Erumpent trumpets
triumphantly tore through my
jeans. Wet flatulence
Erumpent trumpets
triumphantly tore through my
jeans. Wet flatulence
civilians shuffle silently through supercenters
money, money, money, in and out, but maybe
maybe money isn’t the only monetary thing;
time, with each tick, deliberates, dictates truth
each second shuffled, each second spent
minutes mending, mentally meditating, maybe
more monetized than a mere fifty dollar bill
shhh! silence – keep shuffling the supercenter
too much thought tends to tantalize, overturning
traditional teachings of what’s truly important
left impotent when without – homeless, begging
“time is money!” without a whimper. head down
keep shuffling, keep spending, keep the silence
stifle the seconds then the minutes then the hours… for cents; money, money, money! for hundred dollar bills
but maybe, just maybe —
headstrong, healing, healthily slowing the second
with breath, in-and-out, manipulating, to manifest
the seconds into minutes… into hours —
mindfulness
matters
more
than
money
Fucking uncle Jack sat, eating pork cracklings. Petrichor filled the air, it was chilly outside. Crass? Terribly. Uncle Jack crushed a crackling in between his teeth, chewing, he cursed “Fuck! Fuck these things are crack!”
Aunt Kathy chortled, “They ain’t crack, they’re cracklins’, ya cuckoo”
Wishes wistfully swaying, singing
Like children, cheering, cacophony
Like elders looking down on us, enticing
Waiting for when we least expect anything
Then lurching from the darkness to restore:
Like a check in the mail, a lost friend checking in
Or anything good that happens time and time again
A positive swirl in the (sometimes) otherwise bleak world
A fresh perspective, an excitability for life
A vacation, a good dream
Happiness, blatantly
the words can come mentally, easily, fleetingly – floating, waiting, processing, conjuring, to be possessed, when suddenly —
pen to paper, rigged, wretched mind betrays slowing, thoughts halt, hammering, stammering, sto—
some thoughts pop up instead – something about the political landscape, some introversive insecurity, words in a line that don’t make coherent sense, deadened, blackened — ugh
-n.v.
I’m so surrounded by life… and just often feel so dead inside. The city thrives, my mind wanders, days feel too short to be worthwhile, hours seem like seconds, my room is a dump, and I feel like a swamp creature. This is depression running rampant – a distortion mechanism and burden of the brain bestowed upon humans for the blessing of consciousness. Since we can rationalize, we sometimes rationalize ourselves into dark, small spaces. Remember (anyone who needs this) – there’s a whole world out there.
Bruised, broken, rotgut,
belly up, stammering, lost
lying down, forlorn
The gazing eyes
Of a passerby
A blank stare? A mannequin?
Did you hear? We’re human again
Eyes, alight
Passing by, alive
nature vs nurture
maybe nurture is just /not/ experiencing nature
maybe nature is just /experiencing/ nature
nature vs mature
one letter removed but maybe synonymous?
Sorry for being so sporadic and posting intermittently without my normal formatting, alas… had a passing thought on the highway on the weekend, here to share.
I was looking at a tree on the side of a highway and thought: imagine that we found a tree could consciously unsink its roots from the ground. That the tree, being alive, was autonomous… would we ask it why it kept rooted and even cared about the world for so long? Why not let the foundation of the world slip, in such a careless world?
maybe we’d ask the tree
its history, to see the sonderness
of the tree. All of the lives it has witnessed come and go, the accidents it has seen, the disputes between drivers, and the death, repair, and rejuvenation of the seasons.
We might begin to stop, and spectate, and see that all around us are living beings. That we live in a living world. We don’t live in our minds.
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