Lyceum Blues

You, caffeinated sophisticate

who sit at firesides

pondering wax

allegedly warmed by syntax

full to the brim

with universal affairs

You, fallacy slayer

master of anecdote

practiced at mediation

articulation

charity

who swears fealty

to nothing

but truth

Tell me

alone

in your study

how do you look?

In bed at night

peaking out at wall shadows

how do you fair?

Have footnote efforts stabilized

that panic in the veins?

Have scholastic rituals

diminished haunting states? 

In the early days

in love
with Spinoza
and Rome

did you really -

did you?

really?-

worry like mad

questioning allegiance

in every direction?

Did you synthesize your madman thirsts

and raw-hurts?

Did you take those deep-darks

those devils thoughts

biting out the insides

clamoring for a conscientious purity,

did you learn to breath steady and full?

Pierce through the world of red-dust,

of popcorn advice?

Does my sourness turn your taste buds?

Yes,

This is what we say

when we are not nourishing the higher parts

when our poor bodies cannot affirm

the dust

which makes its way

around where we play

forgiveness lessons

I know we are alike

you and I         

we and they

I spot a shared longing:

we both wish we grew up

with a family down the street

yes, yes

ours is nice too

but over there,

the grass is always greener

and there,

we didn't have to slave over lessons

lessons of forgiveness

oh, don't play dumb

you know which house!

the one with no fence

whose yard differs

from all in town

with big shadow trees

with worn elegance

it's the one with thin hippy parents

smart and warm

who dress in clothes

you can't seem to find

in any shop

it's that family

who sent their eldest daughter

to a Christian university

to study science

the one whose "No on Prop-8" sign

sits atop flattened meadowgrass

                    

you may sniffle at me

but look here

we are preparing for the delivery of spirit

that's the whole thing

why we pine

and stumble

repress and persevere

it would be good for you

hungry eyes

to get up

come dawn

to walk barren shores

or along taboo rooftops

become some spirit burglar

siphoning resilience

from grandfather sea

from sacred morning pulse

for, all of this

this whole clenched effort

is but preparation

for spirit

preparation

to take in but present winds

and colds and grays

and do with it

what Buddha eyes

and ironist mercy

loves

Ten Things

i know that it is late
but i am going to make a play

if you ask me why
i can gibber
say things about that subtle hesitancy
in your voice

and your smell as i sit next to you
at the end of the day

i could sketch your chapped hands
if you pressed me

relay how gullible i am at your misleading quips

how our eyes seem to open
when they first meet

or, if you are patient with me
i could stumble my way
through more muddy matters:
the way your breathy whispers
do something to my veins
how we can use
our more personal vocabularies
with little preamble

and no posturing

how i know you will challenge me
if we get anywhere

how i know that it will be worth it

Odran and Evelyn

Odran is wilting

Evelyn is blue

Maybe they’re ill

Maybe just on the lip of evolution

Worn thin from impatience

I wonder if even they know

Perhaps it’s the time

That there 7 billion plus

Pulled this way and that

Filled with inorganic weight

Like spinning plates

With precipice suspicions

Of unaccountable gridlocked sour trick

In chemical dreams

Teeth fall from mouths

And when they wake

Stuffy 4am

They cannot remember where they are

Where their tracks began

What brought them here

Oh, I see their baggy eyes

Sometimes they asks themselves things

The product of liberal room and board

The entrapped enlightenment of the well-adjusted

Clutching for straws

Trying to dig out of that hue

They asks: What am I up to?

Why do I do what I do?

Maybe they can find some higher source

Some higher source to make things sing 

--Evelyn--

Today Evelyn rolls over

Playing some cosmic script

Squints at aqua mirror

Why am I wilting?

She asks her face

Why is it like this?

A sneeze escapes her body

She opens the curtains

Greets a foggy reflection

Looks longingly at warm sheets

Throws herself to the game

Like a ball

Such a put together lady

Eve stretches and showers

Places freshly washed clothes atop a freshly washed body

Makes oatmeal and coffee

Sits herself down at the kitchen table

A firm thing

Ordered, assembled smartly by her lonesome

With a pad of computer paper

Eve bullet points her blueness

Resolves to get underneath the thing

Five points about her childhood

Four about aimlessness

Three about unplumbed phobias

Maybe I need to risk my neck

Live rule-free in the city park

Get out of this suffocation, she thinks

When it is time to go to work,

Evelyn slips on new pair of socks

They feel luxurious on her feet

Makes things sing

At the corner 

She turns left instead of right

--Odran--

After Work

Odran roams the indigo department and drug stores

Stares at fancy packages

Walks down nicely polished floors

The hallmark of thousands of years of civilization

At Navy Drugs he checks the backs of vitamin containers

I’ll eat and dress better, he thinks

Take fish oil and garlic

Practice Zazen

Make goals everyday

A clerks walks by

Black vest over a blue sweatshirt

Does the gentleman need assistance?

How can you tell?

Teenage shrug

Teenage sad smile

Magnesium is two for one, Sir

It’s good for bones and things

Ah structure, says Odran

In his lumpy bed 

Odran thinks and squirms

Too cold

Too warm

Too tired

Too much shit to do

He gets up

Drinks a glass of water

On a pad of paper by the refrigerator

He writes down some things for tomorrow

Office things 

Good son, good brother things

Staring out the window at the street light

Odran tries to remember a saying

When he walks back to bed

A wonderful idea hits him
He smiles like a madman

With new socks on his feet
Odran buys chalk at the grocery store
When he get to the corner
He turns left in stead of right

Whimsy

We

bulky atoms and void

who pine

eternally

who take care

and stock

hungry to affirm

the whole

We

squishy water pockets

riders

at a million miles an hour

hanging out

vulnerable

with wild eyes

thrown into

spinning stories

stitched with bruise

and other lessons

I wouldn't change a thing

Soap Box

Yesterday morning

I had a Thought

A damn good one

All warm and soft, vital and clear

The product of good sleep, perhaps

To the city I’d take it

To the wharf where the birds and the people feel grand

Where the sun peaks through the stomach

Where the nice parts of the self can breath

A place where we make our way

When we have nowhere to be, no one to please

Not compelled like the rats we often are

This, this is where I will share my Thought

Amongst the sounds and smells of peace

Of rebirth

I dress in my best

Feeling some extra sobriety

Secure composure                                

Evenness in balanced weight

Atop my body

Clothes I’m reluctant to abuse on the regular day

But this no regular day

With lunch tucked away

In the pack over my shoulder

I ride my old mountain bike through the suburb

And as I ride out through nosier streets

Passing endless shops and homes

Passing schools, warehouses, traffic

I carry myself with stolid dignity

Back straight, slow breathed politeness

As though taking center stage in some ritual

As though I am meeting old mentors

The wharf downtown arrives

As does the mighty noise of crowds and cars

I leave my bike unlocked in the rack

If someone needs it that badly

Then they can surely take it

What meets me shortens my stride

Soap boxes

Soap boxes to every person

Thousands and thousands of soap boxes

Of acidic thought sharers

Talking, screaming, humming into the void

Did I come too late?

Manifesto of the Lifestyle Experimenters

After the given materials of life begin to look themselves rather given and circumstantial, a search ensues: a search for fertile grounds, for a way of life that does not hang itself on the merely local, the merely familiar. With eyes toward this search, our hungry gaze looks out over its own history and it's species history. We earnestly sift through personal traumas and gifts, and scavenge the fruits of the intellectual generations. Here, some of us halt in our tracks, solemn, energized by the breadth of the systematic puzzles or the empirical beauties and tragedies of nature. Vitalized, they'll tell stories which back up their settlement: everything points to the solution of this problem, they say; everything follows laws which can be understood if only we would apply the correctly balanced efforts. For instance, one such settler would appraise themselves thus, "I'm lacking in assertion and my life has become a slavery because of this - and so the way out is to cultivate the powers of self-esteem." Or another would appraise that,  "The world would evolve with the advancement of education, with the eradication of this or that social hang-up." With this, a "battleground" has been facilitated. The search has revealed the fertile grounds we sought, has gone beyond the merely local and fertile.
A great majority at least nod at this approach - in fact, I would wager that all do, at minimum, nod at it. Nevertheless, a minority is not ultimately persuaded. They feel that the "battleground" is just another version of the given, the familiar, the circumstantial. Their suspicion is that the values by which the "battlegrounders" gravitate only goes skin deep: the world does not provide them, only human beings do, and only human beings within circumstantial ruts. From our minorities eyes, all values are experiments in lifestyle, can only be experiments in lifestyle. Building a life on a battle ground is fine, but the added qualification that it is the ground is, for this minority, a kind of shortsightedness or immaturity. They say to the premature settlers: "Look, you have forgotten that always and everywhere we humans are winging-it. We are organic, doing what we do with whatsoever equipment we have access to. Your problems are happenstance, your methods happenstance, and your vision happenstance. There are no ultimate, cosmos signifying obligations that demand to be responsibly met. The world issues no clues which are not first inferred and interpreted by us dying animals. Whatever values you participate in are values you have made up, or else they are values you have followed from the example or compulsion of others. Everything undertaken, however, is guesswork; in guesswork lies all the human possibilities. The approach of you, the battlegrounders, to wholeheartedly get behind some problem you deem central, then, is a strategy, particularly a strategy of coping with life. All there is can be summed up thus, unaccountable weirdness and unaccountable longing. Our movements, which follow, can only be experimental attempts to deal with the unaccountable."