Mothballed,

Mothballed,
IN bits and pieces, memories,
I WISH were forgotten. Cast into
Estuaries outward flowing. Outward
Bound, these boxes filled with knicks
and knacks and bits and bytes of some
Clackings of another time.

I created them, marked them once, tags
OF color, of importance. This IN hope
That the stagnancy with it has GONE.
Drawn away, eschewed sideways in
To the bins of disregard. Dumped,
To: Be Forgotten. Like broken bodies
Post disaster, tagged in order of importance
Or. Tagged as lost causes.

Until, unexpected,
Sun bright morning awakened, I
Realize to keep the fog from welling up,
Again, I need them. The knicks and knacks,
The tracks of the cotton balls, the dusty
Wings of moths flown away, unnested.
Tagged for oblivion.

I,
Had thought my plan superb. How
Laughable I find it now. That the
Faint clarity of fog lifting attained through
Shoving garbage downstream was Fear
And not strength.

Now, I need them. My lonely castaways.
My fogged burden bearers.
To reconcile that which I am from that
Which I had imagined,
Which I had forgotten.

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Distinction

Wonderment.  Such words to create sense, flow
into the torrential now.  Ephemeral permanence
spastic in the face of the current, like filter paper
trying to hold the shape of white rapid sprays,
like chaos trying to maintain its shape.

We.  Marks upon one another, flow into one
another, as multicolored sands slide over
the sandstone sculpture mountains of New
Mexico, but not, rather this here is newer still,
a New World constantly coming into being.

Distinction.  Signatures carved from faces hewn
from solid, from song, from art, from organic.
To boldly go where none have gone before,  but
left unsaid is we go to confirm our difference.
To declare that here there be us.

Continue reading “Distinction”

Phantom Amongst Us

There are phantoms;
at this hour, people online, yet
they are not.  And I,
amongst them?

But I am here, am I
not?
Electrodes firing, at a rate
faster than resting state.

At zero state,
the phantoms gather
in hordes and stream
leftover, after effects,

phantoms, on my screen.

—————-

I hate this.  Hate these tangled up emotions.  Hate how they resurface, how they render me incapable of moving.  Incapacitated.  That I feel as if I do not want to do anything at all.  Not angry enough to swear at the world, but not sure I would mind if it swore itself.

My hands, they vibrate, buzz.  Miniature oscillations, quavering in place.  But that is not me.  I was known for my steady hands.  How I could take picture, video without a tripod for some time.  How steady I was with the beakers and flasks in chemistry.  I was somewhat anal about precision measurements.  Because I could be.

When did things get so messy?  I tell myself I still can, but can I still shut things out like I used to if I wanted to?

I still doubts about posting things like this as myself.  People like happy people.  We gravitate towards them.  Whyever would we not?  Is it better to hold onto lies that are nice or hold our faces to the dirtier truth if the dirt never washes clean?  I hate being like this because I don’t know when it will stop.  When the oscillations will finally dampen out.

Maybe this is a sign that my original analysis was correct.  That I cannot live as a scientist where my primary occupation is sojourning to the lab.  That I should be in a field that is about people and forces me to be among people.  Because I definitely automatically adapt, re-configure myself to the environment.  It is somewhat annoying.  I feel I am searching for something.  A scream caught in my throat, not fully formed, pushing to get out.  Out to where, in what form, it and I know not.

And I hate that it may be my psychological issues that determine my choice of profession and life goals, rather than actual desires.

I need to do something though.  I think I am not dealing as well with things, as I suspected it might be the case, because I am not doing much to any of humanities.  That the majority of my time is in doing things that involve little to no communication with another human being.  That I have become bad at interacting and connecting with people again.

My mind’s driven state is increasing back to where it had been again.  But I haven’t been able to really use it.  It gets caught, fragmented, distracted.  And I am lost in a dump of increased inputs.  There are two solutions that I have for this.  The first, monitor and control all of the important processes thus preventing harmful threads from occurring, ie thought processes that tend to loop upon themselves because they or not resolvable.  The second, increase the amount of randomness so as to increase the likelihood of random thought processes, that cut across the hue of the others and any possible loops, to occur.

It is quite foggy outside.  For some reason, that makes me feel better.  As if the temperament of the weather is working hard to match mine.  Sometimes it is nice just to know that someone is listening.

I feel, I wish it would stay like this.  A perpetual fog, protecting me from the world.  Preventing the fears, both acknowledged and unintelligible (infantile or animalistic?) from closing in on me.  And through earbuds I hear the sound of rain and outside, the wail of trucks and cars being rushed on by.

————–

Free-falling Parachute Skies

Yesterday,
a thousand blue parachutes, fell
like droplets,
from skies lavender hued.

The day
before, they, were red,
and after, today, white,
not unlike flags of surrender.

Tomorrow,
what color will then be surrendered?
The sky looks heavy,
burdened.

Yesterday,
they fell from the sky, the aftermath
painted upon the ground, today, and
the remainder, tomorrow, know naught but

Free-falling is not always fun.

——————

Yup, still prefer short line poems to long lines.  I wrote a few long line poems for a poetry class I took this semester.  Actually I think my better ones were among the longer lined poems, but I like playing with enjambments.  I am glad I took the class.  I feel I have a more solid grasp upon my own poetry.  It is at the same time more structure and more fluid.

Hmm, perhaps all I really need is a more healthy and regular allocation of time for creative activities such as writing.  I am unsure of whether or not this would be more or less of a crutch with compare to going out and doing more people-related things.

11:11

I forgot my wish.

——-

Tearing a page off, off of the inside
Off of the deserted train, step-wise left
Looking for some sort of contact

The ticket stubs inserts at the top
conductor walks by, they’re checking for empty spots
Checking for absences, but who checks for the missing?

Missing you, tonight.  The night wind blows cold
By easterly lights in the sky, bye by
Goodbye passerbys

Nothing to see here, it’s all alright
Breathe. Nothing to see here, all alright
Clock strikes passed, delayed reaction

Four ones passed, forgotten wishes
Lay off like letters discarded
Trash, bagged for the takeout, sitting on sidewalks

The cursor, blinks, waits, for inputs, for continuation
Is there more?  More to give?
More, more more, no more?

More, more more, scenes roll by, and
steam would roll off, to the distance, as you chug, chug along
if steam powered engines still rolled along the tracks, that is

That is.  Missing you tonight.  The wind took the pages
ripped from the insides, blank white pages
unmarked, unwritten, missing now

Forgot the wishes, maybe they were on the pages
the not-so-blank pages, but the wind’s got them now
Just missing you now

Goodbye passerbys,
nothing to see here, it’s all right, alright
Right, forgot.

——–

Guess the writing’s back.  *grin*

I told my roommate(s) today.  I am going to write over winter break.  I am going to write a story with the intentions of letting people read it.  And I am going to write.  That is all.

Every now and then,

.

——————————————

Sometimes it seems like there is nothing you can do.  That what has already been done, has set the conditions a tad too concretely and that cement has already began to set.  You, can no longer, cannot be what you already are not.  And there is nothing you can do about it.

A somewhat depressing remark to what might be one of the few potentially uplifting/hopeful poems I have written.

It is quite frightening about how the decisions made now (and those already made) can and do open and close the opportunities that are available to you in the future.  The question is, have I already made an irreversible error in judgement?  And to end on a slightly lighter (and less ambiguous) note; perhaps the only thing one can do is to eschew logic and simply go with what feels right.

Right?

Continue reading “Every now and then,”

New Entry

T-minus 4
Floodlights on
extinguishers set to stun
All lights shine green, k 3
Atmosphere tears at the edges
pressure intensifying
pressing in, up, down
tanks full, burning, down 2
Metal blushing, turning red
acridity fuming, blooming
flower petal flakes fall
catching fire where they land 1
burning up, falling down
that is the way
of re-entry, of this
new entry 0