Honestly, I'm a Liar, & Other Balances & Imbalances

February 11, 2015

SHUNNING CLASSICAL INVESTIGATION

It’s meant to be  a pair of documents,

Y’see, But I signed both.

.

Caught, I could  share   the clench

He put on that  pair of documents.

.

Bright lights washed this whiteish room.

The solemness thing   a candle brings,

Though I searched,  all the shadows had no shade in this room.

.

We digressed some away from

the heart of the matter

When he stressed  my stories were

fog & mirror

.

I’m sure I concurred  that if

Scenes and factors shift

From tellings to retellings,

It seems the fact is  seems shifty.

.

“But plainly, a  planned  lie,

A tall Alibi, that had ironclad  unchanging,

Mimicry! is one word for word bed story,

Read to children.

.

Isn’t that one good bet

That wins & sets the liar free”

.

I think he let it sink in, and then set.

.

“And you expect me to reject

Classic casebook investigation technique

& instead of  doubting inconsistency,

Instead ..One consistent story

Is a tell tale “good bet”

for Guilty?  And yet,

changing ones tune again & again  is uniquely

Honest?   it’s best to revise to clarify..

As one more clearly

recalls  new  old  details?

Just as pieces of night dreams

Resurface  into..Really??!”

.

“Um, yes.”

January 21, 2015

Flash Session

All Paul Simon sang  he

Via telephone headphones  to me

“..half of the time  you’re gone..

but you don’t know where

you don’t know where.”

i  wept  at  work.

.

Yet i got Simic  in his lunch sack/

I got Irish for when i get home

For salve & for saving him/

More, I have a mate giving me gladness

Across  the  state

I love indirectly  like madness

January 17, 2015

AND AN ADDLED, SAD MAN SAID

It’s unsafe for you too

Assume  We’re leaning

Into Leaving

(an intangible caress)

I lean into

The careening custody  of my mess.

January 13, 2015

F A I L U R E

A peripheral-visionary

Somehow stepped in cow poop.

Then  a man-on-a-missionary

Also Failed to see all  his true path

Also Failed to seek wholey  his newest  breath

Tho’ he hovers over roses,

Forever forgetting  lettting  out  as tho’

Fire candles require no

Repose

December 8, 2014

MEDITATIVE/ Kafka’s “The Way Home”

The Way Home

by Franz Kafka
Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir

See what a persuasive force the air has after a thunderstorm! My merits become evident and overpower me, though I don’t put up any resistance, I grant you.

I stride along and my tempo is the tempo of all my side of the street, of the whole street, of the whole quarter. Mine is the responsibility, and rightly so, for all the raps on doors or on the flat of a table, for all toasts drunk, for lovers in their beds, in the scaffolding of new buildings, pressed to each other against the house walls in dark alleys, or on the divans of a brothel.

I weigh my past against my future, but find both of them admirable, cannot give either the preference, and find nothing to grumble at save the injustice of providence that has so clearly favored me.

Only as I come into my room I feel a little meditative, without having met anything on the stairs worth meditating about. It doesn’t help me much to open the window wide and hear music still playing in a garden.

September 10, 2014

My Ravine

 

 

When I arrive at my ravine

& even the underlying lies fall off,

Even then,  all the subtle murmurs can mean

Something sure enough to  yell off.

.

If  & when I can arrive at my ravine cliff

I’ll sort the certainties, the lies

Of agonizing hesitations, if

Only  one  clarity would rise.

August 25, 2014

leg lifts just before those swift train doors close; an exercise

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , , , , , — namelessneed @ 10:21 am

leg lifts just before those swift train doors close; an exercise
——————————————————————————————
.The next step/ waiting maybe wrong

in dark matter

An other thing/ a rung on a dark ladder

A nothing/

As it happens/ not to happen

The next step/ leg stiff/ fixing to flex

to a leg lift/

I’m fixing to find/ A gift of intentions

To move me to move/

given/ attention enough

to move on/ away from the station

g.r.melvin (2009)

July 26, 2014

HOW THEN THE HEAVENS POURED

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , — namelessneed @ 9:09 am

 

 

  

Should I get older

I recognize me,  more blind,

Crinking my neck back, there, as

I look up at the cliff terrace

And A windowed hideaway behind,

Not so unapproachably high,

Fixed over our Pacific, finally,

That we thought might couldn’t be.

Hard rain, hell, wept down a wet

that mixes well w/regret, on my shirt

.

                                                  2

.

One can look past all our four shoulders

From inside the glass wall

On the backside of our Adirondacks

And maybe just make out

What we’re watching and talking about.

A man closely following his own footsteps

The long stretch of the shore,

But looked up at the both of us,

Here Hand in hand, and how then the heavens poured.

 

 

 

 

June 2, 2014

our cooler’s got

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , — namelessneed @ 9:11 am

 

 

 

I’m muddied, still bloodied

from Monday night’s  fight.

While yr white wine’s worn off

My  new morning   is both  still,  &; still storming.

But it’s cool  our cooler’s got

Love Lite   all bottled up &; on ice.

,

.

.

.

.                                                               (from 2009, & still)

 

April 19, 2014

GETHSEMANY

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , — namelessneed @ 9:42 am

 

Gethsemane, by Mary Oliver

The grass never sleeps.
Or the roses.
Nor does the lily have a secret eye that shuts until morning.
Jesus said, wait with me. But the disciples slept.
The cricket has such splendid fringe on its feet,
and it sings, have you noticed, with its whole body,
and heaven knows if it ever sleeps.
Jesus said, wait with me. And maybe the stars did, maybe the wind wound itself into a silver tree, and didn’t move, maybe
the lake far away, where once he walked as on a
blue pavement,
lay still and waited, wild awake.
Oh the dear bodies, slumped and eye-shut, that could not
keep that vigil, how they must have wept,
so utterly human, knowing this too
must be a part of the story.
.
.
.GETHSEMANY
.

Blackened breezes rustled/ all

Sacred/ olive trees, skies muscles thick.

I was seeing/ a sight

More than seasick.

I see him, knees bloodied,

Face drawn/ down

to earth.

I was being/ once/

Just a man also.

I spied/ by my back down

To my murk/

I cried/ by my own shadow,

But did not cry out,

To interrupt  all that  too intimate.

.

When I was a young/ more willful man,

I fasted/ from dawn friday

Until the last of easter/ Today

I’m past that/ I take  the families

To the best italian place,

For sacrificial lamb & blood red wine

& all before that, maybe grace.

 

 

 

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