Do not feel special because I felt you so deeply — I’m an artist
This morning, I wept for a fallen tree, I had fallen for over these summer months
Now it lays stretched, dead over the creek bed, highest branches brushing forest floor ground eroded out from underneath the roots
The artist’s curse is attachment masked as lust, even love but the object isn’t special just because it’s the perception, the artist’s deception that gives rise to conception
We may have loved this thing before and here we are losing it, once more
Don’t be fooled
To be felt deeply is no honour, because an artist is a slut for feeling
How can one help but try and remember Even ask curiously Who is this and how do I know them from a past life As I indirectly feed them or compete for attention or laughter or share an earnest word on institutional experience I cannot help but question How do I know you? Did we eat at the same table? Drink from the same cup? Have I sensually stroked your arm? Did you birth me from your womb? Push me on the swing? So many lives lived unremembered Remarkable though they seemed At the time
Gone. Gone from my grasp. Yet feelings of familiarty arise At each and every word exchanged The touches given, stopped So weird that you could linger Like an unfounded memory Yet I know within my heart That appearance reflects karma Though unfolded memory remains Tucked away for enlightened eyes only A privilege reserved for tenth dimension beings And here we are struggling in 3D appearance I don’t hear you in my dreams No we weren’t that close so recently But previous lives are infinite Circular I like to believe So we’ve had…how many?
Now you stand before me Like you’ve never known me But you bear the name I’ve heard before Under steepled roof, through Christian door I strive for patience, not to deplore A despicable name I don’t care for You aren’t the same though it would appear that way And de ja vu is pretty peculiar So the dream I know is a dream getting weirder As if it’s possible it could be stranger But that is one thing you’re definitely not As you avoid my gaze it’s clear You’ll never shoot your shot and I think about the shit lot it sometimes seems I got – gave myself? – a dream with Suspicious people in my midst Horrid roommates taking the piss Out of my very livelihood – what a ride My karma has given me, so I turn To the cause, asking “What has given rise to thee? What led this John Doe here to me? What action have a I done or refused That left this jackoff rather bruised?”
Better perhaps to question How do I right the wrongs That led to these damned impressions? How do I purify the karma in the way Of the mind that holds steadfastly Virtuous equanimity, a warm feeling And friendly attitude to each living being? That is peace and happiness to me.
In the country it is relished Under the shade of friends Oak, sycamore and cedar
(If only I could be near her)
The heat Is only intolerable In the skyscraped city
Though sometimes pretty Reflecting sunlight and cloud Against brilliant glass backdrops
The perfect selfie studio Good cell reception Radiating from magnetic towers
(I still smell her flowers)
In the forest it is relished, And we see life grow, Hiking through heavy fragrance just hanging in the air Without a care, afternoons permeated with water breaks we didn’t all die from the heat but there were other dangers
(The loss is difficult to bear)
The heat is only intolerable in the city
Where it clings to and delivers Dumpster smells, sidewalk-fried vomit Makes that much more objectionable The masturbation in the subway And the skin-pressed embrace of the public transit stranger or do we see that anymore?
It has us hidden away in homes, And air conditioned cafes Appearing separate and unhappy though we suffer sweaty swamp-ass just the same – begging for marketers to quench our summer-thirst, cool?
(Missing mindfulness, I am the fool)
By the lakeside, the heat is relished Finally the sun forgives bathers, Bestowing hot sand and tanlines, Quick dry towels and the joy of popsicles Everything cold is that much more enjoyed, Pleasure derived from sticky drippings Freezies, creamsicles, ice cream cones – Eleven dollar lemonade is for the city-sufferers
(Again, I would suffer her)
The heat is only intolerable in the city without natural escape Less those that die, burdened by The thick, hot weight of smoggy air Suffocating dwellers here Folks willing to pay anything for different external conditions Desperate to escape to another’s arms, bearing summer’s dawn to a heat that’s loved, cherished in evening’s temperate shadow cast long over the fire pit, as memories toasting marshmallows late into the night Sleeping under the stars, waking in the dew
(A fire still burns for you)
A little playlist for when life gets too hot and hard to bear
Close doesn’t cut it for a swing and a miss a near hit can’t bring the runner home
Close doesn’t count t’ward an orange flagged fall a slipped push kick never nets the ball, missed point
Just out of bounds, nearly there it’s not – kind of like a heart attack without the big ol’ clot
A close call, one number off never got the message ‘cross
A close shave, still breathing now, never put me in the grave
They say, close only matters in horseshoes and hand grenades guess that’s why it’s easier today to be okay with how it’s shaken out now I see, certainly in matters of the heart, close really doesn’t count
I am utterly transformed I can never again see with false eyes I have abandoned many fears
Never again can I commit tyranny unable to slay a foe without mercy still a warrior, dedicated practiced
Once, my armor gleamed in the sun now, it is bloodstained, tarnished with use a hero’s pay is his next adventure
As I sit atop the lower falls, and waking dream what now I see remembering how this came to be
Observe not one, but many parts not one singularity exists, trunks turn out branches bearing leaves which nestle insects or yield to mites though some call it chaos mistakenly
I now see the forest for the trees fragmented phenomena, often incorrectly imputed as one object
How can it exist but in name? Dependent relationships making us dependent people, striving for independence from everyone but our own false self
Not anymore
Now when I feel autumn stretch her roots into August mornings, shrinking daylight when I feel her come in on the breeze I know the tears that fall are but impressions of the misdeeds long past done just re-emerging memories unsettled in summer’s dry heat, like dust
Everyone I know is crying women, men this is what our anger becomes when our fire runs out and we realize what we’ve done
This is how we bare our souls with honest feeling in safety why should we alone endure our gief?
In the fray, the pages rend – this time not my hand to blame – yet the rip reveals remembrance that recollection cannot heal
Bearing loss, the heartache felt heavy as a pack carried uphill over many days heavier now, as if weight was added still
Sorrow, the melancholy blues I haven’t felt you in a while and here you are anew
We may wallow in anguish, woe — briefly — as we fall into the cracks as night chases the sun away we can wish for tomorrow’s gift: a day that destroys our dismay
The Halfwit Writer 