sleepy dharma

Quiet News

with so much awkwardness in the world

the quiet endings to our talks may stay,

but the golden plate on the golden scale

holding our uncomfortable squeamishness

still spills over, 

imagine it how you will:

blood,     money,     grains of rice,    water,    limbs,       oil,

cattle,         corn,           shark-skin suits,           cans of oxygen

some poems require a great deal of imagery

hours spent with cold coffee and an increasingly dusty lamp —

some only need a reader willing to become angry

who agrees, then, that it is a time to get out of bed and type? 

stop typing and start marching?

stop marching and start fires?

and never stop the fires.

keep them ablaze until the flames fertilize the land —

a used image: something metal rusts, 

something wood splinters,

the scale tarnishes

all covered in weeds and vines, climbing to infinity

blooming in yellow and red. 

Unedited Ramble — Hopefully will edit into something tasteful.

The sadness in ideology is that in the end none of it matters. There are many beautiful and unique little everythings in front of our faces. They exist and live with us, sometimes without our knowledge, sometimes with all our attention completely theirs. Vivid and magical colors and sparkles and pastel matte finishes; all gorgeous and amazing capturing our eyes and ears and senses of smell, and letting us know where we are. All of these wonderful and one-of-a-kind experiences and objects don’t matter. The fact that they matter to you doesn’t matter. This world and this solar system and this galaxy and this universe and the fact that our species has the drive and the ambition to change it all: These are all funny little asterisks. Footnotes about sidenotes about non-sequitur anecdotes in a book that is too lazy to write itself.

Ideology is the saddest footnote. The selfishness of one person to think they can lead by example, the arrogance to believe that there is there is a correct way to live — this is all hubris. There is an artist lives in a log cabin on the outskirts of a redwood forest in upstate New York. He worked hard to get there. He has about 50 acres of land that uses for cattle, chickens, and crops. He relishes in the asymmetry of his life, the hard work and long hours he puts into his everyday and the leisure he has in the satisfaction that he is better than other people. If you ask him about it, he will say something politically correct like, “People live a lifestyle that works for them. I wanted to live a simple life where I didn’t have to adhere to the burdens of a busy life. It works for me to wake up only when I am ready and if others see this lifestyle working for them, then I they should pursue it,” but in his eyes and in the dark, slow and practiced tone of his voice, something would cause a twinge of anger to surface from your gut. Despite his words you cannot ignore your intuition that he thinks he is better than you. Perhaps it is just you thinking that, but it bothers you.

Do not fret about this. Let the anger organically grow into the realization that one day this man will die. And if he is remembered beyond death, do not worry. One day, history will die. People often say publicly that they would not want to live forever. They wouldn’t want to see all of their loved one’s die. How many, though, do you think, presented with the opportunity of a lonely immortality would take it. They would all take it. Even if there was a heaven and a God and a castle with all of their loved ones and ancestor’s spirits waiting for them, most would choose to spend millennia  floating though the vastness of space, meditating in the nuclear core of a star, perhaps ascending to something beyond life or death. Sadly again, none of this would matter. But this is all okay, we should all die fighting for one more breath of air to share with meaningless existence, it is the only thing that is real. 

Nearly Three in Mid-September

What to do? What to do?

The buzz of the question hovers around my head,

a blur-glow of never-ending lightness to my nerves

and a slight weight on the outer crown of my skull.

It pushes down in such a small way my eyelids 

become unnoticeably heavy. I squint, thinking.

One thing I know:

If there is an answer to the question —

any definite solution or suggestion

that one could scrawl on a napkin

and slip to me over a glossy wooden table —

it is not in front of me. No table. No Napkin.

Chicago is suddenly cold again

and all folks on the bus ever talk about

is football and the weather.

They act surprised, as if they expected the earth to stop:

the city could rest in summer

and baseball season would breach eternity.

The day is sunny but unapproachable.

I am in my first floor apartment behind barred windows.

My itchy five-dollar sweater fits me like a blanket.

It is warm as it is ugly — aqua woven with a darker blue.

Another thing I know:

I don’t want to write about paw-paw or the early rising sun,

backpacking with my father through the Appalachian trail,

the tartness of wild apples, the cacophony of tall grass in the wind,

the leisurely pace of the Spanish rail system,

or any morning that a lover’s hair was particularly soft.

Distractions abound, I trudge though the click-clack of writing,

stop for a moment and look through the windows and bars

and say adieu to the small porch outside my apartment.

The last few nights I had on it’s splintered chairs were good,

warm and quiet.

I look back at my computer screen and find I am discouraged.

I’ve not followed the protocol of other writers.

I am tired. What to do? A warm sleep or a cold day?

The Difficulty of Trying Again: A Long Form To-Do List

For the better part of the year I have been in a completely stagnant stage of self-development. I have not written anything worth reading and I have not read anything worth writing about. Now, having reached 25 years of age, I believe it is time to crawl out from beneath my bedsheets and start trying again. Much of me feels like a car crash victim whose muscles have atrophied: I have to learn many skills that once came so easily to me. 

I must force myself to look for gainful employment rather than settling for the service industry jobs that have graciously sustained my housing and food for the last year. Beyond earning me enough money to live and eat, I need work that I enjoy and can lead me to something I can call a future. This does not necessarily have to be a career that I will follow for the rest of my existence — it simply must have a vision attached to it. I have to vision in bussing tables and being eerily conversant about fast casual vegan food. 

 I must start reading and writing again — continuously. I cannot let myself only be creative in the “auspicious moment.” I must shove words into me and pull words out of me. On top of this, I must improve. The great thing about college was that I was already good. By senior year (the only year that really mattered) I was able to coast through the Writing Program and an Honors Project solely on the talent I already had. However, now faced with a daunting brick wall of reality, I must reach the level of self-confidence I had in 2009 and continue to get better.

Further, I must break the bad habits I have collected while on my intellectual hiatus. I cannot allow myself to be distracted by the latest article or blog post on the internet. Instead, I must contribute to the online forums that have taken up a lot of my time. This will not only aid in my goal of self-improvement but also teach me persistence and patience. My attitude must reach a middle ground of not being too hard of myself, but also holding myself to high standards — too much of my post-graduation life has been spent hating myself. I must limit my television watching. Period. 

Finally, I must make decisions. This is what I am having the most trouble with because it requires me to create a definition where there is only ambiguity. In other words, I must narrow my focus. What do I want to do? Write? Probably. Learn? Definitely. But there are other factors to look at. I have developed small fascinations with the Environment and Wellness. Do I simply keep these mini-passions “extra-curricular” or do I find a way to incorporate them into my work? if so, which one? Can I do both? How? The questions keep coming even though I know they are useless and fatal, like trying to drink while standing under a waterfall.

Again, I feel stagnant… lost… confused and frustrated… almost enough to crawl back under the covers. But with that comes my first improvement. Even though my bed looks safe and my blankets look warm, this time I’ll try to brave the cold unknown.