Verisimilitude - Weekly Poem

Everything I see is just reflected light
Everything I feel is just atoms repelling my atoms
Simple magnetism denotes my place in my world
It’s all a trick of the senses, nothing is as it seems
My world is an illusion I can’t escape

We are all made of stars
Everything when you get down to it
Is the same as everything else
I have rocks as bones
Blood rivers for veins
Craters of failures
Scars of my past mistakes
A series of extinction events
Everyday is a fossil, something to be remembered
My past, memory a series of voids in rock
Someday I’ll be found, carbon dated to the year
I was in my basement with an empty bottle of wine

***

I feel like I can say this all better. Or just find one way to say it without having to repeat myself by saying the same thing but only in a different way. Or maybe I just needed a direction or an end in sight. I know what I’m saying but I’m just rambling because I don’t know where I’m headed with this. It’s like I’m just saying that the sky is blue, and then explaining why the sky is blue. Damn. Writing is hard.

New Poems will be going up on Weekends because I work during the week.

Also I think I'm going to take another stab at this poem tonight. Maybe.

Links: 10-18-10

1. Plastic Monitors Itself - intelligent plastic?

2. The Obesity Problem Solved - apprently its just our brains that are junk food addicts. Brains want suger fat and salt so it forces our body to consume those things. Then it needs more and more and more. Or something like that.

3. Where Stars are Born - like looking into the past or what the early universe looks like

4. Silencing Genes - interesting life stuff

5. Flexible LEDS that can go Under the skin - future fashion? or body art?

Weekly Poem 12: Just A Riff

I need an anchor like this poem needs one
A howling who or malevolent moloch
Or maybe a dedication to someone
A gentle soul a met along the asylum path


***

it's incomplete I know, but was just a thought, a fragment. Something anything to meet the deadline I dunno.

Weekly Poem #?: Lazy Sundays

I woke up and I had an idea
I set the water to boil
And emptied the tea pot of unfinished tea and soiled bags.
Brimming like the water boiling
Of thoughts and inspirations
Maybe it was indigestion or leftover dreams from the night
Or just a mind coming to terms with the noon day sun blinding it
But I sat down dreaming of Corso
Haunted by waspy roman catholic guilt
Even though I’m Slavic Orthodox Athiest Canadian
Trying to hard to make it seem more like a poem
And after my third cup of tea, black now bitter
Wired up,
I forgot what I was trying to say
Or what the point was
Here is this as a consolation

Links: Real Nature

1 Next Nature intro essay by Bruce Sterling its about the way we view nature compared to the actual state of nature. Also seems to be a permanent hub on the subject. Will have to look back on it.

Spiritual Lobotomy

Imagine now, a spiritual lobotomy
There is only body, I know
We are physical machines!
But still there in the bottle
A tiny little pill like a seed
Was supposed to save me
Blossom bloom in my insides
Take away ALL the bad
Leaving me somehow whole/or/Leaving me whole, somehow
Better than it was before

Imagine now, a hole somewhere
You can’t see it only feel it/or/It can’t be seen only felt
Like fumbling around the dark (don’t like this line but will leave it in for now)
Trying to find something that’s gone
How do you explain losing your soul
Or the walking dead, to be nothing.
To go from feeling everything, anything
To nothing, nothing, nothing.

My greatest fear is tiny pill
That could rewrite my blueprints
To make the building stand on its own
But takes away its character
The ivy that are pulling down the façade
But give life to cold dying grey stone.

***

the spots that contain /or/ that means I wrote all alternate liine. So its between those two lines what ends up in the final product. I really like this. Just need to up the passion I think in it. Also need to just edit it through, I think I can add more imagery and poetic stuff. Who knows? Do you? That would imply I have readers.

Life: A Response

Life is physical it is brutal it is short. It is fucking ugly. We’re organs, rotting food, shit, contained by bone, controlled by nerves, wrapped in muscle, protected by our skin. We’re rotting meat essentially. We fucking smell. We’re disgusting really no matter how you try to pretty it up. Living is dying and falling apart at the seams. You see its not about it being half full or half empty. Nothing is black and white like that. That’s life. It’s on one hand a beautiful thing, but how do console that with all the misery in it. How do you bridge the gap between the kid that’s bullied and beat up on the playground everyday and the beautiful life you may live? It may be about perspective but how the fuck do you tell that to the kid that’s getting the shit kicked out of him? Is that just about the way he looks at it? Okay maybe he’s just looking at it wrong right. That’s the thing I can’t reconcile with the simple life is beautiful thing. Maybe its just people are completely fucked. Maybe if we just cut out the human condition from the whole life thing I can agree that it’s beautiful and sweet and harmonious or whatever happy tag line you want to give it. You take out the human element and you get rid of hate, war, greed, and all the assholes.

Masturbatory Exquisite Corpse

Acoustic deadline fiver
Disaster monitor superiority
Crowd initiative beating
Lawn feed disposal
Bounce dreaming remedy
Patching fifteen snack
Institute acquisition
Catching vacancy
Estimate safeguard

Someone Just Talking to Themselves, Nothing to See Here

Shut the fuck up
You’re not a man

Sorry that’s just my friend
All I wanted was to talk
And this is what I get

You’re not supposed to fucking feel
And if you do I don’t want to hear it

Guess I forgot that guys don’t have feelings
Machismo bullshit but it’s the game I have to play

You expect to get layed that way
Fucking forever virgin

I forgot that as a man
Who is wearing a cock
My only goal should be
To get my penis wet
And spread my seed

What the fuck are you talking about?
You’re just being crude
Just fucking stop right now
What makes you so fucking special?

I’m not special, we’re all special
I don’t know

You don’t know now, maybe its just weird
Or you’re confused or you’re something something
Mumble mumble stumble
JUST FUCKING SPIT IT OUT

(bear with me, please just trust in that I know what I’m doing, and that this is really going somewhere, or that it will end at some point when I pass out, or just completely drained from jerking off too much or crying or something or nothing or god knows what, or when I just stop fucking giving a shit)

It’s funny how things quickly turn around
All I wanted was to talk to someone
Just to talk, people talk, people listen,
People have those things I think
But I don’t know anymore
What other people have
Or are supposed to have
Or the way things are supposed to be

I don’t fucking care,
All you do is fucking talk and talk and talk and…

Sorry, I even started
Sorry, I even tried…

***

I have the uncanny feeling that this one is going to get me into trouble. I also don't know if I should call this a poem. Its ranty, but not. I thought it would be cool to do a back and forth. Maybe I can expand this into a like short play for two people, a back and forth exchange. Or I don't know. But I like it and want to use it for something else. Thats what all these weekly things are intended to be, a visual memory or whatever.

Untitled - An "attack"

I woke up today and felt
the waves crash over me.
Where they come from I
Do not know. But the
consequences are felt
all along the shore. More
and more is pulled out
to sea. Dragging me
too and I should get
up. Soaked to the bone
rattling shivering teeth
chattering pounding heart
the rhythmic waves
pounding out its own song
scrapping of the sand

To easy to just
close my eyes and
go back to sleep and
go with its flow…

Weekly Poem #6: Writing

Writing is a bottle of whiskey. Writing is an excuse to not have to talk and experience people. Writing is me. Writing is having my words sound better in my head then they do on paper. Writing is giving voice to those at the margins of society that don’t have a voice. Writing is simply sitting alone in my basement @ 3:40 am putting one word after another word and breaking them up with occasional punctuation. Writing is lonely work. Writing is masturbating. Writing is getting into trouble sometimes. Writing is having a muse even though I don’t need one. Writing always inevitably involves a girl somehow, at least the good writing. Writing is about making sacrifices. Writing just is. Writing is about not having a choice. Writing is an excuse to get drunk.

* I hope this sums up writing to me in the moment. Its complicated. Most things are complicated. And it doesn't matter because I'm writing these for myself. Doesn't seem like anyone else is reading them.

Weekly Poem 5: 2 4 1 deal

If I’m lucky I will forget
Moved past the point of pretending
That I am doing this for work
Or maybe it once was
And I crossed that line
Like Hemmingway or Fitzgerald
Or Kerouac who at least had his romance
And a novel about Big Sur
There’s nothing mystical
About having to face tomorrow

More suffering,
And having to start all over again
Because if I’m lucky I will forget.

Weekly Poem 4: Untitled (Blood?)

No Title

I’m bleeding like its that time of the month
Along the knuckle of my ring finger
My left nostril
Along my ankle
A mosquito bite on my thigh
My earlobe

Too many nerves, it could be worse
At least I’m sleeping now

Or my knuckles could be cracked
Or a lump on the head
Or I’d be drunk already
Or I’d be making threats

Just a poem written in the moment

Thank you, thank you, thank you
You probably don’t know why

*I just realized after reading the previous three entries that I actually like what I've written. And I think I'm going to cannibalize them and use them in other poems. As a reminder I've been writing this ussually the day I post them here. Sometimes if I'm on a roll I'll write more than one, so I have other ones lying around on the old memory stick. Maybe when I have enough or I get good enough at it I'll go bi-weekly.

Weekly Poem #3: To Build a Universe

I had hoped to build a universe
A controlled blast
Determined bang
My rules my way
My own dimension

But universes just happen
Atomic bodies collide
Something emerges from nothing

Weekly Poem #2: July 28th 2010

Piece of shit motherfucker, forcing me to continue, press go, blue screen of fucking death

All I wanted was to check facebook, blog a new weekly poem, fucking hell, should be at home with a coffee

Maybe it was good I came here, clear the mind, something new, a new perspective

Read W. C. Williams and a bit of Howl today, looked at rhythms, realized I need to be more concise, read more imagists or something, oh and no more lists

Wrote this right here, right now, I think I’m going to have a hot dog and go home.

Weekly Poem: Physical Geography Part 2

July 20th/2010 - 2:30 am

I don’t know what to say, the problem is, I’m a writer, writers have things to say, and I promised myself I was going to write tonight

It’s easy to get distracted when you have a bit of rum wine and facebook on the laptop, but I had an idea that I was going to run with, see where it takes me, inspired by allen ginsberg white shroud gift from dina moore

I wrote a poem called physical geography, it was abstract and sort of shitty, inspired by stone diaries carol shield English patient Michael odantje university bullshit, where is the personal, the reality of a personal geography realized

Bald spot on top of my head, four head makes five head maybe six head, erosion over time its been inevitable like a sun rise or a the moon at night or getting old, it will happen to you it will happen to everyone just like cancer

Scar on my tongue, dead center, never thought to listen to life guard, I don’t remember, it was in the dawn of my life, infant running on the side of the pool slips and bites his tongue would be the headline, blood running dripping hurting like hell, they told me I couldn’t drink any orange juice, it will never go away or fade

Welcome to the gun show, biceps, inside of my arms by the pits, I tried lifting weights in my basement, punished by stretch marks, OCD had me every night burning myself out in grade ten in an attempt to fit in, it worked for awhile

Across my shoulders, top of my chest and back, only temporary, the consequences of run in the sun waterslides and fun mountain, kols ninth birthday, men being men, its only temporary, will only be temporary, the burning when I move and my secret wars t-shirt slides across it like sand paper

Two many beers over too many years in too many university beer tents, 150 pounds swelling to 220, stomach stretch marks, the embarrassment of just getting worse and worse and worse and worse, late night meals of potato salad and wine at 3:30 am, not inevitable or irreversible

My Right hand, I only write with it, a long and sordid story, destroyed knuckles along the wrist too many long years fighting anything with the most resistance, mostly the floor or lockers or walls or I thinks that’s another story, it was concrete and that is only the start, the rest of it is the rest of the hand, a boxing break along my knuckles my pinky broke in two, it was Ukraine was too embarrassed to get it fixed, consequences of getting lost on a mountain or third degree burns on my back or lack of sleep or maybe I was just drunk, lost a fight with a concrete wall,
toughed it out till I got home, one week with a broken fist in a foreign country, its like its 80 years old, it’s a barometer they grind when its going to rain or maybe its just in my head
My left hand, really no one cares, its already faded in the middle, shoved a smouldering match into it years ago, I was sixteen looking for attention, no one really cared John Funk threatened to kick my ass if it happened again, we don’t talk now

When I look down I can see my feet, but its okay I know they are fine, like anyone they hurt sometimes other times they last me a weekend in Chicago Lolapalooza and I don’t realize they’re there, they take me to my next adventure or my next story, I guess they’re the same thing, my ultimate memory

Folk Fest Experiment

This Folk Fest I thought I'd put together a collection of my poetry or short stories. In a perfect world everything would be polished, copy edited, each piece in would relate to the other ones, it would make sense... you get the picture. It doesn't matter really. It was meant as an experiment to sort of prove that I can actually do it.

The plan is to print everything out tommorow, and if I can get twine put it alltogether with twine. If I'm lucky I'll have cool art for the covers. If not I'm just going to write on the title. Hopefully it'll be legible.

At the festival I hope to trade them into the trading post in the camp ground and get something cool for it. Maybe a Bong.

Also, this would be the place for people to comment on it if they pick up a copy of it.

Now I know what I have to do to make the next one better.