Poem – Albert

Needing to know beyond what knowledge,
needing not me,
lays down like rags before me
I feel again instead of see.

Having always seen, always supposedly known,
knowledge anew tells me I’ve not but been tethered
to a big brown ball lowing groans and smoking,
rounding the linelessness of what-might-be illumination,
sun gowned, maybe, real perhaps, or just mimicking
the word beyond the word where the word supposedly lay

at which destination I cannot see anyway so I don’t
instead deeming it right to feel only
watching not watching while the gazeless codes enrich me,
and feed my blindness something of something
at least to the point of wanting hence feeling.

so I smile at the absurdity of longing
to know the meaning of to know

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Published in: on February 2, 2014 at 11:50 pm  Leave a Comment  
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new

hello,
this is the world of the new. there is old and there is new and new is you and you are you and

welcome,
there isn’t much point in being here today,
but you are
and I am
and we
together,
although we don’t see
each other
we do exist you know
do we?
oh yeah
we do.
you?
me?
yes,
we do.
all in all and all in all
the world is alright today
so you say
and we all must learn
to love it.

There was a girl who touched my heart
but lived very far away
it wasn’t that she lived for me
she hardly knew my way
but she lived for something
a little something
something far and wee and her
nothing more than what she was
and that was enough for me

Published in: on January 20, 2014 at 9:42 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The Lady on the Floor

It is easier on their end,
making the rules that we must abide by
to pay our obligations.
I am an American. I was born to abide by the rules.
Because the rules worked, in other words,
I’m not telling you what rules or whose rules.
You assume that I mean “America.” I don’t.
I obey the rules of the heart
taught to me by parents who abided by the rules
of America back when it was easier to do that.
We were raised to be honest and to pay our bills.
When the bills became difficult to pay
some of us became stressed
and continued to stay stressed only to develop illness,
nurture hatred in our hearts, coming to fear those rules
by which we were raised to abide by,
and for good reason.
It’s easier on their end, for sure.
We call them Executives, but they are you and me.
They are every person who chooses to believe that they too
can have the American dream and go for it.
We are those people, too. All of us mostly.
But some of us don’t watch. Some of us grab.
There are the takers. The bitter whose victory will kill.
While they don’t watch.
Sometimes I think that it is better not to pay your bills.
Because to not pay your bills means
that you will soon have to end the system,
for yourself anymore, of relying on the system
that would keep you in the same type of home
as those of your neighbors.
You fear losing “home.”
Sometimes I think that it is easier
for that man in that office
to send that letter, not even having to lick a stamp,
to me who must then work 800 hours
to fulfill the obligation.
That’s the only little thing that some of us pained ones are currently griping about.
Physically pained ones because, in their calculations,
we don’t deserve medical/vacation philosophy.
They are thinking of their Chateau Lullabies where the brie is so good and of course, later, gosh, life is hard, helping all those people…
Work work work work work work work work work work
I once picked a beautiful lady up off of a floor. She had worked for eight hours on her feet. She was overweight and in her late fifties. She sat in the middle of the marble hallway of a luxurious hotel/casino and cried.

Published in: on November 8, 2013 at 4:07 pm  Leave a Comment  
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This Fallow Morn

How so much this thing that we do. All. Sort of do, but not do, and all that there is left, after not doing. That which…

What next. When there seems to be nothing there still is is. Can we write of what IS when what is Not is not mentioned? Where is the real when…

Put words to what is, that is the the. No other words need apply. So simple this is. This know, this what is, but what isn’t known.

I praise these its, these knowns, for what they are. No words need more be mentioned, but those words that are, in real, more so than is, in that what is known is not real.

Yon precipice. I fall? Perhaps, all the way down to something. Born of something, this more. This fallow morn.

Published in: on January 18, 2013 at 1:28 am  Leave a Comment  

on joyce and novels over your head

…hiding from a novel here. I’ve got this big novel over my head. It’s not a lot of pages, just one big page that hovers over me like an about to strike extra giant pteredactyl with it’s pointy spine fingers hovering over you. It’s a horrible feeling. Having this large book over your head like this. I guess this is why you cannot be sane to choose to become a writer. After awhile you must either drown your sorrows in either alcohol or drugs or some other vice, I guess.

So. So much for that novel. It really does try to stop over me and pick me up into it’s maws or jaws or leaflets or logic or whatever. I can do very little to stop my fear of it as it is over me. It happens all of the time. Every time, when writing, that I don’t want to use the voice that I feel most comfortable with. I don’t think I have one writers voice per se. I have a lot of voices. As many voices as to aspects of my personality. What is personality anyway but the amalgamation of a thousand voices, aspects of ourselves. We are either going forward or we are floating. If we are floating that is okay. Some of the greatest artists and creatives floated through this world pretty good. Learn to deal with it. It is not as easy as the other thing, the running through things. That’s harder to do than floating. Both are difficult and both deserve equal respect, I guess. Life kind of sucks in the end because of death anyway that we can’t complain too much about it. It’s just another bad idea. A worried thought. Meaningless words, the giant novel, joycean in scope, perhaps as an art form he would have said, polishing his big, fat glasses through which he saw logic and logic and logic and then no more, the logic having gone to his head, he’d understood everything and praise Jesus! Trademark. And he said to his sister, Emily, Lord, the fun involved in learning the amalgamations of personality having to do with aspects and business deals with fat elephants walking to moons yet unexplored, but seen and sometimes eaten as if in blue cheese the elephant world would contain themselves, wondering. Wanderingly, again, joyce, the novel outside of the novel, big fish little fish, ronald laing, whom I do not clearly understand and the hope that someday this exercises will have at least consumed my fingers for a few moments. The exercise of the mind is the precursor to the exercise will power button belonging with the body.
Then the world came back and your fingers, though tiring, continue. Past loves can’t remember why they loved you anymore. You seem so tawdry. So cheap. Parameceum. Love.

Published in: on November 13, 2012 at 11:16 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The Poet

So true. If at all something can be true. (the curve, always the curve, coming up ahead, a down slot fast slot down spot…stop, then go) the curve, outside, inside. All I can record is movement. Actuality is of no moment. Fickle. Downplay the wired. Upplay the actual. Inside the moment. Outside the real. Next…
Its been claimed that the world is a wiggly one. The fact fades and dives and ducks away from the beam and all that is collected is the wind of the movement once again. Not even a New York skyline much less a storyline. Judgments crush down asking for some solidity, but it does not come. Once again it is the history of the invisible.
And style. Style again. Just what does that mean? A curve a jab a wisp a…never is it good enough for style is that which is left after the attempt has been made at stabbing the truth. Stabbing to hold, not to kill. If ships sailed before my eyes then its seas would be calm. This is all you can hope for when it comes to knowing. Calm seas under which the swirls and the whirls hide and propel the universe. But only if everything is symbolic, which it, of course, is. Magic? I guess so. There is no there there. Only a here hidden and fulsome, blowing, growing, in ecstasy. A carving of reality one breath at a time.
And judgments again, the stopping power of the good judgment, yet such things kill everything. This is an intereting plot, the killing of everything. Only this will make everybody stand up and prick their ears. Pour money into the killer’s cup. But such a sight is a fantasy. There will be no killing nor should there ever be. An ending, perhaps, or a beginning after an ending, but a killing. Is something born for the movies where excitement is guaranteed. For life only for the deceased. Thursday’s obituary.
So then you have color because of your particular curve. Black. Oh pound, so much like judgment this thing, this turn toward the ferocity in the emotion of the color black because of a curve that you took and did not take. That took you. Where are you? Here. In dread of the fact that you end because your sight is not great enough to see the beginning after. It is the same for all of us.
Under there are porpoises too. Worlds and grasses drifting in tides, suns high above, minnowed rays blocked in and all pointing upward. We’re fish. How can one so silent as you deny this? Our eyes look in one way and see in another. We are you and you are we. Yet we continue on. We never even meet and this is just as well for how could we hold all of us in our minds forever since forever is the only way that really ever counts. So we see and pass on, our gills sucking in oxygen just like all the rest. We’re fish.
Perhaps our minds really do need the truths of the ayurveda, your air, my earth, our water, the fire of us all. Perhaps in only this way can we know what we are and where our thoughts come from. Otherwise we are drifters like logs in oceans soundlessly going away for years and years and years. We grab hold of our elements to use them, to speak through them, to ground ourselves in something other than the ether of thought. But our lips want to kiss such truths and in our love we smother them and go back to ourselves, children without balloons walking walls alone.
The sleepy eye coming in from the jowls and hardening our eyeballs as though eyeballs could be plucked out for seeing things which lead to thought. Thought is a pillow upon a bed which isn’t there. Bang, bang, that is our head seeking stoppage of thought when thought drips into puddles stagnant. Shoot her up, smoke her out, water her down. Works for me.
What would blank do? That mirror’s image is you. There’s got to be more. It’s only that it’s all so static, so staid, so just there. Where there when no whispers to move your head or raise a smiled lip? Just you and always you there in the silver glass waiting for something to move you beyond. But the steps are limited. There is no one thing that you can do. There is only you and you are what is to do. But the staidness, the bland…
Kick invisible toads upon grasses that taste green. What for? For the heck of it. You’ll never find those toads so what’s the worry? Swim in oceans blue that take you cold downward only a little bit before you buoy back up and see the sun, feel the sun. are those chocolate covered clouds that you see? Breathe the air that trees have made and sing with lungs still good. Enough of you will do this and it will be called life even though you do not know that you are living it. There are plenty who aren’t.
I see now why storylines recede from steps of breath and air. Everything would be too fantastic. Heaven would be painted green and believed in and such things would warrant smiles and you don’t much feel like smiling because of the smokestacks and all. But a world destroyed is lightless without the flicker in the innocents eye despite it all. And the guilt you feel is useless without the flicker, the very same flicker. Crawling must lead to standing and that’s simply the truth. Of course, the callouses on your hands will go away, but you are not a dog, nor am I.
When will the ship come in? this is a very real question, one that keeps me from thinking for long periods of time. It is really just a desire for peace. But people don’t like peace, they do, but they don’t. This is a sad fact. The human being becomes bored and action stirs emotion and because there is judgment, that thing which makes everything so real, peace goes away and we wish for it again until we are bored again and action comes upon us again.
The poets roam, their souls bared like the page under a magnifying glass. Because it seems so huge they expect huge things, huge ships perhaps, but they are not holding the magnifying glass and they are really just very small creatures, just like everybody else. Some push away the magnifying glass. Put away the poetic pen and wish to be the size that they are when they poeticize when they sit and drink a cup of coffee or speak to a friend. This is their lives becoming art and it is a real aspiration even though they cease to be noted and their lights are lost among the stars. If they have an inner strength though their secrets are carried with them and act as fuel so that when they do poeticize again they are purer, their lights are shinier. They are honed. But the getting lost can be painful.
So we end here because our bodies want us to. We will not live forever in this form and the breath out is true, the eyes close and we sleep. A million pictures later we arise and we still walk silently, balloonless, upon the walls of our neighbors.

Published in: on August 9, 2012 at 3:33 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Is it Halftime yet? – Albert

It is very important to know whether or not it is half-time yet. Is it half-time yet? Is it? Is it half-time yet?

Given over then, livened over then, this other thing, crabdaplinar in scope, noodles and whey, won over then, thos slope, this gibletted…
nownownow…no need to get crandiplaplicler now is’it? Now now now.

– from the poetry of nobody no longer doodling series by Albert Jones (never printed).

Published in: on July 27, 2012 at 9:45 pm  Leave a Comment  

Otis Thought

Otis thought…
I don’t care what Otis thought
You would
Wouldn’t
Wouldn’t?
Would but wouldn’t. wouldn’t would. Wouldent.
Just as I thought
Whaddya mean
Scatterbrained
Like Susie?
Like Susie but different. You got the people headed brain pump.
That’s pimple. The people headed brain pimple that’s going to pop. We all pop. Everybody. That’s what we’re made to do. Or flip. Like spermatozoa or salmon in a river. We’re supposed to jump, pop, make a splash, but then it’s over. Just a small entertainment for a very small portion of mankind, but if we all do it then we think that there’s some sort of magic going on. Look at all the fish jumping. Look at all the people popping.

Then there are the patriglorphs, always remembering, will cry with you, but are really quite tough, have a bad reputation for being too good. People don’t believe it. Don’t trust it. But it’s true. Some people are good. Or pretty good anyway. What does good mean anyway?

Went to the yesterday. Nothing much happened. Just kidding. Didn’t go to the .

Otis thought nothing.
Othis thought something.
Otis doesn’t exist.
Otis does exist. He comes here at 3 and 5.
He’s a figment of your imagination.
He is the janitor.
He is not.
Hello.
Hello, otis. See…
Otis?
Yes.
Are you the janitor.
Yes.

When otis was born, his mother called him James. His stepfather called him Otis. Otis. It’s so easy to stop writing. Welcome. Redundant. Can only last a quarter of an hour. So much for that…

Published in: on May 26, 2012 at 3:41 am  Leave a Comment  
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What is Given

Young, we scour all things, for truths.
So much new, million mile message.
We believe that finally we know.
But a truth ofen hides after discovery,
Till nothing at all can be pinned.
You wonder what you knew,
Whether you had ever truly learned.
Maybe you did. Maybe you didn’t.
The truth seems taken from you,
Given back to the air, released.
Re-symbolized forever away from you.
So we prize the truths of the young,
Fresh eyes on ancient things,
But, still, the same dissipation –eventually-
The ambling away of palpable now
Back to dark, mysterious places.
Learned yet not so learned,
The known, not so known.
For the question is gone.
The need to know satiated.
Answers so integrated as to disappear.
Tell us, tell us, tell us!
Scream the young, like we did, I might add,
And we raise our heads, our minds,
Look up and see…nothing.
All is like it was before the attempt,
The desperate grab at knowing done,
Airy you, airy me, blue clouds each, rainless.
Nothing new, old sun.

Published in: on May 24, 2012 at 9:37 am  Leave a Comment  
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Babel

Babel.
It’s all babble.
I mean Babel. As in Tower of Babel.
We’ve built our tower and the higher up we get, the less we understand one another.
The thieves have taken up roosts in the new nesting places.
Come on in. They look just like the honest ones before them.
That new website and service. Oh, that’s Johnny’s new thing,
something he does when he gets home from elementary school.
He’s made ten bucks this month faking his way through the adult world.
Good for you, Johnny, keep up the good work.
Babel. It’s not what you say, but how you say it.
Babel. It’s hardly worth talking about because any talk at all just adds to the confusion. I’ll be the one who explains it, each writer writes.
Add the solution to the billion other solutions and we’ll see if he or she is right.
Or simply lost.
Babel

It used to be that…
Once, when I was young…
There is no time for that…
Does anything matter anymore?
Clever clever clever.
Something they don’t teach you in school is…
How come we can’t just get along?
Are others feeling the same way?
How come…
When the world ends…
Which project was the right project
and did I do it?
What knowledge is the right knowledge?
Or is the determining factor sexual attractiveness?
How come…
Where did it say that…
What is the thing that matters…
Is that growling in your brain or…
How come we need to muse on…
We are all executioners, daily, every day…
We dispatch others. We dispatch all.
Eliminate the competition. Be alone. Good enough.
We throw money over our heads. That’s just what we do.
Because we love it.

I once wrote thinking writing would be read.
When it was not I wrote more thinking it would be read.
It was not. I wrote more thinking it would be read. It was not.
I wrote more thinking it…then I died.

In death you see things that you wouldn’t see in life.
All of those arrows that I used to point people to the truth
were confusing to them, unwanted. So unread.
I can’t blame them.
I don’t want to look at other people’s arrows either.
Especially if they come with a mystic layer.
Perhaps my poetry is not sufficient.
Perhaps theirs as well. Perhaps all of our poetry is insufficient.
Or we believe that when we write such things we are preening.
So there was a huge upheaval against preening on the page.
And we all walked home, head bowed, shamed and believing rightfully so.

But there was no need for shame.
The world had logic’d itself into mayhem.
Poetry, the lost art of shameful practitioners
was the only place that really mattered anymore.
Prizes were given to people who wrote, even blandly, un-poetically.
For the words themselves, coming from the deep
mattered again, surprisingly. But not. Not in life.
But in death only.
Never in life.
So we wither upon the vine.

Published in: on April 28, 2012 at 5:54 pm  Leave a Comment  
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