Mad Flightless Birds

Haiku Post 1

2008-03-10T10:41:00.005-04:00

Poems fluctuate,

At the whim of the reader,

Through space and time.

Roses

2007-04-01T13:54:00.000-04:00

I love daffodils,
not for the way they melt the snow like a thousand little suns,
not for the way the dew glistens on delicate petals ready for an early morning mothers' day,

I love daffodils,
for how a sweet bouquet, once quaffed, does make my stomach yearn.

A bear

2007-02-03T20:15:00.000-05:00

There's a bear behind me.
He's 5'8".
Covered in a warm brown fur.
Has stomping feet the size of small accordians. They squeak as he stomps forward.
His snout sports a royal nose of black velvet, forever snuffling , stalking my fears.
Teeth that glitter like orion's belt, and gape open as if to swallow the sun.
And great sharp claws for which to render the soul from my body.

Or maybe, he just wants a hug?

My Therapist said

2007-01-19T18:39:00.000-05:00

My therapist suggested, stated, that I was a sensitive person, as does go with the "trade" I partake in. She pointed to the malaise surrounding my own inner space as a contributing factor in what is the circus (the dirty, over-worked, underpaid, abusive kind of circus) that has been, is and will be, my psyche. It occurred to me, that, being a sensitive bear, I have absorbed into the physical space that marks my bio-psycho-social-ness, like a willing sponge the despair and corruption swirling around me. This tornado of pollution; from the 13 year-old who saw it fit to smash my glasses and kick me in the head to the Colombian government's willingness to assassinate for coca cola; all poured into my thoughts, my aura, my colon and my ego (among other such sundries) where it taints, distills, and corrodes.

However, to use the words of another made-up space cowboy.... "I'm a leave on the wind."

orange, pink, green, blue, Pills

2006-11-05T00:23:00.000-05:00

nausea, headache, thirsty, headache, nausea
forget, lost, happy, sad, funny, stupid, rage
nausea, headache, tired, headache, nausea
despair, elation, apathy

Belly Monster

2006-10-26T22:13:00.000-04:00

There is a monster in my belly.
Not a cuddly Muppet,
if only it was a tapeworm, or some virulent strain of e. coli.

No, this fiend should still be trapped at the bottom of Pandora's box.
It claws at my psyche,
slices through me ego,
devouring all the kindnesses of my life,
leaving me alone.
Alone.
Alone.

You can't understand loneliness until death leaves the table.
Riping all serenity out of the day,
jeering,
taunting my spirit,
I am paralyzed.

Creepy furry nutty.

2006-10-22T15:57:00.000-04:00

Squirrels have always seemed to haunt me. I've had the close encounters; they wander through my living room, scurry through my sleeping bag. Watching me eat, read and sleep, these forward observers for Nature's Return interrupt my nightmares with songs of destruction. Rumor has it that squirrels have brought down the fabulous NASDAQ exchange no less than two times! A squirrel was blamed for the 1987 power surge that ended trading for 82 minutes, and knocked the power out in 1994, causing an interruption in trading of half an hour. Anyway, thats more than I've done, so maybe these creatures that so torment my sanity, these worshipers of the nut, do me a favor. They could do worse, being disciples of the sky, the mother of Ra. Nut protects us from the chaos, she nurses the stars, she is a friend of our dead. So maybe squirrels, Nature's urban observers, the faithful of Nuit, aren't out solely to harass me?

Time bomb

2006-08-20T23:42:00.000-04:00

Sometimes bombs fall on my head,
not hydrogen or plutonium,
nor plastic or TNT.

More like poems of such immense despair that the fallout obscures everything but the blast.

The tears run down the inside of my melted cheeks,
timeless.

I am enormous,
the gravity of my ego pulls all light inwards,
no one can see me.

A stopwatch may plummet through 60 seconds,
but a minute is infinite to an expanding universe, full of such black holes.

The Physics of Anxiety

2006-08-20T16:21:00.000-04:00

As i understand it everything is movement. The universe expands; electrons are moving around the protons and neutrons; all this making up the atoms bouncing around in the space that makes up my thumb, this keyboard and the fruit of a kiwi plant. Even death is movement, the movement of these atoms and molecules to the movement of bacteria, insects and other opportunistic carrion eaters; assimilating the energy my soul harnessed for shelter during its brief human tenancy.

So what of the mind? Of the anxious mind? Of the self in a state of non-motion? Absolute zero is an impossibility to achieve, so in our practical world there will always be energy, always be motion. When my mind freezes overwhelming anxiety prevents the natural creativity of entropy. Energy does not cease, movement continues building up within the closed system that is my mind, my spirit, my cerebrum. Will it explode? or just slowly leak? Personally, i hope for the fame of spontaneous combustion; what is worse than death? The inertia of non-death, for death is so obviously all the life of the universe.

Thought is energy is a river. My anxiety, my dam. Dams, be they in the physical world, on the Connecticut river, on the Rio Grande, or deeper, in the spirit, convert this free energy into one that is tame, running through the power grids and functionality of everyday banality. This domestic energy is unnatural, it blocks the possibility, the inevitability of salmon, of osprey, of replenished soil, of music, of poetry, of liberation, of replenished soul.