fling

 

fling

 

two projectiles

hurled from

places remote and

quite distinct,

hurtle along

fixed parabolas

as determined by

gravity and

a thousand other

inescapable laws.

 

these trajectories

may cross once,

twice if the arcs are just

right,

but it will not be,

can never be,

thrice.

three meetings

is a distinct,

mathematical

impossibility.

 

unless,

only if things are

just so,

instead they are

flung

directly at one another,

and their various

momenta, their

energies, their

weights, their

paths

are calculated

precisely

such that they in

midair

collide,

and fall to earth

together,

resting

beside one another

indefinitely

until they are

moved again

by forces

not of their own

making.

 

there are

so many variables

in such an

undertaking

that the

chances of this occurring

perfectly are

very slim;

marginal,

miniscule,

nearly

zero.

 

nearly,

 

and yet

not

quite.

***

an ode for you

photo credit: “Bach Invention 13″ by Debra Hurd (http://www.dailypainters.com/paintings/240853/Bach-Invention-13-music-classical-painting-art-by-Debra-Hurd/Debra-Hurd)

 

an ode for you

 

Tell me something that you

love.

 

Be it a bread I will

bake it,

a gift I will

bring it;

a craft I will

make it,

a song I will

sing it,

 

though I am

not much

of a craftsman,

I can

read instructions;

 

and though i am

not much

of a chef,

I can

follow a recipe;

 

even though I am

not

much

of a singer,

yet still

I can

carry a tune.

 

***

 

it hunts

***

i wear my black

est black. funereal, almost.

and lay flat

est flat; under a dusty rug that is

under a heavy rock that is

at the bottom of the black

est black well. and i think

i will be safe here.

it

cannot find me, certainly, and i

exhale, a long, long

hiss, a tire leak

ing air through a crack that

cannot be sealed. and when i am

still, silent, breathless,

supine,

it speaks.

its slithering voice

whispers to me, saying,

fool.

i knew

all along

this is where

you would try

to hide.

“For when I kept silent, my bones wasted away
    through my groaning all day long.”  -Psalm 32:3

***

image credit: http://orig00.deviantart.net/0c2f/f/2008/023/c/e/_abstract_darkness__by_mysterybugster.png

trends, trinities

 

 

***

trends, trinities

 

i

sun, moon, water

 

sun’s light is

best reflected in

placid water. jealous,

ardent moon, ever

derivative, prowls for and

pulls us, mere

drops, into

fumbly tides

just to disturb and

shatter into

glistening everywhereshards

the image of the day.

***

ii

mine, yours, no one’s

 
we have

not seen it

before; we have

not yet sat

together,

calm, not

speaking;

have only

beaten mercilessly against beach and

one another,

either trying to

tear apart gentle

earth,

or fighting to leave in the

dust

some impression that

fades

as soon as the

next wave sees and

disagrees.

***

iii

a cord of three strands

 

only a photon

remains in me, when two

together, i and

                  you

would a beam make;

and three? i dare not even dream, a

picture

begin

to form;       a clear,

                        clear,

reflection.

***
 
“No, I don’t miss you… Not in a way that one is missed.

But I think of you.

Sometimes.

In the way that one might think of the summer sunshine

On a winter night…”

― Sreesha Divakaran, Those Imperfect Strokes
 
 

image credit: http://www.dailypainters.com/paintings/150245/Sun-and-Sea-abstract-contemporary-modern-art-painting/Nancy-Eckels

 

several terrible short poems about terrible short poems

 

 

***

i

 

once the creek

flowed

gave life, was

life,

indeed lived

quite of its own.

but somewhere back the

course changed, crushed

by a rock or

a landslide,

perhaps.

shit happens.

now there is

just dry ground.

 

ii

 

finghers like

spoo,ns

on keys made fro

tines

 

iii

 

after a while the

guy stops playing

pickup basketball since

his knee hurts, and

since he just gets beat, and

it kind of just

isn’t fun

anymore

 

iv

 

pick up a pen with your

non-dominant hand and

write your name with your

eyes closed. now

open them and

enjoy the hilarious mess.

 

***

best i can do right now. if anyone is out there, enjoy the hilarious mess.

rw

oh to die instead in egypt

photo credit: www.devon-photography.com

***

i do not know

  much of the sea

    (i have yet to get my

      sea-legs and remarkably i

        still get ill at the

          waves, most of the

            time) and yet even

              i can tell that boats

                left unsailed and unanchored

                  will neither stay moored

                in the place they were

              docked nor will they by

            glorious happenstance

          reach some tranquil unknown

        beach on foreign shores but

      very likely will simply

    run aground in the

  very place that they

just departed

***

Fiction is a Fiction. (or: Fiction is History)

photo credit: Huffington Post

***

Let’s begin with a limerick, because they’re fun:

There once was a young man from Austin

who wrote stories one could get lost in.

But the actual cost:

‘Twas the plot that got lost

And his readers just wound up exhausted!

I have decided that, at least for now, I’m going to give up on writing fiction. There are a few reasons for this, but the most notable one is that I am really not good at it. This is not to say that I couldn’t be good, if I were to continue practicing, which I might do in my spare time, but I don’t think there will be much posting of fiction, at least on this blog. (Readers rejoice.)

My writing gifts (modest as they are) lie much more in the realms of non-fiction (read: short opinionated essays that require no research) and poetry, so I think for the most part I want to concentrate on these.

Fiction still appeals very strongly to me, but I have to confess a great deal of this appeal comes from the possibility of selling a work of fiction and reaping either financial rewards or notoriety. Neither of these should be goals of mine, at least not if I am writing purely for the sake of writing. If they end up being ancillary advantages, I wouldn’t turn them down, but if they are an objective, if they are an intent, then my work will be tainted, even if it ends up being well-respected. I have talked before about my feelings regarding bandwagon fiction, and though I am hardly alone or revolutionary in this outlook, I nevertheless feel that the perversion of writing (or the co-opting of it, perhaps) simply for the sake of financial gain leads to phenomena like this, and shortly thereafter what would previously have been called “romance” novels completely overwhelm the “Fiction and Literature” section at the bookstore.

I don’t want any part of this, and I do not wish to be a writer who succumbs to any emotionally dishonest trend. But let’s be realistic: I was light-years away from this objective anyway. The first step in making marketable fiction is to write something that interests people, and I haven’t done that yet, at least not in my fiction. But regardless, I want to at least nip in the bud the proclivity for sacrificing art, sacrificing the potential to make something truly meaningful, on the altar of success.

And just as a disclaimer, do not think I am of the opinion that all writers who have achieved a level of financial success or critical acclaim are doing something wrong. I am reminded of this verse, though it is perhaps only loosely applicable:

“Then Jesus said to his disciples, ‘Truly I tell you, it is hard for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of heaven. Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.’”  – Matthew 19:23-24

I think the same is perhaps true of people who are truly following a calling. Perhaps it is not impossible to remain artistically uncompromised following success, but it sure is freaking difficult. That’s why I don’t even want to start down that path at all. Instead, if you want to find me, I’ll be in the (pitifully meager) poetry aisle.

***

dew

For Johnny

***

We have cause to be
greatly unsettled, at times. Unsettled as is
trembling, shivering flesh in
deep winter; out! springs our
warm breath into cold,
cold air, and hovers in front of us like
ancestral ghosts; and just like
those spirits, when it fades we
aren’t certain it was there in the first place.
When our private fog dissipates
mere moments after creation,
how can we know beyond doubt
that we even
breathed
at all?

And yet that mist, that
pitiful, minimal dew,
joined with the
moist air, with the
lofty, soaring cumulus, may still
find gentle rest on
vulnerable yellows, on the fragile blues of
flowers;
which thrust through the pavement,
fighting to bring
pollen, beauty, sustenance,
continuance
to the rest of cracked earth.

We have so much to
admire about this secret, select
brevity;
like gentle streams that flow through
our small, dry land,
bringing always new, always fresh, even if
never quite the same
water
to barren, parched lands,
assuring that
tomorrow’s petals will be as
fragrant, as colorful, as
brilliant and memorable,
as were, are, today’s.

***

“The light that burns twice as bright, burns half as long. And you have burned so very, very brightly…”

– Eldon Tyrell, “Blade Runner“

***

folds

 

***

there is not very much room left in

this notebook now. (who uses notebooks anymore

anyway?) i have used it much for

various things; it is close now to filled, scribbled with inks of

different color, different density, different

viscosity i suppose, though i never studied inks

enough to know if that word applies. on some pages i was

taking notes in classes (the

subject matter of which i no longer need for my

profession), on others outlining books that i

never completed (in some cases

never even began), even occasionally dabbling in

drawing, though art was never really much of a

strength for me.

 

you read sometimes of some lost journal

found among the tattered belongings during the

post-wake post-media cleanout of some famous artist’s house.

Inside could be scribbled lyrics left sadly sans music perhaps; or the

manuscript of some great play that never quite

wandered its way to the stage; or even a passionate discourse on

some pertinent topic, like human rights or something

important like that.

 

this notebook is destined to be

no such journal. its sad white gyri are bloated full, their

contents distinguishable only by the mercy of

narrow blue sulci, deep cavities dark and secretive like

unexplored caves by

the shore of the

dead sea.

***

“write something today.

just…something. anything.”

this probably isn’t good, but i am out of practice. we shall see if that can change.

RW

Psalm 0

***

i think trust must be

knowing

that someday i will be

standing

somewhere a

good ways off (a

good time hence),

and not

wishing

it was all different.

***