And Difficult To Grasp

 "And Difficult To Grasp"*

We used to strive for the heavens,

But what we reached were merely skies.

Leaving the heavens

For our dreaming eyes. 

Above us: ships and satellites

And mathematical equations.

No mythical flights

Of gods and demons.

From skies like these what can come down,

But mechanical laws and rules.

Specialists wear crowns.

Poets are just fools.

The skies are all full.

The heavens, empty.

And our minds are so over full,

While our dreams and souls are empty. 

*From Hölderin's Patmos

Reading, Left Undone

Reading, Left Undone

Research is going into the world

--Or these days to a database—

And counting and classifying things.

Putting it all in “its place.”

That is the ‘professional’ standard, 

And is done so much these days. 

It captures so much that is useful, 

And is used in so many ways. 

Reading is something so different.

Its not just classifying, 

At least it shouldn’t be just that way.

It deals with ways of thinking. 

Reading is the thinking of the thoughts

That ground the classifying

By which the research is done. 

It’s a vital critiquing. 

And yet, it is too often

What is neglected and left undone. 

A Path for History

A Path for History

Different paradigms

Can fall into line,

Can make it seem as if

History has a spine.

Something firm and fine,

Something for all time.

Our clear, clean path forward

Right to the sublime.

But that’s on what scale?

And on what timeline?

By what plan does it grow:

A bush, tree or vine?

Insomniac or Addict

Insomniac or Addict 

When I am up late in the night, 

It’s a struggle to get to bed: 

The glass of booze is still half full, 

My phone ain’t even half way dead. 

Much to tweet that’s on my mind still

And scroll or swipe: up, down, left, right. 

Why should I take some sorta pill

That will make me put out the light?

Karma

Karma

Yesterday was the best day, 

And today might just be the worst. 

I was out, had such a time… 

And that balloon is bound to burst.

There isn’t a pin in sight, 

But that never stopped it before.

You know it will always find

A way to settle that damn score.  

All This Way

 All This Way

I came all this way
To gain some perspective,
But coming all this way
Made my senses defective.

I’m so out of place.
This isn’t a new page.
Its so utterly strange,
I don’t recognize my own face.

But I can’t go back.
It’s me who has changed now.
Like getting white from black;
I would, if I just knew how.

Already There

Already There

How, how, how…
Do I get off this bottle train?
How, how, how…
Do I keep myself somewhat sane? 

When, when, when…
Will I grab that hanging lifeline? 
When, when, when…
Will I reclaim my life as mine? 

Why, why, why…
Should I even pretend to care? 
When the world is going to hell…
And I feel I am already there. 

What Makes Me Me

 What Makes Me Me

I woke up today
And looked at my feed.
Knew how to respond:
‘cause, know how to read.

Garbage in, they say,
Garbage out, it’s true.
I know what to say,
‘cause I know what’s true.

No matter what it is I hear,
No matter anything I see:
I know all I was told is true.
I know that is what makes me me.

It’s not a matter of thinking.
Not a question of being right.
It’s a matter of toeing it,
That drawn line that is clear and bright.

Writing is response;
It’s mechanical.
A push back on things
That aren’t ‘factual.’

And the facts are clear
They way they are sold,
Or shoved down your throat
By those with black gold.

No matter what it is I hear,
No matter what it is I see:
I know what its not genocide
If it is done by you and me.

It’s not a matter of thinking.
Not a question of being right.
It’s a matter of getting to
What they make us dream every night.

And who is to say?
And who is to judge?
And what is enough,
To believe the judge?

Blood taken by some
And shed by others.
Who says which is which:
Victim and killers?

I know that is what makes me me.
I know what I was told is true.
And the victim is always me.
And the killer is always you.

That drawn line that is clear and bright,
Is how I always find my way.
Not a question of being right.
Not matter what others say.

From Both Ends

From Both Ends

I woke up early,
Because I was out drinking.
So much to get done.
Just keep myself from sinking.

The need to keep up,
Keeps screwing everything up.
Always on my mind.
A constant: don’t fall behind!

Can’t just stop and rest.
Always need to blow off steam.
Sleeping is more like death.
Before I bust at the seam.

So exhausted that,
But I just keep on moving;
I don't think too much…
Never sure what I am doing.

It’s a life, of sorts.
And a way to get ahead?
Maybe, maybe not…
Keep it up, until you’re dead.

Standing on the Corner

Standing on the Corner 

Why can’t I just smile,
When she catches my glance?
My eyes break away, All looks seem askance.

When does someone’s look,
Become more like a stare?
Not a compliment,
But something of a scare?

*The tile is, of course and reference to the Dean Martin song Standing on the Corner.