Insight

Brief random words that I jotted down during yet another fit of insomnia. 

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Stop Screwing Around With Things You Don’t Rightly Understand

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What’s more real than real (is real)

while sitting around with the hangman on the deal

aces high when the jokers are low

preacher in the middle speaks gruffly and slow

one hand on the dice the other on chips

DJ man spins coins as the children do flips

tarot readers with prophetic zeal

page history like a zodiac wheel

poster children of a future to come

half seeing knots waiting to be undone

glass is half full on an empty gut

in times of peace speach writers in a rut

words meaningless with no chains to bind

flip the tape over and press rewind.

I speak great thoughts,

alone in my head-

with no one to utter;

but that’s what he said.

The old ones died,

far before their time-

an apocolypse of rational,

was never so sublime.

The spider spun,

the web grew divine,

till truth spoke poisonous-

and tainted the wine.

Who called the ancients

to arise and to dance?

When beckoned to die,

they left us to chance.

Those who never live,

have no fear of dying.

A puppet of half strings,

abyssmal when trying.

Those who have lived,

fear only their shadows;

as the day ages-

they’re stunted, while it grows.

Long lines emerge,

as if on painted sand.

The face loses form-

sinking into the land.

So went the gods,

first by twos then in droves.

under the mountain side-

and agriculturally sound groves.

We called the gods to die,

before their time and beneath their sky-

when speaking out of term

we insisted upon a leveled why.

It wasn’t enough,

to see stars sparkle as jewels.

We pirated the crown,

like court jesters and fools.

Now looking around,

for someone to blame-

it’s upon each other,

we set sight and take aim.

No fallen angels,

or punished sins.

It’s all or nothing

else no one wins.

Distorting time on a dingy of obscurity,

jaded perceptions of the simple purity,

short ripples crash like a tidal wave,

marks a moment as a shallow grave.

Clouds dash as ink blot morse codes,

to where the hidden mind abodes,

adrift and without an anchor to fall,

marks the heavens as a star laced wall.

Once a boats sail was an act of the one,

then came explosive powders and the gun,

finally with reason we iconed evolution,

and the apocoylpse a side effect of pollution.

While in the city-guided by laws and by reason,

science turns stone and measures the season,

out in the sea from horizon to coast line,

a place of dreams, hypothesis-and divine.

A torrential rain of idea a thousand years ago,

today the same would barely cause a wind to blow,

what once was given to some God’s quake,

is now granted truth when continental shelfs collide-and break.

What once was important becomes lost in the new,

many were concerned-but now there are few,

time grants new insight-or relativistic illusion,

that which is important today-may soon be labeled delusion.

Moments are called that only at the end,

a climax to a story and history on the mend,

minor ripples float unable to detect,

till we choose to or are forced to reflect.

quick poem just wrote about how I see myself trying to make sense of all the nuances of humankind.  Where they came from, where they’re going.  At the end I’m trying to give the sense that rather than actually learning anything or making anything new-it feels more like I’m unlearning and trying to forget all that I’ve been conditioned to accept.  Devolving is an appropriate term.  A blank slate is just that blank.  Imagine trying to rewrite a language from scratch, could you come close to having one near the size of an every day dictionary before your time expires?

Revise
——

Step into my dungeon mind,
where eyes are fluff dotted
and whispers underlined.
Into horrorshows of green and black,
my soul stretches,
yet gives little slack.

Green is the season,
beginnings my friend.
yet black turns the winter,
always to the end.

Watching wilting flowers
with dream stained visions,
another climbs up the towers
the multitudes submissions.

Different is a trait
lost to early adulthood
when differents become psychotics
just misunderstood.

Battled so long against comformity,
that now much conflict is meaningless.
conventional handshakes are a mystery-
as are ‘bless you’ replies to a sneeze,
or ‘thanks’ and ‘would you please’.
forgone, would they notice something amiss?

Isolated and unlearning
de-volution my mind is churning
language reborn in one-zero grunts
minor are the challenges
the revisionist confronts.