La Route, Le Poumon

That which is 
is
franza
buddtra
jensekqwa

Ok. Donc, this boy
stares at this signpost
taking its one cell
for the sea,
expects he to posit
interest in the destination,
from this long-too-shadowed
ground piece,
imprint keeping,
shoe molded - drumul e lung,
drumul e luuuuuuuuung
drumul e luuuuuuung,
drumul e luung.
drumul e luuuung.
drumul    lung.
drumul    lung.
drumul    lung.
drumul    lung.
drumul    lung.
drumul    lung.
drumul    lung.
drumul    lung.
drumul    lung.
drumul    lung
drum        lung      

A Butterfly's Wingbeat

Along the way to when I go,
I capsized, sensitive,
Meaning to where I'd go, go,
And furthering on from ruin,
I see my soul, aback sitting across
the river scouting through my mind.
On a cloud. Effervescent,
I know these things aloud.
I know them back on my trip ascent,
Foreign dent, entreating,
Gauss repellent, sentimental
And catching the glint in the eye of man's representative,
The one with oars,
Who I assume has learned to steer before
on another river he didn't swim.
Some displacement.
Some interaction, recollection,
Then I go on being on my own
terrestrial turn, else-minded,
Far-sighted, scneted
Going on the same spot to where I
haven't been in whiles larger than the moon.
Other elses.
Other perspectives.
More pairs of eyes to be had 
The tenor to travesty,
Sifting earnest at the bad
The forthwith in keeping with
Minimalism and what we keep in our own mindsets
Bless them secrets.
Tenfold misfits.
And growing pains.
For the man who grows
Is the man who drowns.
That's what they told me when
I went downstairs to drink.
Clearly I ought not think.

Where Trains Pass

So I was thinking about words again
as I do upon occasion,
when the tap's running
and the photographs of us
degenerate into crumpled up
faceless flash-banged porridges.

I eat from those stained bowls,
you know - I don't fare well when
there's too much grime on the counters
and too much steam on the windows
but my lens keep focusing in and out
on our visages, somehow battered
by the fact that it's been too long since
we even considered the stuff under
our fingernails -
times have gone, oui,
thumping's a past tense
and movie reels have stretched out
the distance between your digits and
my colon,


too long,
may I miss my mister man?
my mystery monk mauled American?
masculine meat... met
menstrual fuckitall

and the shot glasses still seem to smoke 
when the sunlight catapults through the windows
on days like these,
when I scavenge from the cupboards,
when my recycling bin is full of
cardboard cut-outs and supplement containers.
I think there has to be a point,
where you can press 4 once
2 once
and 9 three times
before you consider that
I'm still here, in your kitchen,
waiting for you to come home.

Don't Take Anything Seriously

"I have heard about one Sufi mystic, Junnaid, who every day in the evening prayer used to thank existence for its compassion, for its love, for its care.

Once it happened that for three days they were traveling and they came across villages where people were very antagonistic against Junnaid, because they thought his teachings were not exactly the teachings of Mohammed. His teaching seemed to be his own, and, “He is corrupting people.”

So from three villages they had not got any food, not even water. On the third day they were really in bad shape. His disciples were thinking, “Now let us see what happens in the prayer. How can he now say to existence, ‘You are compassionate to us; your love is there. You care about us, and we are grateful to you.’ ?”

But when the prayer time came, Junnaid prayed the same way. After the prayer the followers said, “This is too much. For three days we have suffered hunger, thirst. We are tired, we have not slept, and still you are saying to existence, ‘You are compassionate, your love towards us is great, and you take so much care that we are grateful to you.’ ”

Junnaid said, “My prayer does not depend on any condition; those things are ordinary. Whether I get food or not I don’t want to bother existence about it — such a small thing in such a big universe. If I don’t get water...even if I die, it does not matter, my prayer will remain the same. Because this vast universe...it makes no difference whether Junnaid is alive or dead.”

This is what I mean when I say, don’t take anything seriously...not even yourself. And then you will see anger simply has not happened. There is no possibility of anger. And anger is certainly one of the great leakages of your spiritual energy. If you can manage to be playful about your desires, and still be the same whether you succeed or you fail.

Just start thinking about yourself at ease...nothing special; not that you are meant to be victorious, not that you have to succeed always in every situation. This is a big world and we are small people."

~ Osho

Nothing Much Registered

Drive, off the edge of the map behind the horizons that I keep hidden even from my own view. I don't get to see what you may be looking to see; I hide my heart, myself. I speak. I yearn. Organisation is a fantastic method of synthesis. I am learning to drive. But let's draw parallels to what is happening in our existence and let's co- with peers and fashionable returns at greatest facile. Semiotic sensation, grasped like a worm from an eagle's point of view, vanished from gravity's bind, forgotten by the photon mistranslation and coronated well within. Drive me.

Aujourd'hui, c'est un jour de je ne sais. Pas, pas, pas, may je ne sais pas où I go. Ok.

It's a question to ask. I don't feel that drive to make something happen. I have been hiding my heart, trying to run away from answers, by using other answers, by making up my own answers. I don't know the answer? No, I think the fear I have is that I know the answer and I cannot find peace in it. I have to bring peace to it. Because it's not going to provide me with the seeking that I will not do to make it into something it is not. Philosophy.

I'm gay, a little reluctant to hold on to cage bars when I just numbed myself into a fire and blew away smokelling through, to gather in skies, to sail upon a bolta d'étoiles. I'm like a little kid, sprinting to misunderstanding from the freedom of his mother's lap. I'm the steps he's taking, and I look back and watch the footprints recede into the fibres forested in the carpet at the microscopic niveau, where mites live and parasites struggle (no they don't, they are.) Paracetamol won't cure my euphoric feeling of abandonment (that's what I've learned to call it), but I guess I grasp at straws and cancel out my word documents with the markings of the spot. Do me. I don't know. Generally, you'd find me wanting somewhere and trying to fix something up, but pas back, pas back, tendon hold.

Où sommes-nous? Où suis-je?

Who

Knows

Not beaucoup, I cannot describe what I am feeling, because every time I try, my mind incarcerates it and takes over the words and runs with ideas and then I look and I feel that isn't what I really wanted to say. It's only when my mind says nothing but the writing somehow flows from some 'puts' that I don't question it and just simply allow the flow to flow.

Je viens. Come to think of it, chiar este ceva la care nu m-am asteptat.

Vine dimineata. Sunt aici, astept raspuns, ca undeva cumva o sa vine o lumanare si o sa curga ceara in cer, aprinzand zorii. Foc frumos, fac frumusete din beteala de pedeapsa, din impodobirea cenzurata, din privirea oilor, din comertul de oala. Ma uit dupa ghiveci. Je cherche les bras de maintenant, je cherche à être embrassé par la manière de vivre vivement, acum.

Yet I am still walking, banded somewhere with un pansamment de punga de plastic transparenta et je me sent hardly progressive. Strange lump, strangled place. I want to express that I don't know what is happening. I want an answer that is fresh, new, that does not come from the old patterns of thinking, and this I have asked for. So I cannot sit here and sift through the folders of my mind for it, in vain. Puisque, en vain, si je ne trouve rien, rien ne me trouvera. Mais je veux être trouvé. Je veux être descoperit, adus in locul in care pot sa fiu, viu, sans amertume, with whoever. I don't have that drive to part with myself, though I want a divorce from the sentences I say to myself. They matter not, now that I remember that the most important thing about being is awareness, that past is gone and that now is all there is.

Je suis fatigué. Fat n' gay. Latter's a quizzical centipede, is it not? I asked you, before, to drive me to myself, but we seem to be going around in circles so I realise what you meant now by 'the state of consciousness is what matters most' so then it doesn't matter so much what I say here because it can be seen by others and yes, that's fine. My world's a touring globe, one on which I spin, around which I orbit, within which I boil, until I sometimes have to release. My words, they're all over.

Catering For The Heart That Leapt

Amertume,
an elm lodged below my feeling heart, tender
split wood, divorced worlds
crackling away under a blaze of corneas.




See, the bus wheels rolled,
got caught on it, surprise with a paper knife,
a single cut, surgery by my knowing mentality
upon itself;
bled then and there, on the seat,
with the wood jutting out of a corpse,
call it mine,
call it the scene of a suicide
(see the markings en craie, contours).

It's true what they said -
you put something in a circle, it dies.





Imagine ce qui se passe quand on brûle
the remains
would they be able to light another fire
for the warmth of another,
to increase the blood circulation
of another.

Just give them a push,
a prod,
and watch the hemoglobin tip.

Images

I've come to a realisation - another in a series, out now - about who I am 'not'. I wrote this down in a note to myself:

"When I stop thinking, the self I think I am ceases to exist. I am empty. Perhaps that is what is so scary about not thinking - the loss of that link to the world. Without it, I simply am - and that feels lost, but maybe it is the state of surrendering flow."

Having let go of vices and needs to project images onto people, after surrendering the idea that I cannot truly communicate who I am to anyone, I felt liberated. Lost, yes, but a liberating floating away into somewhere. I don't know. And because I haven't known for a while - though I did try - I found that there isn't really anything to know that won't come when it's needed. I wonder who I am. I have thoughts about that, and then somewhere along the track I am reminded that those thoughts matter not and they do not make up who I am. So there you are, sitting in the garden, clutching my coffee. You called me sugar. Pink lyrics. My thoughts can change quickly from one thing to another without much heed for subject matter save for a few conditions such as what I am thinking about has to somehow matter to me in some way, and it must also catch my attention. Otherwise no thoughts hold. So in my attempt to be a river, I also figured out that I am a fish, and a rocky outcrop, and an ice cube drifting, and an arrow penetrating the air. And I am none of those.

You see, I play. I try to figure out who I am. But I will never be able to truly express it. (Need I?) And I will never be able to communicate it to anyone. (Need I?) And no one will ever be able to understand who I am in my depth through an image of myself, because the image will never be good enough, it will always miss the vital part of 'being', since an image, being an illusion, is 'not'. Therefore, what's the point?

Having fun and laughing makes so much more sense now, because there are things that don't necessarily make sense and when the need for sense is taken out of the question, these senseless things somehow gain a certain sense. And there ain't no reason why - that I can decipher, that I need decipher.

The subconscious knows everything. So when I say I know who I am, I mean that it knows who I am and I only have images, parts, that I can present to others. Perhaps that's useful sometimes - but only when I can use the parts to point beyond them. That's the clincher. I've tried projecting myself onto others hoping others would remember the images of me that I hoped to have placed in their minds. Yet, I haven't really gotten anywhere in terms of satisfaction, because what is truly satisfying - being appreciated for who you are - cannot be found in images, since images are always incomplete. And I want the complete package. And to think, I didn't realise before that I was trying to get that complete package with an incomplete tool set/map. It is like trying not to think, with thought.

Maybe there is usefulness in images. I don't think they're worth discarding totally, because I think they can be used, as I said, for pointing beyond themselves. That choice of images, however, I am to understand that it is not mine to make. For I cannot make such choices. I cannot be the distinguishing force - because I don't know everything. The subconscious though, I suppose, can let me know. I suppose. But it knows. It knows it can let me know and it does let me know when it knows I ought to know. And I know.

All's I got to do is listen. And watch. And pay attention to now. Don't need to judge. Don't need to make up stories and piece things together, because the moment I start using thoughts, I block out intuiting. All's I got to do is be. Let others see me as they will.