Eyes tell (haiku)

Beauty from the face

Symmetry is inviting

But eyes tell the truth

my ex-history

I had this run in with my ex-history.

It wanted some say about me now!

Isn't reality only this immediacy

of interpretation?

How can a distant future of then

come back dressed up as now?

What is so wrong with this picture

that it is dismissible?

Are there not laws of continuity

and anomalies to every frame?

When something appears

to be referential through time,

aren't there vintage laws

where datedness is implied?

Yes, there is some sketchiness here

rasping as memory,

some bits and pieces remembered

in a first hand toss salad way.

But this history

wants the now of bottled dressing!

This can't be so!

We have recycling now.

And yes it is true

that facts these days

don’t last as long

and are printed with cheaper ink!

Maybe it is not even the same sun

passing in the sky above and burning

but worth, in the way we do worth,

with any sense of respectability,

does not dally in the past.

It moves its nominal ass along,

day by day.

It scavengers most every aspect of life

to build a pile of self-worth

in a constantly changing world.

This is not the long arm of the law!

This is a hunk of my ex-history,

possibly only a distant relative!

But really, can't even say that for sure.

And here it is, in my current life,

with demands!

Go . . . away.

You have no proof.

My now lives with alibis . . .

Sunset (haiku)

sun sets on my day

but all along I am fooled

really, it’s earth rise

Living it and so alone

The way we run on with nothing

yet fuel up at first thoughts.

We are vacant to say

but fume on privacy restrained.

We think ourselves a blank billboard

but our surface is beehive tension busy.

The humming within gets louder

as the hidden hive grows larger.

What we want to fall out of the sky

has no place to safely land within us.

Everything else is magnified bother

slowly reduced into our burning ash.

We are identifying with being

the runt of our own first litter event.

Yet each subsequent circumstance

rushes to the forefront to be foremost.

Everything that is new and exciting,

is eventually the same once again.

Yes, we are living it alive

yet we still manage to be so alone.

Cherry stem (haiku)

Cherry stem knotted?

What mouth with what tongue could do?

Yours? Show evidence.

I'm going to choose

I'm going to choose my acids.

How's that

for a declaration about life?

From saliva to urination,

I want full control of my ph.

Just alkaline fluids

as demeanor and stasis.

And absolutely only acids

in digestive functions

when absorption is

a called for necessity.

No reflex from emotional duress,

no reflux of stomach acid

yelling up my esophagus,

no secret mission secretions

oozing through my pores,

no crumb drainage

from my overnight eyes,

no secret sinus infection

producing nuisance fluids that drain,

no lymph nodes gridlock clogged

with extra debris,

no excess water on the brain,

no need anywhere within

for swelling or bloating,

sweat when appropriate,

phlegm for a worthy cause,

weekly nocturnal emissions

as a last resort,

tears of joy everyday,

and that should do,

just fine!

news (haiku)

news media is

in a vast ocean of spin

with a worm of truth

Brain dominance

Brain dominance

(this was overheard:

what one righteous hand puppet

said to its left hand counterpart . . .)

"Those stupid complex private thoughts

that you openly share

through your body language,

what's with that?

Why you have an electronic billboard

for a forehead

and those apologetic postures

you assume

better not be

your entire behavioral repertoire.

You are on my food chain list for sure

but just below shared flossing

and maybe an occasional substitute

for mandible water pick work.

And if you think for one minute

that Rogaine commentary

is going to help mask

the obviousness of you

as a hairy ape,

it will be considered by me

as only a subtle shift of an excuse

for your personal presence.

Why I am surprised

that all the pores on your face

haven't turned butt and run up sleeve?

For the way you cower

is, in no way, a poor excuse

for your version of social levity.

There is no sound or facial expression

that can mask your insistence

as your personal invitation to fear.

It appears that everything

before your face

must look like a gun barrel to you.

And the moving shadows

up the barrel's stock

seem like any one else's nostrils

facing you with murderous intentions.

This must get you really concerned

about where they're pointing those things

which in your case

is in every a face-to-face situation.

No wonder you feel like

a squeamish hostage

from deep down under.

Whatever the rest of that gibberish is

that you propose as speech

gushing out

of that beady eyed

dodge ball fist head

of yours appears as balloon exhaust.

This is an irreverent usage of air.

It is disgusting

what those lips try to shape

with what is passing between them.

Have you ever thought, no.

First off, have you ever thought?

Then have you ever thought

of wearing a muzzle

or some other attractive device

that could contain,

no better that could conceal

what that is that goes on there?

You could fake a type of throat cancer

and get better results.

You could get some kind

of medical cosmetic make up

and make your face look like

a goiter takeover

or a mole possession situation,

and get more like a sympathy audience.

They still would give you the look

of both barrels

but presumably keep their hands

off the trigger

for most of the time.

That is,

unless you inadvertently appeared

to suggest

some sort of inference towards

assisted suicide or accidental homicide

or decapitation.

Why you could get one

of those clangy repetitive horns,

like the one they use

on vehicles for backing up.

Then hook it up

to a frontal motion sensor

somewhere on your face.

That way, just the sheer annoyance

of that sound detecting anyone

in front of you,

even if they are only out there

on a dare

or a bout of morbid curiosity,

they would set that sound thing off,

like a truck backing up does,

or better yet, a stadium horn

that just blares itself to exhaustion.

Then they could justifiably run for cover.

And you then,

could avoid further instances

of conversational abuse.

It may be lonely

but it would be

a quite breezy

to completely see the horizon

unobstructed for long pans.

And the wheeze

from your own existence,

could then easily suffice

as your dialogue intimately spoken,

maybe in a pocket

and eventually heard as a lullaby.

But hey, that would be a two-for-one!

You certainly can't go wrong

with that option . . ."

abstinence (haiku)

abstinence from you

makes this mindfulness of mine

into a fodder

"Not like but is . . ."

Everything is comparable,

or of that persuasion

for the first few seconds

of confusion

that any initial notice brings.

There is the internal quick study

of all things front and center,

the sieve of comprehension

as coming into frame.

Then most everything spoken

is reducible

to a spectatorship lingo point of view.

There is summary and encapsulation,

power point depiction in the mind,

and “and lastly” phrased to share.

But there isn’t very much of

“not like but is”.

That would be each one of us

but not really, on display.

This “is” factor

is everyone’s desperate search

for true identity manifest

yet displaced by projection.

Babies have it

before the dumb down

of our reality sets overwhelms.

Many people have it to exhibit,

but much like aurora borealis,

it is a special set of circumstances

and apparently spontaneous if at all.

For me, it comes

in the drinking of water,

not that food doesn’t evoke.

But drinking water,

although it may have taste distraction,

is definitely “not like but is”.

Food has a taste extravaganza,

a tango to chew,

landing the food utensil

on the delivery deck,

disembark, disengage and depart

before said process reaches assignment,

chew, taste, and swallow.

Where as water is an instinctual quench.

It is a reload, a refurbish, a refresh

and a tap into that “that is” . . .

even in terms of people,

we would all want to quench

and tap into the spirit

of a person “that is".

Remember, "not like, but is . . ."

monotony (haiku)

this monotony

could only be diminished

by kind human touch

the rise and fall of value

I have a place within me

with these strange sensations,

called meanings

that take a stand.

Behind the staunch and surety,

is a subtle frenzy called value.

Its space of occupancy is illusive.

It is strung up broad and inclusive

with crisscrossing lines of cognitions

like good to bad, more to less,

and big to small.

They all seem to overlay.

Even complex continuums as

like to dislike, care for to reject,

or love to hate,

find room for display.

I do not know what use

these orientations ultimately serve

but they function within me

most automatically.

And with a great sense

of compelling immediacy,

a core choir of inner emotional voices

give sound to these perspectives.

I feel helplessness to avoid them.

I am an eavesdrop listener

and yet these strange sensations

persist quite on their own.

And I have come to live there

where value proclaims

and I respond,

in an unending season of laments

that acoustically possesses me

as a stairwell for these soundings

to hum along within me.

There is an insistence,

demanding within almost every frame.

Value-claims come to mind

like broom movements

across the pavement of each thought.

Some heartfelt interactions occur

from each sweep of the mind.

I am this habit of the engagement

yet how did this elemental task

as its motions mandate,

come to represent me,

to become me?

The rise and fall of value

is now like breathing

against the inertia

of experiences' trivial fill.

Always a way of passage is made.

All the necessities

of keeping a storied self alive

are carried out in accountability's repertoire.

Self becomes evidential

at feigning an existence disenfranchised

but unassumingly so.

There are

hugely inappropriate self-perceptions

to stir the fire

but hardly a purveyance

of conveyant wisdom to speak.

Value is like a personalized scarf

as a hip replacement

on a belly dancer.

Oh there is something to it

that is immediately appealing

but upon further reflection.

I mean,

look in the mirror!

No,

that really . . . doesn't work,

at all . . .

Value as a select from the menu

of life ongoing

is not the same

as value expressed as spirit

sharing light from within . . .

spoken (haiku)

all that is spoken

has an unsaid secret spin

please, decode the spin

die as I must

Die as I must.

Words will come out of me

to break my fall.

Gravity will bend me.

Grief will hollow my stare.

I will discover

that I am not whole.

I will lean on you,

all of you

and invisibly grow.

What I compressed

into a meaningful life,

will gather more loosely

as myself I once knew.

Die as I must.

I had all of time

to follow your lead.

I pleaded then

for your love.

And now I know,

you loved me,

not for my plead.

I had expectations of you,

all of you in some way.

Now we meet,

outside of frame.

I had versions of you,

each of you,

I liked.

My versions

kept me from you.

Now I sadly bury my version,

while you all watch.

Die as I must.

Memories become maggots

from all of you on my mind.

Where I see your seeing me,

I can see

through you to your me.

I feel squeamish

and cornered,

not up to the pretend

of this going on.

Oh to be sure,

your laughter now

provides for you.

Die as I must,

but we do and will

all go on . . .

knowing (haiku)

what knowing displays

is worlds of experience

that represent us

Yourself as a brand

Yourself as a brand

becomes a voice

for a product

that becomes a souvenir.

We all, by that means,

become extensively superficialized

in regard to each other.

If I am a celebrity to you

then you, as audience, imprison me.

For I am held prisoner

by the applause

of your expectations

and the presumptions

of your candid unsaidness.

All of your faces

become masks of persuasion.

You are all accomplices

to the crimes of false fascination

and the collusive contractual binds.

Everyone becomes

their own reality show

strictly for effect.

If I sponsor you with my attention

then the way you serve my needs

is in the forms of valued distraction.

Our consensual reality

becomes a managerial project.

Sharing documentation

becomes a trite form

of intentional flattery.

The intimacy of my world

is best seen through these portals

of posted comments and pictures.

I’m really just a postcard sent your way

from being relevant in your life

but we don’t do that any more,

except for, “wishing you were here”,

inside of wherever I am.

Dove stares (haiku)

a dove stares you down

you think your food is the quest?

no, light from your eyes

a debutante is this moment

I was brought here like you,

to be the proud product of two parents,

to be a child-like debutante

of this moment,

somewhat and sort of ongoing.

But upon looking inward,

I must reply.

I am not innocently here as any part

of a debutante is this moment.

Instead I am still in the first breath

of my birth moment,

from before now,

and again and again,

with the feel of any new moment's

stark foreign setting upon me.

I have recently discovered myself

over and over, as a performer,

newly waiting here for this moment

to become my stage of invitation.

I am also a lucid dreamer of spirit,

walking through the walls

of this moment's sassy display.

I am perhaps coming from

unhappy times in my past lives,

here to party in this moment

to get through it

or to get into it to get over it.

I am sadly here without permission

from my inner child at play,

yet to freely appear

in this moment's celebration.

I am partially a slave to the shackles

of this or any other moment's

accessories of distraction.

I too am reluctantly swayed,

looking for love

to continue to come through

in this moment's blind entry.

I admit that I am a poser for now

as if my personal baggage

were outside of time.

I probably will really be

in avoidance this next moment,

preoccupied within

my addictive perceptual style.

I am filled with a crush of expectations,

cramming the bottleneck of this moment

with disappointments

that will eventually come and go.

I am prepared to be a litigant lawyer,

ready to summarize

any other moment's value

against this moment's maddening display.

I feel that

I am a sufficiently damaged goods

to dimly weather this moment

as another in a long line

of personal disasters forthcoming

and yet driven to blossom and shine.

I am this party of twelve heartfelt moments

with only a table for two in mind.

I am myself this annoying splinter moment

in search of a someone

who has tweezers for me sometime today.

I am often a reminiscent historian

prompted by other great moments

to indulge this one

into a story time passage.

I am a gossip columnist's all-ears

for this moment's innuendo and here say.

I am the 6 p.m. news

in alarm of this moment’s worthiness,

just waiting to verbally anoint

another 15 minutes

of in-my-eyes fame.

I am all this

bundled up energy of light,

in this, as always, a somewhat

stop gap moment's restraint.

I am jaded enough

to offer the kind of lip service

that renders this moment off as passé.

I am this crying towel moment

yet no tears of joy or sadness

seem to have timely arrived.

I am this dreaded but private

sunken disemboweled moment,

paradoxically in a greeting line

of friendly moments' fair shake.

I am this adrenal

have-you-reached-a-verdict moment

that sees jury foremen

as every minutemen in my face.

But then, I am most always

a timeless spirit in witness,

dressed in hopeless cynic drag

with centipede rights of passage feats

undermining all

these other moments'

emotionality spillage

out of my way.

But for now, this now,

for all that has come and gone,

am I still as,

a debutante is this moment?

Well, in an ageless way,

surely more yes and than no

but I can't really say . . .