My theme song since I was about six.
It is kind of scary how little I have progressed over the years. Or how aware I was of how hard the world is, even back then.
When I was young, it seemed that life was so wonderful,
A miracle, oh it was beautiful, magical.
And all the birds in the trees, well they’d be singing so happily,
Joyfully, playfully watching me.
But then they send me away to teach me how to be sensible,
Logical, responsible, practical.
And they showed me a world where I could be so dependable,
Clinical, intellectual, cynical.There are times when all the worlds asleep,
The questions run too deep
For such a simple man.
Wont you please, please tell me what we’ve learned
I know it sounds absurd
But please tell me who I am.Now watch what you say or they’ll be calling you a radical,
Liberal, fanatical, criminal.
Wont you sign up your name, wed like to feel you’re
Acceptable, respectable, presentable, a vegetable!At night, when all the worlds asleep,
The questions run so deep
For such a simple man.
Wont you please, please tell me what we’ve learned
I know it sounds absurd
But please tell me who I am.
My life philosophy.
“Criticism is something you can easily avoid by saying nothing, doing nothing, and being nothing.”
Here is a cute doggie pal of mine.
Akimbo.
what dreams cause me
to abandon my pillow each night?
push away each of them, in fact
since there always seem to be more than one
then wake to aching stiff neck twisted
tits and face smashed against the mattress
legs and arms akimbo
like the high pitched body of a jumper
waiting for her chalk outline
finally at rest
by Ani DiFranco
The true story of what was.
Every time I hear this it’s as amazing as the first time.
the light blue flickering rhythm
of the neighbor’s big console t.v.
is basking on the ceiling
of another insomniatic spree
and outside sleep’s open window
between the drops of rain
history is writing a recipe book
for every earthly painoh to clean up the clutter of echoes
coming in and out of focus
words spoken
like locusts
sing and sing
in my headand thing is
they often seem
in my memory’s long dream
to be superfluous to
the true story of what wascause
real is real regardless
of what you try to say
or say away
real is real relentless
while words distract and dismay
words that change their tune
though the story remains the same
words that fill me quickly
and then are slow to drain
dialogues that dither down reminiscent
of the way it likes to rain
every screen
a smoke screen
oh to dream
just for a moment
the picture
outside the framethen in a flash
the light blue horizon
spanning a sudden black
is sucked into the vanishing point
and quiet rushes back
to search for the downbeat
in a tabla symphony
to search in the darkness
for someone who looks like me(though i’m not really who i said i was
or who i thought i’d be)just a collection of recollections
conversations consisting
of the kind of marks we make
when we’re trying to get a pen to work againa lifetime of them
i say to me
now here listening
i say to the locusts
that sing and sing to me sitting
now here on the front porch swing of my eyes:i hereby amend
whatever i’ve ever said
with this sigh
Today
I love this cup! It’s like one of those books where the page is cut into three and you can mix together a fantasmical creature… remember those? I wonder what they are called.
It is way sad when shoes get all skuzzy. If only I took care of them.
A coworker returned from Holiday in Tibet… brought me this Tibetan prayer wheel. Presumably cheap souvenirs are somehow way cooler when they are from a distant land.
