Dreaming and the Box (Director’s Cut)

Dreaming and the Box (Director’s Cut)
 
The box is what’s real;
It’s what we agree on.
It shapes all out words:
What our facts are based on.
 
Outside of the box,
Is the irrational.
The pure world’s chaos,
Purely relational.
 
It is relation
Without any center.
It is free floating,
Always in a wild stir.
 
It has no grounding,
And it has no language.
It can’t present facts
Or reasoned lineage.
 
It’s real, in a way.
It has physical force,
And it can move us
And influence our course.
 
But that influence,
We cannot comprehend,
Cannot understand…
We can only pretend:
 
Pretend to see it;
Pretend to understand;           
Pretend to name it;
Pretend we can command.
 
For that is our age,
To control and command:
Infallible sage,
Nonconformants be damned.
 
It’s simply dreaming:
Outside the box thinking.
To make it something,           
Takes much work and planning.
 
To give it logic--
To forge* the words for it--
That’s the only way,
We can comprehend it.
 
The box is what’s real
Just because we agree
On the facts and words
To confine what we see.
 
 
* James Joyce from Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man: “… to forge in the smithy of my soul…”

Dreaming and the Box (Raw Footage)

Dreaming and the Box (Raw Footage)
 
In order to think
            Outside the box…
You have to know quite well,
            What is in the box.
 
If you don’t…
            You are merely daydreaming.
 
Wisdom of the ages
            Is ridiculed
                        Without a proper reading.
It’s not even misunderstood,
            When you are daydreaming.
 
To take on wisdom
            Is not a fools task,
            Or a waste of time.
It is what makes you
            And your dreams
                        More real,
And solid.
 
It gives them reason and rhyme.
Makes them understood…
 
And provides a plan
            To rebuild the box.

Yes, I Love You

 

Yes, I Love You
 
I can’t expect
Anything from you.
I just enjoy,
Anything you do.
 
You can’t make me
Jealous or upset.
Because I know,
It’s a losing bet.
 
All that I want,
All that I can want,
Is to know you,
So you can haunt…
 
My thoughts and hopes.
Not thoughts for myself…
Or my life’s hopes…
Or for my shelf.
 
Yes, I love you,
But not to have you…
But for how you,
Brighten the world’s hue.

From Conviction to Fall

 From Conviction to Fall
In the absence of meaning,
We cling to conviction.
We assert certainty,
Crucify dereliction.
 
Can’t stand ambiguity
Which meaning might embrace--
Because meaning has depth
Conviction often can’t face.
 
Conviction is just a skin--
A surface that protects
The real substance below
From what corrodes and infects.
 
Below is what is complex:
What is hard to define—
Mined from reality;
What we can’t simply refine.
 
But simplistic convictions,
Lead to quick eviction
Of true contradictions
That defy the non-fiction.
 
Nothing rises from the core.
Nothing beats us, makes us sore.
It is the quaint and the simple,
That we worship and adore.
 
And when meaning is simple,
It isn’t meaning at all;
It is a childish fable,
Setting us up for a fall.

Perfection, Progress/ Values, Meaning, Feeling

 

Perfection, Progress/ Values, Meaning, Feeling

We push for perfection,
And so we miss the point.
We pass the inspection,
But still we disappoint.
 
It is out fixation with
The boxes we check-off,
That leaves us all empty.
Faced with substance, we scoff.
 
Beauty isn’t even
In the beholder’s eye.
It’s only in the plans,
We faithfully apply.
 
So beautiful because
They give us what we want.
Beauty of creation?
Or progress we can flaunt.
 
But how to define them:
Progress and perfection?
By the new and shiny?
By a passed inspection?
 
What of substance?
What of meaning?
What of values?
What of feeling?
 
When the ends and the means
Don’t consider meaning,
Take for granted values,
And are always fleeting…
 
How do we fill ourselves:
Our souls and our lives?
And not just our stomachs.
With checkmarks and archives?
 
We are not boxes;
We are not machines;
We are not problems;
We are human beings.

The Mad and Madman

The Mad and Madman

"... And everybody goes 'awww!'"*

It's the mad ones,

The ones that burn:

A "starry dinamo"**

And never learn. 

Souls all a flame,

Heads on fire.

They make a spectacle

To admire.

Then they are gone

And left aside,

Or it's best that they are,

So flames subside.

A luxury,

To be so mad--

One we can't all afford.

A mindless fad,

A lesson in discord.

"There has never been a greater deed..."***

The madman shouts

What we need,

(Or what we should all) know.

But do we heed? 

The obvious:

Just beyond us...

Just outside the fog that 

envelopes us.

He tries to lead,

To walk us though

That fog and beyond it:

To something new.

A luxury?

For us to have

Something like a prophet,

To plant the seed

From which we all profit. 

*Jack Kerouac from On The Road 

**Allen Ginsberg from Howl

***Nietzsche from The Madman 

Prophecy, Rhyme and Truth

 Prophecy, Rhyme and Truth

Prophets speak the truth,
And they speak in rhyme.
People find that truth,
When they feel that rhyme.

The epistemology,
Of our postmodernity?
Shouting into the dark void,
Brings solace to the annoyed.

And what do we do...
The enlightened few...
When shouting masses
Drown out what is true?

If what they find doesn't rhyme?
How much should we give in time...
Until we force compliance...
And stifle their defiance?

Ah, but who are the prophets?
And what does it mean to rhyme?
And to be in our own time?
And about prophets’ regrets?

Too much to say...
Too much in the way...
Too many ways to rhyme...
And way too little time...