winter sweeps these streets

we sweep these city streets, with faces grim and cold, the glass upon glass crime, glassed in, like citi streets, run owned by, the body sleeping, crumpled up against the atm, a warm, but well lit spot.

on the lechmere T, two kids texting, one with a CD titled "star fucking hipsters," a trip to cambridge made successful, reading the map, lacing the shoes stylishly.

we bleet these city sheep, well lit and all, and fleece these gritty streets, like these greaseballs.

flit amongst the pantheon of faces, the humanity laid bare, wheelchair and cane dragging bicyclists, the full money spectrum of face made up, something hidden, scarves and hats and hefty jacket prices, these shoes or those shoes, these feet or those feet, these streets or whose?

my little sister sleeps as deep as her latin

asleep in the fire of fuck all,
we went searching amongst the bodies,
for what grains of truth could be found in history,
and instead were fed by the vibes of our own feelings.

righteousness, was a word for a passing time,
when we could seek ourselves with impunity,
and amidst the hulking behemoths of yesterday, tomorrowed
we bore wholes amongst ourselves, drained the miasma,
made mudpies, laughed at the clay evolving.

in the vein, of finding it, we would chew on rocks and ruckus,
the sweet succor found within would jazz our chilly vibe,
and the definite approach to everything, would be met
with less haste, less certainty, and just a bit more time.

frankel's muse

and there wasn't a whole lot of meaning to be found around nowadays, it had to be forged. In a time of limited pleasures it seemed that life was increasingly strange, if not love, then drugs, sex money power, the world was only full of so many things, how many of them brought any lasting peace or comfort.

as if in the lasting, we could make it better, the best that I've seen is the acceptance of change, and of the impermanence of joys, of the give and take, the tidal pull of it all, sloshing the belly and the essence, the untouchable, but still sloshable.

packs of ciggarettes, drunkenness, the mad release at the point of orgasm, mach speed through a swath of deep powder, there was a relatedness to all of these things. A deep touch into the center of the being that said yes yes yes yes, this is what it's all about. Could microbes in free fall experience such joys as they were shed from birds wings, flying south? A kick to the pants of melancholy was to be a match stuck to the finger, lit one handed, inattentively.

ouch! burnt crisp skin, licked, slightly salted, the same flavor as overroast meat, this lump of flesh and bones was meant to feel free, suckahs!!!!

that's what it came down to, flight, joy, tingling sensations of love not fleeting at the scale of lifetimes, or at least the ability to make time stop, say, "rip my chest open" let the burning heart out into the water of this world, plunge my steam baked brain into the salty brine of positive emotions, come back gasping clean laying on the beach, hot and cold, skin peeling, still growing.

the one bird whispered to the other, "If I were him, I wouldn't think so much..."

lampshade

and we rage against the silence and the deafening sound, as in all bodies meant to be somebody not just six feet down.

and we fade white like winter, the comforting ground, only to rise springshine in the body we have found.

against the flocks of mankind we stand as tall as we can, despite this the sage passes lives like fistfuls of sand.

to be or not to be. that was the question. to be by not being, that was his suggestion, yet king high, or mudmaker low, we slashed middle class, and let blood flow;

as in pumping veins, and doing what the head do.

and the why said what?!

and the who said, "he!" and the we said "she!"
I went downstairs to find something to eat. It felt like days since I had had a drink of water. The room where I had dwelled was full of objects, not all of them useful, but then again, John Stewart Mill was crowding my bookshelf solely due to my resistance of the impulse to throw him out the window.

Oh the elusive slippery film reel of happiness of one's own life, cannot be grasped through books nore music, but maybe, those same fingers, unflinchingly, bite like nails into the wood of the hearing now.

the everybody said "yipee!" and headed down the stairs.

I was there, toast in hand, mouth full of jelly, looking for the cider in the fridge when they finally caught up to me, and bit me in the ankle.

the indian and the scientist, round 1

what do you mean poor?

you know, monetarily…

excuse me, 'sir' but I have yet to consider myself poor, until I met you I had known little of the world of men who lived their lives for paper: and I knew that I was rich in time and beauty, the world gave me what I needed when I asked, and I was content. Now you come here, telling me of all of your wonders, and your need to change the way we live to solve the problems that your people have created, and ohhhh so humbly tell us that you will pay us and provide us with resources to continue living the way we have been living for thousands of years…

well, in fairness to myself, I'd say I, along with others are trying to blend the best that our society, however flawed, has to offer with your traditional wisdom. why can't we make the best of both worlds?

I was content, but now I see the forces of the world at my doorstep: we have long been the keepers of the forest and it is heartening to see some recognize us as such, not all of the light of humanity has left this world, i suppose we should accept your offer to protect our way of life, otherwise we may all suffer.

boat riding

You assholes! he yelled, in his spandex from the bike trail, don't you realize what you're doing is dangerous! The boys were in a canoe in the rapids, standing up, drinking beer as they nimbly paddled around the rocks, underneath the overpass, through lands that hadn't been canoed in a hundred years, maybe two hundred, at least since the dams went up. The river quaking beneath them, they barely registered his shouts though they could see the frantically waving figure, all brightly tighted up, on the bridge above them. "whaddya think he wants anyways?" one asked the other, dunno, must have his panties all in a snarl.
The man on a bicycle turned to a passerby; "kids nowadays! thinking they can do whatever they want" the other man on the sidewalk looked him up and down, the fancy bicycle all shiny in the sun, form fitting clothes, sleek helmet, heartrate monitor, water bottles, chronometer, lights, velocity, the whole deal, shrugged and rejoined "some people have all the fun, and some people think they have all the fun…" and kept on walking.

elbow room

and so we lost ourselves in music and sex, add a healthy dose of drugs to boot and you have the basic picture of what we were up to, all loose genitals and undone headpieces, lashing about in the frenzy of hedonism. And why not? Society had failed in providing us any meaning to our overly easy existences, and the mandate of the modern day tribe demanded that we share as many genital yeasts as possible, in order to create pheromone signatures that embodied us as a group. We were surprisingly lacking in violence, and to this we were latched: our mission was love, an amazingly irresponsible love yes, very little caring involved, but as long as we stayed warm and fed, little else seemed necessary; nevermind the slow cavern building in each of us, as the more we pursued our internal joys the more the became something indistinct, even sentimental as we were, and are, always seeking some perfect balance to reflect upon, some soft toned rhythmic music to make our heads float up above our emotions, not quite touching them, but again, feeling their yawning weight pulling out our souls.

"We live in an age where nobody is unbroken, nobody is pure or simple, and what do we do?" we dance. We dance into forms that only we can understand, past sorrow (thanks mama), into appreciations of the present moment, a new formulation: there is no past nor present nor future, just the enduring Now, brought up over and over again by our remembrances, daydreaming, plots and so forth, if only we stayed balanced we would have never had to deal with this mess in the first place.

What do you mean a mess?! she cried, feeling heartbroken, all these damn thoughts this boy had! what nerve! shame!

He turned upon himself, what a fool? indeed what a mess he had created with his own thought process: there is no shame but in the making of one's own world, he turned again and saw her beautiful as the moon, sun, all the good things combined, and reflected again: shining: what would you pass up to feel happy? all our own incomplete thoughts grasping at reality, the shining shining present, burning through our petty grievances, making us dumb, as in speechless...

wait! a feeling remains, that of this grasping at the unraveling of things, leaves unfurling:

the sky is grey and up above two geese are calling: not all have flown over yet, many feathers lay scattered over the landscape, there is poetry in the sky even though tis heavy, swollen. These damn puzzles keep us busy to the point of exhaustion, I cast myself upon the wind and open my wings: good she said, beaded lips upon the brow, breathing through the third eye down past the base of the spine, the heart straightened out now, music bristling neath the surface of the soul. Now take that sufi and dance.