To be left hanging

082708
We all held the line,
And the strongest men fell.
With the snow came the cold.
With the bullets, the hell.

Their faces like wires,
Their teeth gleamed like fires,
While bodies wound round,
Some laughed as they fired.

something we did.
they praised us,
but we massacred

But we knew what the hell we were doing was wrong.

I hope that our children forgive us this day.
We provided the massacre

One of the scarriest things is to feel a moment and be unable to put it into words. But there seem to be some reasons for leaving emotions in the body, and not on paper. Something about them being cheapened.

Life is picking up. Today I biked to and from work. I have to start


082908

Life is evidently and infinitely fractal.

HOW GENTLE TO BE LEFT HANGING:
Flowed down the street,
Long hair covering a mind,
On which hung woven handbags,
One shoulder high,
The other, hand low.

She strolled downhill
To a market in the square
And swiftly made a line for the stand
Of shining red apples.

The left hand lifted,
The right assisted with a vessel,
The woven bag,
For the first apple to be placed.

Then the mind considered
One crunchy fruit sufficient,
And spared the other bag
It's manner unfettered, omniscient.

AS MY BABY SLEEPS
That once in the times
When the small being whines
And the mother doth whimper with coos,
Seems it rather quite fair
For the mother's just there
And the being calms down for a snooze.

Her eyes doth flicker
Over the bed made, wicker,
To deposit this slept form for night.
As I watched this display
I wondered some day
Would I find my own child in the night?

Would I gladly behold her,
Would she then use my shoulder,
To lay her head down and close eyes?
And when out went her awake
Then the dreams would they take?
I would glance down her spine in surprise.

Her back would then curl
She'd breath in the night world,
And I'd cover her body with sheets.
Then I'd worry and sleep
As my happy kept me deep,
In the glory, as my baby sleeps.

THREE HANDS
My friend once had asked me
At what beach didst though bask thee?
Came I at him with fear
"And were you standing there"
He mentioned with resolute
"Maybe I'd followed suit
And manage a day in the sand"

Asking what was the price
After the rice and the dice
For the attachment of his strong third hand?
I paid a man out through my pocket,
Asked the clerk if he stocked it,
With the nature and size he'd demanded.

"But I can't understand,
Why you wanted the hand,
When you already have two, understand?!"
Answered him with from the sands,
Thankful I'd paid his demands,
He turned and waved back, with three hands.


error correction procedure

083008
As quick as my mind threatens me with a Focus Affliction, I return to the realization that I must let nothing obsess the mind for too long. I don't fully understand the reasoning behind it, but when I obsess over one thing, I forget other things which can turn on my entire being and drive me to ecstasy with their experience. Next I manhandle my "middle-way" mentality back into the mix, and everything is filed away to be experienced when I wish it, not when it wishes to experience me.
But it is an extreme comfort to have these possibilities filed away in the drawers of my mind's desk. Some long nights have been passed by the simple pulling on of multiple drawers to glimpse a portion of their contents. It is enough to comfort me, and I am far more comforted that simply those portions set my mind at ease because I KNEW what the whole held in store!
A beautiful woman in white underwear, a swim in clear water tinted green, morning rays filtering a curtain-clad window, the view from a mountain top, the tickle in the throat from a good glass of aged wine. All and more are reason enough NOT to become obsessed with any one in particular. This is my survival. I take it responsibly and hedonistically, only when I have time away from working, of course!

I'm glad for the orientation of my house: in the morning, the sun easily slithers into my kitchen where I'm conglomerating my morning smoothie; but in the evening, the waning sun prepares my bed with the last of its warmth before my tired body drops upon the mattress springs.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boltzmann_machine

I'd rather sit here and think about the things I never meant to do,
Than think about the times which I wish I'd spent with you.

But sometimes when it's cold outside, I think about the fall,
And I realize it's much better having you around, then not knowing you at all.