walk the tundra to find needed solitude,
The plains of ageless frost, wrap me in still warmth,
I lift the icicle and draw my requited soul,
A piece rendered in the ghosts of longing untold,
The thousand thousand words hidden in the dark banks,
A picture of a man forgotten by his own mind,
The twisted contour of a pair of shut eyes,

I lift my pick, sculpt my dreams,
It melts in the sun, light wroughts the end,
I wan in the summer months, dip and misen,
Expended in the heat of Hell's hills,
I lay in the graveyard of modern society,
Ordained to preach the silent word of Frykka,
I lift my pick, sculpt my everlasting vision.

The masterpiece of wintry life,
Perfection in white peaks and cutting skies,
The quiet of the stoic forever-frozen,
In the caverns of polar regions,
The walls spell more than we know.

As I grow colder, the slower it comes,
My hope to list and wend without company,
My vow of silence, my prayer for the dead,
The freezing azure of my iced eyes,
The purest white of my loveless heart,
As I grow colder, the slower it comes.

As the red Mercury moon teems,
Pillars rust in concrete ruins, devil-darkened,
Stories spelt in foreign alphabets, glyphs of prophecy,
Born in raging Fire, lost in quiet Ice,
The universe, as it goes, is undone, again,
As the red Mercury moon teems.

I only want to be cold and alone.