liquid withdrawl...

Today I walked outside and was forced to look down because the sun was too bright. I remembered what the sun meant to me, and braved what I knew would only last until my eyes adjusted. Then I noticed a particularly efficient spider web. The fabricator had managed to snag many insects in the threads of his web, but either he only cleans up from his meals periodically, or his long-term web upkeep is like my housecleaning. I felt like shaking the web to help him out, and remove the excess corpses from spots which could likely snag new victims, but then I realized that he could be nostalgic like me, and could be displaying the remnants of his favorite catches for passersby. I feel as if I should invite people over to increase his viewership from just myself. Perhaps he doesn't like more than just one, but he should really be proud of his survivalist accomplishment. I suppose I should invite them soon before his web is destroyed by another one of our rainstorms.
I feel like his location couldn't have been better chosen: he is slung over a flowerbox. I sometimes wonder where and when I'll die. But when I do, I hope my head comes to rest in a bed of flowers.

When at last my body falls and there is no energy left to stop its plummet, yes, I hope to fall among flowers. I may crush a few, but those I have mashed into the ground will be replaced by more when at last my decaying corpse fertilizes their earth. I am just sojourning here. I leave it to various flashes of color stuck atop green needles.

Bo lent me the movie Once. I am very impressed and may watch it with Deutsch A if I get the chance. The main title song moves me. I had to stop it mid song and call Bo to thank him for the recommendation. He says he has the soundtrack to trade me for a copy of the new Coldplay CD. What a worthwhile trade.
This week I must find a pool. My body and mind are missing those motions. I feel as if the gym is isolating various parts of my body, whereas the pool equally caresses all parts. I miss the water's tenderness, and I miss the way it runs down the valley in my back.

a candle and you

This image is the fascade of the Neues Museum, resplendant with unsuspecting tourists.

MAJESTIC REDUCTION
It was rather majestic,
And became a public point of interest.
The coasters I hoarded,
Bob's camera recorded.

They formed a tower,
Taller than he thought I could build,
With a portion of coasters,
On which empty glasses had been filled.

But the most majestic thing,
That occurred after the construction,
Was when the thing crashed down on the bar:
Not its having been built, but its reduction.


DORIAN GRAY
When ashes blow, these times I know,
No other than myself to live,
I find that low undiscovered self,
Hath for myself it's hurt to give.

For I, the man here passing by,
Doth outlast all mere mortal form,
If one love hast caught on my eye,
I can only postpone the torment, forlorn.

When one knows one's love will lie,
In a mahogany box, while I live, not die,
There lays a disconnected ambition,
Which comes from surviving life's attrition.

My picture, it torments me from the wall,
Not for its length, nor the way its shadows fall,
But for the truth it knows for me,
That my loves will be rendered in pictures, similarly.

Somebody asked me why I write poetry. I write it because I have a sentimental tinge to me which wants to reminisce over memories I find poignant. I remember most of these things in vivid versions, but some I like to bask in the Sun next to. The Sun's rays, however, allow me to clearly see the expression of what I've just experienced, and that expression, if set down on paper, clearly delineates a set of words which could be called a poem, with their subject a part of my history. I only wonder if it comes across as meaning anything to anyone else, but then I'm not really sure that actually matters at all...

O, SEE TREE-TREE
Oh, see tree-tree, wondering what will befall,
The very essence of your being after the magistrate's call.
On what you consider natural and blessed,
Your prosecution's case will rest.

To disallow the proclivities of a body,
Is to distract the mind from pure pursuit.
This creates mannacles, strong but shoddy,
And provides derision too incalculable to compute.

And there are many like you,
Oh, see tree-tree, who wish they wouldn't
Catch the eye of the magistrates too,
But for defense: none are as articulate as you.

For the purposes of a line,
You've passed, your imagination somewhat steadied
By the manuscripts you left behind,
Into which our own ideas are levied


I was a bit unhappy went I went to pick up a sandwich, because my favorite sandwich maker was not working. Quite frankly, I'm glad he's not because it's Sunday, but I missed my usual fix of entertainment. I very much enjoy watching him construct the sandwich. He is the most METICULOUS sandwich maker I've ever come across. It gives me shivers, quite like goosebumps in waves, to watch him do it. This feeling is very pleasant to me.
I have experienced it in other places as well: in a quiet office when someone, with swooping penmanship, is filling out a form in front of me; or when my Mother runs her fingers through my hair to be followed by the trimmer to make my head look less mop-like; or on a warm evening when a resonant voice tampers with my eardrums; or from the intimate finger grazes of a lover. I can't really pinpoint the experience to a set of causes which are related. They seem rather unrelated, actually. And any hypothesis I could manage to equate them to a specific stimulus, however, would surely be thrown off balance by the introduction of this new situation the making of a sandwich by a meticulous food preparation dude. Who knows.

Last night, I stupidly left the sunroof open, and the weather played a hydrating trick on me and drizzled. Today, I drove to work perched on a raincoat, and laughed at how easily I confused the coldness of the seat with the wetness of my ass.
Just went for a walk, as I can barely stand the office anymore. I mentally went through airflow models to optimize the drying of my car, but out of laziness and lack of desire to conjecture further, I went with the both front windows rolled down. The task of checking periodically to ensure that the weather does not screw with me farther will aid in my escape from this dungeon. Good thing too...

Among the many toys I encountered, perhaps my favorite is the pool noodle. It's long, thin foam tube for the beating of brothers when pool-bound. A distant cousin to the pool noodle is even thinner, perhaps a bit shorter, and constructed of harder plastic. When held at one end and spun like a rogue garden hose, the air across the opening creates high-pitched, breathy whistles. I haven't touched one since I was young.
The faucet in the bathroom down the hall makes the same noise when the water is turned on. The water pressure is, at first, worthy of being called a faucet. Yet progressively, the water flow dies to a trickle. It is during this decrease in flow rate that the breathy whistling occurs, and I am brought back to my childhood every time I wash my hands. I've never enjoyed going to the bathroom so much!

establish where I am
peace and quiet of the dead i find comforting

one day i noticed an older chick open lift the latch, and close the door as if she wouldn't want to rouse the dead from sleeping
go...

LET MY OWN FIRES BURN
Twas was fair and bright and sunny day,
Amid the stones, on grass I lay.
Each stone had carved upon its face,
The name of bones boxed under its place.

The solitude does comfort me,
Like a walk in the woods, or a climb in a tree.
I stop here often, to hear quiet sounds,
And lie amid stones, on the grassy, green grounds.

The sun began to dip and bow,
I pondered if I should be leaving now.
Then came a small click, followed by a creak,
As into the silence the gate began to speak.

From its gaping mouth, there came a shoe,
Followed by an ankle, then a dress of blue.
About this old woman, the gate had quietly spoken,
And her entrance had the silence barely even broken.

(She seemed as a mother, entering a room,
Where a child sleeps in bed, on the floor her toys are strewn.
Then the toys are put away, and with the broom the mother sweeps,
For her desire is to let this precious baby girl sleep.)

She replaced the latch, then pivoted 'round,
Slow to make her way, 'cross the grassy ground.
Then up to a stone, like a ship to a distant shore,
On a path she had known, and traveled on before.

Her lips began to quiver, her face in great inquire,
As her imploring eyes belied her long-held desire,
To be with this lover, as he lay in the ground,
Amid the stones and the candles, and the flowers planted round.

It was sometime before she turned and departed,
Perhaps a little relieved, though still broken-hearted.
To experience the living talking with the dead,
Fills the mind with longing, and very rarely dread.

I noticed I was again holding my breath,
As I witnessed a love, unshaken by death.
And I vowed I would love, let my own fires burn,
Then I left there that day, never wanting to return.

i've seen many beautiful things

description of the candle, and you, and how i like it?
how I can't stop it? how I

A CANDLE AND YOU
I've seen oceans of warm, placid, aquamarine blue,
I've seen sunsets and rainbows, and fall colors too.
I've seen beauty which captures and burns in my eyes,
I've seen lilies on the land, butterflies in the skies.
These things have me roused, almost too much to handle.
But they pale when compared with you, waiting for me, beside a lighted candle.

I'm rather pissed that I had to squeeze the last one out like an extraction of the large intestine. Hopefully a change in sensation and another look at it will allow me to edit satisfactorily.

THE PARTY NEVER ATTENDED
He must have fought hard against the snow,
Freezing from the swirling wind, and the ice below.
He may have seen inside that fateful night,
As the guests laughed and toasted, and the fire burned bright.
My door was sealed tight,
To keep out the snow and the night,
The next morning, what I saw made me fall to the floor:
My best friend, lay dead and solid, just outside my door.


I can't really believe myself, but I got tired of reading, and I wanted something mindless to look at. The dude in SDO had the football game on! How perfect! I enjoy the vernacular, but it's funny watching imbeciles fall down, stand up, and fall down again. I know they're getting paid more than I am, and perhaps have larger social circles and better sports therapists, but give me a notebook, and a view in the mountains any day.
The funniest is their quick spurts of celebration, whether at a touchdown, or after a good sack. Very few touchdown dances are very memorable, but there are some which deserve mention. I won't mention them though. The post-sack slapstick is hilarious: football players don't wear helmets for protection, but to save cerebellums from a celebratory smack from a teammate! These hits seem to be the most vicious. I just did something well, what the hell did you just punch me for! But I'm assuming this is the adopted celebratory method. I'd probably try to execute a back-flip, or something else worth remembering, rather than socking my valuable teammate. Oh well.
Luckily, while in this office, I remembered that there was popcorn and a microwave in that office. I ball parked the cooking time based on the girth of the bag, and was rewarded by something like 98 percent perfect pop: none burned, and only a few un-popped kernels. Needless to say, my hand quickly developed a film of butter as I ravenously dove it deeper and deeper into the bag. I'm fully awake now, and it's a rather fine 5:28 in the morning.
I have successfully resisted the urge to decorate the adjacent wall with a creation of post-it notes. But I think a waste of perfectly good, sticky, yellow paper. Furthermore, removing them from the wall would warrant a trashing, because I could not adequately replace them on top of each other in a uniformed fashion. Screw it, the post-its are staying in the drawer. Goddamn right!
Goddamn these computers are too slow! Again I'm thwarted by placement. I'm in the freaking basement, so any launching of computers out the window would not cause too much damage to the offending instrument. Curse holes and the filling of them with structures of cement!
I'm going to go revisit that crap about some hot chic and a candle. I have the image in my head, but it's not coming out on paper!

once their feet were safely clear...

THE PAINTING
What brings you to me?
What causes you to erect your body stationary
in front of my rectangular flatness?
I am a stretched cloth bridge abutment,
Waiting for the artist to lend a hand;
A hand and some markings.
The markings make hands,
Sometimes minstrels; or stern, posed faces; timbers, or black eyes.
Terror has been gently mixed in, but I hang and do not perambulate.
I am all things to no one,
But something to everyone who chances a glimpse.
What am I but canvas and colour?

Last night, I chose to rest my head in a garden just outside the city walls of Nuremberg. The night was long and full of great beauties and good beer. We were unceremoniously kicked out of our hotel because one of our party flicked off the concierge. Those besides me decided to employ a taxi driver to ferry them back to Ansbach. I was intent on seeing the Neusmuseum: State Museum for Art and Design in Nuremberg, and therefore chose to close the doors on the car once their feet were safely clear.
It was four in the morning, and I headed to the nearest, uninhabited garden, pulled my sweater around me and plopped down on my back amid the mulch and chlorophyll. Five gently restless hours later, I stood up and brushed off as I meandered towards the huge glass facade of the museum. Huge shades rolled up to reveal the building inside. 5,50 Euro allowed me the time and the pass to amble amid artwork and objects.
I must say that only a few pieces did anything for me. Luckily, art could be categorized as "the quality, production, expression, or realm, according to aesthetic principles, of what is beautiful, appealing, or of more than ordinary significance," and pieces which I thought were crappy could actually hold aesthetic appeal to someone else. One of my favorite pieces is the building architecture itself, concocted by a man named Volker Staab. But the piece on display in a certain art-containing room was one on the third floor. I don't recall what it was called, but it aroused me like a sunset over snowcapped mountains. It was a large square of black metal approx one meter squared, and uniformly half a centimeter thick. One corner was bent approx thirty degrees off the plane of the rest of the shape, the crease in the metal describing the hypotenuse of an isosceles, right triangle. This triangle couldn't have been more than 5 percent of the whole, and the whole form was screwed into the wall using three screws placed at natural intervals a few centimeters in from the vertexes of the triangle. This caused the angle between the wall and the larger portion of the square to be congruent with that caused by the bent portion.
It caught my eye at first due to its novelty, I was confused when I saw it out of the corner of my eye. I couldn't resist the urge, so I waited until no guards were around, and thunked it with the knuckle on my right hand. The sound was gentle and low, which seemed to complement the black color.

"...the little thing that locks the bottle of beer?"
"bottle cap" I answered.

On those things upon which I'm reliant,
I find myself strangely compliant,
For the needing makes the wanting
Ask the hoping for advice.
And of my neediness, I'm wont,
To know I'm heading towards fabricating vice.

Well Balanced Tray

Tonight I was enjoyably rejuvenated by some tanning and chinese food, in no particular order. I find this combination to be utterly restful when combined with the sound and aesthetic of a fountain, around which children are doing laps, well placed in a public area.
I'm starting to lose grasp on a well-balanced tray. Must re-cage and find balance again.

The rain was beautiful this evening. The freshly cut grass combined with the hydrated stench to make me feel like a fool as I checked out and purchased a stick of deodorant. How much I would give to smell like cut grass and sweat in public, and have the caliber of people surrounding me who drank in the aroma like fine wine.

Today in a brief, I got a laugh from the crowd by using the description "sweet conceptual concoction" for a plan I had approved, which seemed to me well thought out and efficient. Sergeant Beard even fired a nurf arrow at me. I get no respect for being articulate. But it does keep them off guard, and that's my favorite leadership style. Keep them guessing, and you always have the upper hand. Down with the simpletons!

yyyhbyyyyyyyyy7y76 The previous y's, h's, b, and numbers are the specific keys I had to actuate to retrieve a follicle of my hair from between the keys of this confounded keyboard. I should keep tweezers on hand to increase the accuracy/efficiency of the plucking I may have to undergo in the future.

THE MASK IN THE CORNER
Screw that mask in the corner,
It's the fascade of an ancient mourner.
But with light,
I gave it life.
Perhaps it mourns in attempt to warn her.

Her is the victim of the travesty exacted,
Through its eyes, its brain registered the enacted,
Can a mask feel a twinge?
Or a deluge of revenge?
Can it retaliate with revenge exacted?

Or is the mask only a reflection,
Of the face's version of how the mind reflected,
On the action,
Or satisfaction,
Of seeing something which is unexpected?

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.