tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1042058523293746052024-03-08T06:52:51.691-05:00Primordial DrivelThis blog is (mostly) a near-verbatim transcription of my writing journal. Margins are the same as the journal. These are exercises, not finished products. Other types of writings will most likely emerge at some point.Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.comBlogger109125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-37249394441429741442015-10-31T03:33:00.000-04:002015-10-31T03:33:00.396-04:00Journal XX - Banshees and Unrestrained LibertyThe clouds are falling out of the sky with the screams of<br />
<div>
the banshee leading the wind. The screams don't scare me</div>
<div>
at night behind the camellias. The wind though. It blows.</div>
<div>
People don't believe in the banshee but they do demons.</div>
<div>
It shouldn't surprise. The Bible talks about demons but not</div>
<div>
banshees. Yeats does though. He was a believer. I'm a</div>
<div>
believer. You are a believer. We are all believers. We</div>
<div>
believe in rainbows but not in their meaning. We believe in</div>
<div>
laughter but not in its medicine. We believe in beauty but</div>
<div>
not that it's real. Colors aren't real, they say. Mental</div>
<div>
constructs. Like the matrix. I have a mental construct of a</div>
<div>
scientist being honest with the ancients. I have a mental</div>
<div>
construct of a philosopher being open to religion. Storms</div>
<div>
are distant and dark and beautiful and destructive, filled</div>
<div>
with shades and gradations and heavy with the weight of</div>
<div>
the earth, tough love for the growth and cleanliness of the</div>
<div>
world. Sometimes I see animals in the sky. Trees like</div>
<div>
people dancing a harvest dance, little pine arms turned</div>
<div>
upward and sideways, swirling around in browns and reds</div>
<div>
and greens and fifty shades of grey in between. I see a girl,</div>
<div>
a beautiful blond-haired girl standing in fifty shades of grey.</div>
<div>
Fifty beautiful shades of black and white and the half-light</div>
<div>
of a charcoal morning. I want to take my eraser and wipe</div>
<div>
away the words I said that made her stop twirling her hair</div>
<div>
when we talked. Stop staring at me with dilated eyes.</div>
<div>
I want to erase my eyes and my nose and my hairs, but</div>
<div>
leave by big belly. My swelling belly reminds me that I am</div>
<div>
in need of restraint. Unrestrained liberty is death to the</div>
<div>
body and soul. Yes, give me unrestrained liberty and you</div>
<div>
will give me death. My liberty is swallowing me, chewing</div>
<div>
me like a bird being tossed about between various rocks</div>
<div>
like in an alligators stomach - she stares and watches with</div>
<div>
sympathetic eyes and a compassionate brow, while</div>
<div>
laughing with her friends at my ridiculous confession from</div>
<div>
the wet street, standing in the rain with a white shirt</div>
<div>
plastered to my skin - no longer white. Her vintage round</div>
<div>
sunglasses hang from her nose hovering over a smile that</div>
<div>
says so much to anyone who has the ears to hear. I alas</div>
<div>
am deaf to the incalcitrant sirenic songs of women. I am</div>
<div>
deaf to the words coming out of her eyes and her smile,</div>
<div>
her fingers and her hair. I am deaf even to the song of the</div>
<div>
cardinal singing high in the bare tree in winter, snow</div>
<div>
covering the land like a giant down comforter, soft and</div>
<div>
silent and almost even warm looking. The cardinal sings a</div>
<div>
<div>
song like something her eyes might sing if one knows the</div>
<div>
way to look and listen. My left eye is empty. My right is</div>
<div>
dying. I am trying to listen, to listen to the voices of my past</div>
<div>
and my present to decipher my future. She hangs in the</div>
<div>
balance. Any minute could mean bliss or torture,</div>
<div>
depending on a language I don't speak or follow. The</div>
<div>
language of eyes and brows and smiles and head tilts and</div>
<div>
hair and leanings in and out. Crossed legs can say so</div>
<div>
much. I want to break the wind and push the clouds back</div>
<div>
into the sky, stop the swelling of the rain in the streets. I</div>
<div>
want to end the storm that has crashed into my life,</div>
<div>
spinning me round and around, saturating my soul with its</div>
<div>
uncertainty and lack of direction and predicability. The</div>
<div>
storm in my soul can have been the work of Eros only. You</div>
<div>
may know of him as Cupid. He isn't a sweet cherub. He's a</div>
<div>
demonic asshole. Ready to drop you in the eye of the</div>
<div>
hurricane and laugh at you as you are ripped apart while</div>
<div>
stuffing his mouth with popcorn. What can calm a storm?</div>
<div>
Who? There is a story I've heard about peace and</div>
<div>
stillness. Peace. Still. Dreams that visit at night and vanish</div>
<div>
before you can wake up with a realized smile of still peace.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
3.22.2015</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-7357677958379663312015-08-18T03:30:00.000-04:002015-08-18T03:30:02.803-04:00Journal 84 - Gettier and the Knowledge of the MoonI discovered the moon late in life, and late at night.<br />
The red moon hanging over a swamp at night, hearing the<br />
critters and the creatures singing in your imagination the<br />
dissonant sounds of heir swampy minor songs, rough and<br />
rhythmic in their passionate cries. The moon hangs there<br />
reflected in the water still but for the moccasin slithering<br />
through the water with a tongue tasting the air and the<br />
swamp, the cottonmouth swimming side to side in the<br />
redness of the rising moon, preyful and cocky as it<br />
shifts its weight around in the starry night. Stars shine<br />
through time but the snakes and the rut-less deer and the<br />
other nocturnal creatures don't notice or acknowledge this<br />
ancient miracles of mathematical models; they eat about<br />
their business happily ignorant of any questions of art,<br />
induction, knowledge, warrant, fundamentalism (whether<br />
physics or Protestantism) or justified true belief. Or<br />
justifiable true belief - or Gettier's knowledge of luck -<br />
ignorance is bliss is not a negative insight - regardless<br />
of a dissatisfied Socrates. Three pages of Gettier thus<br />
confounded the philosophical world...of epistemology, and yet<br />
how many happy people smile happily day to day and pool<br />
to pool, knowing full well they are happy and that they<br />
smile, the wet smile on their wet child's face as she<br />
jumps into the pool in a solid cannonball, splashing all<br />
the other kids with true and justified laughter, is a smile<br />
spread across many thousands of people throughout the<br />
blue marshy world - smiles known to be true and justified<br />
despite Gettier's or Plantinga's attempts at falsifying or<br />
affirming this ubiquitous sample of natural human<br />
knowledge. But can we trace the source of this glad<br />
expenditure of commonality, this common human nature -<br />
can we trace it to God our ontological Father or the cold<br />
mixture of chemicals, accidental in their appearance of<br />
predictability and spontaneity. Civil Wars come and<br />
go in word and song but each day we feel the<br />
presence of those who gave their lives for their word<br />
and those who see the Civil Wars as a metaphor for<br />
ourselves - our relationships with each other and our<br />
proclivity for conflict despite our oh-so-knowledgeable Age.<br />
<br />
<br />
12.5.2012<br />
<br />
<br />Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-56615208717320875472015-08-12T03:30:00.000-04:002015-08-12T03:30:01.043-04:00Journal 83 - Sound of a Bloody SundayThe moment in the evening when there is a general feeling<br />
<div>
that everything is all right and good, when you smile at the</div>
<div>
thoughts of the kids in the yard spraying each other with</div>
<div>
green garden hoses is a June bug in November - a quiet</div>
<div>
harbinger from heaven, fleeting except to those whose nose</div>
<div>
she files into. My nose hurts only on some spectacular</div>
<div>
rare occasions. These occasions of visits from heaven-</div>
<div>
painful as other-worldly visits are apt to be - slip in under</div>
<div>
my eyelids while my eyes rae back and forth with red</div>
<div>
blood vessels swelling into scary rivulets of overflowing</div>
<div>
panic, and they (those extra-terrestrial parakletes) blow back</div>
<div>
the bloody waters, to my surprise, as angels and gods should</div>
<div>
instill despair, right? My despair is my comfort and my</div>
<div>
vice. My depression is a yellow wildflower in October-</div>
<div>
beautiful and in days dead. I sometimes wonder if</div>
<div>
depression is a sin or a blanket draped over a child at</div>
<div>
night in december - shielding an onslaught of cold sickles</div>
<div>
assaulting what is left bare in the openness of our over-</div>
<div>
heating world. Contradictions are sometimes, it seems, all</div>
<div>
we have to lead us to the hint, to the whisper, of the</div>
<div>
share of truth - the sand(?) of shepherd's pie & fish & chips.</div>
<div>
That which is fast is fast, and that which is slow, slow.</div>
<div>
And in the end it is we who are fast and slow, not food.</div>
<div>
A shaved head & glasses for some reason says disciplined</div>
<div>
intelligence, but my stats say intelligence is common</div>
<div>
but discipline a relic discovered by a swift spelunker.</div>
<div>
The sound of a Bloody Sunday should mean so much</div>
<div>
to the world but I think it's just the quaint refrain</div>
<div>
of a familiar song. BTW - my pen rests when my thoughts</div>
<div>
sink. Why do we have to swelter here on Earth in</div>
<div>
constant question of that which is and that which</div>
<div>
isn't, craving like a drug addict for God's response-</div>
<div>
only to have more questions with the answers in the</div>
<div>
Bible while walking in fear of the sweltering threat</div>
<div>
of never-ending hell itself? Why is the sirenic call</div>
<div>
of the Walking Dead so sirenic? Paul cried out with</div>
<div>
a loud mega cry: I would that I had three years alone</div>
<div>
with Jesus, Immanuel, He that which none greater could be</div>
<div>
conceived - though no lesser excuse could be conceived.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
11.11.12</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-52175019710797419552015-08-07T03:30:00.000-04:002015-08-07T03:30:00.102-04:00Journal 82 - Dylan Understood Revolutions Per Minute<br />
<div>
The cold rain slipped in like a thief in the night to save</div>
<div>
us from the perdition of summer. It is cold and wet and</div>
<div>
the leaves glisten in the fallen moonlight and Ik now no</div>
<div>
deeper thought. My eyes are bothered by this slippery beauty,</div>
<div>
burning in the windy night, crying reluctant tears at all those</div>
<div>
who have fallen in this beautiful wet world, like boxers struggling</div>
<div>
in the last round of their last fight; like matriarchs who lie</div>
<div>
to dance and shuffle their feet with a wonderfully wrinkled</div>
<div>
smile and fought for twinkle in her wizened eyes, who passes through</div>
<div>
this wet world with hymns and hugs and prayers and squeezing</div>
<div>
hands. A hand squeezed can make the venom in a grin grown</div>
<div>
sweet like a six year old at her birthday party when that one</div>
<div>
certain person arrives ful of warmth and smiling laughter</div>
<div>
conquers all anxiety. Red wine is so good outside at night in</div>
<div>
the cold. Cold is a state of being and my being tells me I'm</div>
<div>
cold. I see the lights strung around the small white fence</div>
<div>
around my deck reflected in a semi-circle in my wine glass</div>
<div>
like the lights on a runway (were they in a semi-circle) or the</div>
<div>
pegs of guitar strings on a giant 27-string guitar; or the</div>
<div>
illuminated connectors of a memory board stick, maybe</div>
<div>
SODIMM;- and it is good. It is good to see no matter how</div>
<div>
or what the method or what the content, no matter the</div>
<div>
comparison - it is good to be aware. It is easy to judge and to</div>
<div>
correct but to understand is a gift of God. To drink is not</div>
<div>
to understand. But still Dylan understood. Life is a record player</div>
<div>
and most of us are on the wrong speed, the wrong revolutions</div>
<div>
per minutes - we are too fast. Thirty-three is good. Life is a</div>
<div>
slow revolution of punctuated equilibrium that settles at the</div>
<div>
bottom of someone's dirty ocean. Life is cycled seasons of laughter.</div>
<div>
Life is learning ephemeral contemporary thoughts of you and me</div>
<div>
and technology too, knowing too late these thoughts are</div>
<div>
dark like a whore who has a trust fund in 3 banks. Life is</div>
<div>
a song full of warmth and heartache on a record with a</div>
<div>
scratch that keeps repeating itself over and over, always finding</div>
<div>
a new audience with the birth of another credulous generation</div>
<div>
who finds itself enlightened with the spirit of man. A child's</div>
<div>
laugh is caulk for the scratches and cracks in this broken</div>
<div>
world. The world may be a teetering pivot in a silent cold</div>
<div>
vacuum but I hear the music in the dark spheres and i</div>
<div>
feel the heat in the distant emptiness of our blank verse.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
10.8.12</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-48801548133095010852015-07-29T03:30:00.000-04:002015-07-29T03:30:01.982-04:00Journal 81 - Time Wraps Mathematical ModelsTime wraps around my space the way a snake<br />
wraps around a wet rat, wriggling but unable to<br />
scream. Soon the clouds bellow with their water world<br />
and grimace in anger, dropping their wet weight down<br />
upon our hairy heads. I raise my head and poke out<br />
my tongue to taste the moisture and absorb it into my<br />
overheated self, hoping it would surge me like brown<br />
bourbon on labor day...or any day really. Water means so<br />
much to our hot world. My kids and I dance in the<br />
rain and the rain puddles in the gutters in the street<br />
stomping on time like a child's beach ball, waiting for it<br />
to explode and sing its exhausted dilated tune for the<br />
leftover observers in this virtually unobserved world of<br />
ontologically suspicious elements - but who doubts explanatory<br />
models really but the foolish? I do. That's who do. I<br />
laugh at the beryon who briefly appears and then exits<br />
like an actor who enters before her cue. Time is brief but<br />
it's matter in the end, wrapped in a warped singular<br />
nothing that pops in and out of existence in reported<br />
symmetry - nothing being re-defined as something becoming<br />
nothing close to being. I see the stars and I hear the<br />
music of the spheres, the land of darkness and the helping<br />
phriendly book; I see the elements burning and recombining;<br />
I see the dust and I see the black decay. I see the stars<br />
and I see the heavens. I hear the angelic host singing<br />
their angelic song to the Creator. I hear the chorus of<br />
man and lizards and I laugh heartily at God our Father,<br />
the warm laugh a friend laughs upon seeing a long-lost<br />
friend emerge from a snow storm. I see the pink on<br />
God's cheeks and know He cares. He cares about waves<br />
and particles and music and words and symbols and<br />
love and hate and all our lovely labels. He smiles at<br />
our incomplete mathematical models, no matter how well<br />
they predict and account for our observations. There is<br />
an order and there is a mystery. There is music to<br />
the subatomic spheres, bending the laws of our words<br />
as we have described them. Particle physics doesn't know<br />
it but it's a blues scale, bending reality in 3rds and 5ths<br />
trying to reflect the experience of our rational minds<br />
in an irrational world.<br />
<br />
<br />
9.1.12Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-62009199757937932752015-07-24T03:30:00.000-04:002015-07-24T03:30:03.863-04:00Journal 80 - Word Games on Bourbon Street<br />
<div>
Words are games the philosophers say. Words are games</div>
<div>
and games we play, but words as games leave nothing to say.</div>
<div>
Words may not mean much and words may be sophomoric games</div>
<div>
but beautiful women in the distance, blond and tan and wearing</div>
<div>
a yellow sundress and smoking a cigarette in the rising moon</div>
<div>
light mean something. And it isn't naughty. I cough when</div>
<div>
the wind blows beauty my way. The world is wrapped in</div>
<div>
beauty like in a child's worn blanket, and the world throws</div>
<div>
rhythmic fits of coughing like a James Brown hit - levelling</div>
<div>
knees and leaving smiles and rainbow eyes. The night bugs</div>
<div>
click behind me in some natural Motown accompaniment. They</div>
<div>
make their music and they make their itchy presence known.</div>
<div>
Beauty itches when it moves your blood. Dragons live inside of</div>
<div>
slender flies; they are the color of ready-to-burst soap</div>
<div>
bubbles outside Gilead I hear. Beauty pops as Beauty should,</div>
<div>
if the Buddhists have their way. I think Beauty should</div>
<div>
stay and play and dance the simple pentatonic jig with all</div>
<div>
our Southern souls. Beauty paraded is Beauty unbraided</div>
<div>
and decomposed in a cold pedantic distinction of atomic</div>
<div>
parts, atonal splatters of night-time blood on a warm hand.</div>
<div>
Bloodletting is an ancient practice of God's mosquitoes,</div>
<div>
desperate in their desire to appropriate your life for their</div>
<div>
insignificant symphonies. The symphonies of nefarious bugs</div>
<div>
pale in comparison to their larger cousins. There is no metaphor</div>
<div>
for us. I know it's been long but I had a little break you</div>
<div>
see. (stolen) I stumble across Beauty on bourbon streets and</div>
<div>
wet humid sidewalks shifting and swinging in a warped</div>
<div>
nocturnal dance with the streetlights of our present universe.</div>
<div>
Despite diesel I still love our world and those who drive.</div>
<div>
I wish I was a rain drop falling from the black sky, consorting</div>
<div>
with my siblings to assimilate ourselves into some large slung</div>
<div>
stream of water to clean and nurture the world, slung as</div>
<div>
though from the large water pale of God - smiling as he</div>
<div>
knocks us backward in our dehydrated comfort. I would</div>
<div>
slide down the stalk and nestle in the nutrient filled earth,</div>
<div>
while others slapped the smiling homeless soul man across the</div>
<div>
cheek, drenching him in cleanliness while the self-rinsed</div>
<div>
rich man cursed me for disintegrating his rich "Do." I</div>
<div>
would leap up and slap him one last time from my sharp flagellum.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
8.7.12</div>
Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-80555055893499716002015-07-19T03:30:00.000-04:002015-07-19T03:30:01.552-04:00Journal 79 - Serial Killers and Conformism<br />
<div>
I caught a glimpse of two lovers sneaking a kiss behind the</div>
<div>
trees on the other side of the Art building. I found a virgin</div>
<div>
furtively watching from a nearby car, rubbing her hands together</div>
<div>
but not smiling, studying like a sexual anthropologist. I wanted</div>
<div>
to open the door to her car and grab her and bring her head</div>
<div>
to mine, kissing her with longing and remembrance, kissing</div>
<div>
through her into that reticence yet no further. I wanted to</div>
<div>
kiss her on her lusty wet lips then smile and say, "You're</div>
<div>
right. It's better when it matters." Then thank her for re-</div>
<div>
giving me my lapsed youth, my lapsed youth spent chewing</div>
<div>
nicotine gum, staring at pointillistic dots on my computer</div>
<div>
screen - green dots of distinct individuality, before the virtue</div>
<div>
of the technological beauty and superiority of conformism,</div>
<div>
at least regarding visual artistry. I think conformism is under-</div>
<div>
rated. Conformism can be good, like the computer screen, or</div>
<div>
the serial killer. Serial killers are bad but to succeed is to</div>
<div>
conform. Hiding in plain sight. Of course I'm always suspicious</div>
<div>
of the non-conformist. The tattooed, pierced vamps who</div>
<div>
make me wonder if there is any substance underneath the</div>
<div>
makeup, the painful makeup of black and more black clothes.</div>
<div>
Screaming children screaming "Look at me, I'm different and</div>
<div>
I matter, I promise; can't you see? Don't judge a book by</div>
<div>
its cover but don't ask to open me." Forcing me to see you</div>
<div>
as different leads me to believe there isn't much there to</div>
<div>
see. But surprises rise from the steam of the gutters and</div>
<div>
the cabins in the dark lovely woods. It's Frost I hear.</div>
<div>
I want to walk the path most travelled and still make</div>
<div>
it mater, versus the easy way of the path less travelled</div>
<div>
where anything you do (shit in the woods) or say (there</div>
<div>
are ghosts in the machine) catapults you to original infamy.</div>
<div>
Anyone can be original when it's never been done. Give</div>
<div>
me blue jeans and SUVs and corporate jobs, then make</div>
<div>
an original work of Art so I can shove it up your</div>
<div>
outcast ass. I of course am not me, but some other</div>
<div>
similar who actually is original and actually can shove it</div>
<div>
up your vampiric ass. Originality is personalised, infused</div>
<div>
derivation of those personalized copyists before you who</div>
<div>
also stand on the shoulders of their original peers. That</div>
<div>
which has been done is that which will be done. No new sun.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
8.4.12</div>
Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-49010098814054728142015-07-12T03:30:00.000-04:002015-07-12T03:30:00.864-04:00Journal 78 - Forged Dreams and Rotten Teeth<br />
<div>
I wonder where dreams are forged, in molten imaginary</div>
<div>
lava to spur on the inquisitive dreamer. I wonder who thinks</div>
<div>
these dream thoughts of unicorns and iron-clad monkeys, parading</div>
<div>
around the circle like two storm clouds hovering over a zoo</div>
<div>
with their broad brooding wings of circumspect clouds. Just</div>
<div>
as a car needs wiping for its windshield eyes in the thick</div>
<div>
of an August storm, so my eyes need a passing wipe of</div>
<div>
their reconjugated vision of a modern heaven and hell.</div>
<div>
Hell is so blase in this post-everything world. We live</div>
<div>
for tolerance of everyone but always exempt ourselves as mere</div>
<div>
satirists satirizing such unenlightened traditional nightmares</div>
<div>
inculcated by our evolving and devolving times, our post</div>
<div>
intellectual pasture is littered with the bird shit of</div>
<div>
yesterday's "dire portents." Premonitions aunt our western sub-</div>
<div>
conscious like a wolf in the shade of the evergreen mountain</div>
<div>
shades his hunt for the procreating jack-rabbit. We hunt</div>
<div>
our prey from the pedestal of enlightened tolerance aiming</div>
<div>
beady eyes and eagle fingers at our subordinates to Shhh</div>
<div>
and Suppress their bigoted outcry with our satirical holier-</div>
<div>
than-thou spittle flying through the vapid void separating</div>
<div>
us in some wet attempt to reconstruct our parched ways</div>
<div>
of communication with winks and smiles, hugs and light</div>
<div>
pats on the back saying "Yes" and "No" but I'm hearing</div>
<div>
you not mocking you with my sardonic puerile gapped teeth -</div>
<div>
my teeth are clean and it takes work to make teeth clean.</div>
<div>
Ideas are like teeth. Rot, molded with colored rubber-bands</div>
<div>
they are born and nurtured until unwieldy and coached to</div>
<div>
truth by some B- doctor who forgets that grades matter.</div>
<div>
We don't like our judges to judge us in public with marks</div>
<div>
that could walk the line too far to the right or the left -</div>
<div>
we who think with laughter in our thoughts and red wine</div>
<div>
on our teeth want our thoughts to blend two realms of</div>
<div>
faulty lore - the liberal with her satire and her wit</div>
<div>
with the rigter and his certainty even when the shit</div>
<div>
of words covered in tradition's blankets lands on tongues wiped</div>
<div>
without a working blade. I try to navigate these wave-worn</div>
<div>
words with oars on both sides and eyes in front and behind -</div>
<div>
but pulled on each side by the undercurrent of their venom -</div>
<div>
I gulp and yelp with water drowning every thought I give them.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
8.1.12</div>
Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-31570412475836096102015-07-09T03:30:00.000-04:002015-07-09T03:30:01.867-04:00Journal 77 - Music in Starry NightsI'm quick to ramble about sad themes and sad stories<br />
of sad people crying in the bathtub at night with their<br />
wine or bourbon, but what of the beautiful happy joy<br />
that envelopes each day? What of the hug of a friend<br />
just returned from some dreadful trip? (see how I snuck<br />
that minor mode juxtaposition in there?) What of sunsets on<br />
the beach with bacchi ball and volleyballs and surfing<br />
and beer and dogs, laughs saturated with the sound of<br />
the waves and the music? Music keeps the world from<br />
imploding or bursting into flames. Music is our world<br />
and our sustenance the way water is to the colorful<br />
fish swimming in that undiscovered land of wet joy.<br />
Music is our life and our breath in it we live and move<br />
and have our meaning. Music is the breath of God, the<br />
soul of our Creator - the creative (and saving) force that<br />
holds the very strings of our being together in their never-<br />
ending dance of ecstasy and survival. What drives dance<br />
but music, and what are we but dancing strings? Again,<br />
music is our life and our marrow. I've got to get away<br />
to where men don't wear masks or hide their out-of-tune<br />
motives. Discordance drives the mad man. Tolkien knew<br />
the creative force of music, and the power of dissonance.<br />
How many people were conceived to the prompting joy<br />
of the notes of the guitar or piano or violin? Lyrics are<br />
second fiddle to the swaying motion of the drums and<br />
the bass. It ain't over till it's over. Music is the seed<br />
that grows the purple flower and the yellow bird and<br />
the magenta clouds and the green frog and the red lady-bug<br />
and the blue-black Starry night; the green algae on the<br />
wet gutter is beautiful as it glistens in the soft distance<br />
rays of the moon. The moon patrols the undeserted streets<br />
at night, or so I've heard. I don't want to get away,<br />
but I do want to fly high with the eagle and the red-<br />
tailed hawk. My friend the slug draws silver streaks of<br />
snail art on my floor - gross and beautiful in its turn<br />
of shiny nastiness. Music watches from the cheap seats<br />
and laughs a hilarious laugh at those jaunty folk fighting<br />
over a front row seat to the show. She closes her happy eyes<br />
and soaks in the Art defecated by the magisterial flies.<br />
<br />
<br />
7.21.12Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-12182176209188955612015-07-04T03:30:00.000-04:002015-07-04T03:30:01.054-04:00Journal 76 - Buzzing Voices and Bladder Ruled ThoughtsVoices are like busy buzzing bees buzzing their cute<br />
buzz words around my slish-slosh ear. My ear is<br />
distracted by these tattooed words like a ship tossing<br />
about in the ocean on a full moon at medium tide. Words<br />
come slovenly to the thoughtful minds of the drunk at<br />
the nearest Irish bar. They've left their minds under<br />
the oil-can of their rusted car, lost in a neighborhood<br />
wanting localized context, like a man glued to his<br />
phone at the meetings at the office and the bar. It's the<br />
experience of getting the tattoo not the tattoo itself -<br />
tattoos are words that you can never recant no mater<br />
the depth of regret. The pain and significance brings meaning<br />
and uncovers the thought that mattered most at the time.<br />
The tattoo is the permanent timeline of the life you lived<br />
and the regret means nothing except that the idea is<br />
something you once loved. The skin changes and renews<br />
but tattooed ideas persist like roaches and mosquitoes.<br />
I forgot to mention that the blimp is the hot-air balloon<br />
of the intellectual thoughts of drunk minds splattering<br />
their thoughts of life and death and permanence against the<br />
swollen ears of the laughing scientist, so sure of his<br />
warm logical analysis of the life and death of the<br />
unfortunate child. The night is filled with still-born<br />
dreams and dismal flights of fancy about the future -<br />
whether dates or work or hobbies or roaring trophies<br />
in their taxidermist grin. It won't be awkward to<br />
dream about a life of egalitarian equality, a life where<br />
the man and the woman and the rich and poor and the<br />
black and white are the same, sitting at the dark bar<br />
ordering white russians arguing over who can afford to<br />
pay the bloated tab. My thoughts are ruled by my bladder,<br />
and a swallow-tailed kite is kissing me in my tattooed<br />
dreams, wearing a cap to block the black and white shite<br />
that parisails down the nighttime sky in tiny bombs of a<br />
glassy-eyed terrorist drinking the purple tea of ideological<br />
ecstasy tauting the virgins in the wet ether with their<br />
dopamine smiles and serotonin smiles making grandiloquent<br />
excuses for their credulity. I see the kite in its thermal<br />
soaring for the world, drugged in tattooed words, flustering<br />
downy birds.<br />
<br />
<br />
7.20.12Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-84862379682317400822015-06-30T18:06:00.000-04:002015-06-30T18:06:00.221-04:00Journal 75 - Clouds and Life on a Sunday AfternoonThe dark side of the moon lives in the corner of my<br />
eye, snuggled like a ripe sty waiting for its day to burst<br />
into my lonesome field of view and misappropriate the<br />
light for its sinister dealings - misanthropic principles fill<br />
my body with gory scenes of fake horror blood on fake<br />
horror smiles. I am fake when I smile red-faced and<br />
cool in the air-conditioned luxury of these hot torpid<br />
days, I am fake with my books and my notes, my second-<br />
hand ideas regurgitated from a 16th century fool who<br />
claimed to beset the language's Bard. My ideas float through<br />
my mind like a newspaper dropped on the ground<br />
in a busy subway, the wind of the times and the<br />
rides carrying each thought through the maze of<br />
various perceptions, trying to attract like electrons some<br />
meaningful bond of covalent minds - covered with the<br />
words written by someone else on a tight schedule but<br />
still more depth than I as I tip-toe into the shallow<br />
end, the warm shallow end where the children gather<br />
to reflect their parents' shiny ways of living in this<br />
rainbow killed world. The drizzling of the clouds on<br />
a Sunday afternoon says we live, we live, we live today<br />
in reverse anti-matter undecay of smiles over buck-<br />
toothed bright dismay. We live another sunny rainy day.<br />
<br />
<br />
7.19.12Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-55651590779640848332015-06-25T03:30:00.000-04:002015-06-25T03:30:01.759-04:00Journal 74 - Living in Cloudy White BalanceI want to live in cloudy white balance, warm and<br />
yellow in my smiling caricature of our human exchange<br />
of emotional and vain ideas. I am drunk and unashamed.<br />
I've had the sweet pleasure of water and tubes<br />
and acrobatic knees on acrobatic wakes. I can<br />
fool ten thousand smiles at the local ephemeral<br />
bar wrapped in its own glimpse of ecstasy and musical<br />
joy. I am starved and thus (man?) inducted into this<br />
lightweight ring of Kentucky-infused inebriated<br />
blurred eye-twitching and double-centered novel<br />
revolving around the gravitational center fo*<br />
this God-induced single spaced single stepped simple<br />
Gas-caddie broken image of our self-aggrandized<br />
image. I love you all and I am seriously not kidding<br />
AT ALL.<br />
<br />
<br />
7.15.12<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">* - not a typo; that's how I wrote it in my journal. You shouldn't</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> find it too surprising given the rest of the completely</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> non-sensical drivel in this one.</span>Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-14409077341249375322015-06-20T03:30:00.000-04:002015-06-20T03:30:01.331-04:00Journal 73 - Marinated Thoughts Dying Like Roaches<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>After a three year drought, I began again with these silly songs.</i></span><br />
<br />
Once it seems I noted each and every thought that<br />
floundered in my brain, marinating for a day or a<br />
second - no matter. I still recorded the lame<br />
limping ideas like a dutiful stenographer. These thoughts,<br />
these plaster thoughts are now cracked and broken,<br />
wide like a drying lake in need of rain and<br />
dry proof caulk. Only they receive liquid in the<br />
form of wine, blood red wine fit for a two-<br />
cent vampire. There is no restorative power lurking<br />
in the foot-stamped vine. Ideas dry up, leaving deep<br />
caverns that tempt but yield nothing but dry air,<br />
hot dry air, choking and claustrophobic - stuck<br />
in the dry cracked caverns of my alcohol dehydrated<br />
mind. No flame burns for me; there is no ember<br />
slowly glowing in the bottom of my soul - I am<br />
drenched in wine and tears and mine and mine,<br />
not yours. Hope dawns they say in the waking<br />
moments of each day, granting us another trial to<br />
reconstruct and reattach the broken bones of what<br />
we de-throned & deconstructed in the previous<br />
cilantro day. Many mouths are cleaned and purged<br />
with the testament that is cilantro - I need a<br />
cilantro bath for my gorgonzola soul. My thoughts<br />
are dying roaches, on their broken backs wriggling<br />
and eliciting pity in your kind saucy souls - striving<br />
for one more attempt at impressing you with their<br />
resiliency - to economic mildewed mattresses, to children<br />
and their ever present selves, bundles of unbridled<br />
regurgitation of their small world, their brilliant<br />
colorful small world, impressing you with their unnatural<br />
ability to soothe you when quiet and absent. Quiet<br />
absence is the seduction of the daemonic voice inscribed<br />
on your dehydrated cortex. This wine is dry and<br />
cheap, but there is a bottle. It feels good to drink<br />
again, even in the sights of my executioner. I have<br />
a hole in my heart, carved recently through the<br />
attempt to make my strange heart plain. I welcome<br />
dry, decayed thoughts as notes from an antique violin -<br />
lifting my insecure world from its misappropriated sin.<br />
<br />
<br />
7.9.12Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-55719541664793661472015-05-20T03:30:00.000-04:002015-05-20T03:30:03.495-04:00Journal 72 - Pillows and Philosophers<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>This was the last one of these I wrote for 3 years.</i></span><br />
<br />
Ants carry their lives on their shoulders aligned and<br />
disciplined like a military outfit of a middle eastern<br />
country, surviving on their obsequious cooperation -<br />
no time for ridicule when the next batch of eggs is<br />
sagging in the queen's ass. I carry nothing but shirts<br />
on my sagging shoulders - separate from the voices of<br />
america I sing the song of the doubting self-doubter<br />
I sing the body corpulent and deteriorated. I co-<br />
habitate with the mice and the roaches watching The<br />
Wire on my two-color TV. Feathers accumulate in<br />
my bedroom from the pillow taking a mild beating<br />
after trying to drown myself in Nietzsche, Wittgenstein<br />
and Rilke - taking a drowning bath I punch the poor<br />
pillow in defeat. The next bottle will comfort my<br />
orgasmicless soul; the next bottle will float my body<br />
electric on the river of Lethe in the valley of Megiddo.<br />
<br />
<br />
7.23.09<br />
<br />Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-62290550547304249242015-05-18T03:30:00.000-04:002015-05-18T03:30:01.444-04:00Journal 71 - Naked Bird Biblical RoadsThe jungle is out there on the road again, out<br />
there on the naked bird road again tweeting and<br />
twittering like heckles and hydes jeckylling to the<br />
toony bird tune of twelve tones syncopated pride.<br />
The jungle stands with eyes n the trees and limbs,<br />
eyes in the damp light breeze of the voluptuous western<br />
wind, stands with music in its hairy ears and herbs<br />
on its long skinny nose. Scents of backyard shovel built<br />
farts harangue in limp afternoon snorts of another refugee<br />
lost in the traffic of the modern man's man-made jungle -<br />
there stands on the field there, there on the dried-up<br />
football field, tiny footprints made with tiny cleted shoes<br />
trample out-smoked hope and cures. Footprints of faded<br />
feet trails away like an ancient galaxy turning blue in its<br />
lugubrious retreat. Feet of mighty minds and sour men<br />
careening in their circumambulating aimless wonder trodding<br />
over nothing but images of the dawn when Adam first<br />
saw Eve, or thunder when Noah first looked into the<br />
water breathing winds. Faded images of yesterday's bliss<br />
defecate on calculated theses and well-plotted afternoon<br />
plans of life in fifteen well-worked years, well-termed<br />
plans of life in parties and cocktails and morning tea<br />
shooing away the flies and the wiping away the warm<br />
snot from their well-worked clothes. I welcome the tardy<br />
yellow smile from the barber's jungle, welcomed for this<br />
is the apricot year when spirit-charged grouches will<br />
sniffle and cheer with their tin garbage hat on, cheer with<br />
the nose of a reindeer lost in the eyes of the slaven<br />
stars, stick on their forced mathematical course like<br />
sheep about to forget themselves in the neighbor's terminal<br />
cave. The jungle is wet with black flashes of black<br />
shiny light, painted on the side of its face like a big<br />
subway after the circus comes to town. Drops of water<br />
from the chamber pots of the demented evaporate before<br />
touching the living evaporate in this pallid earth before<br />
corrupting the minds of the youth. Beethoven sings strange<br />
songs the poor in the palm pit of the man longed jungle.<br />
Cross the winds with the sign of the Constantinians and<br />
sing a strange song to the rich in the palm pit of their city.<br />
<br />
<br />
6.27.09Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-86082858110910850422015-05-15T00:17:00.000-04:002015-05-15T00:17:00.737-04:00Journal 70 - Drop of Time in the OceanTime is a drop of rain water in the middle of the<br />
ocean, tiny ripples of self-same waves dying out and<br />
retreating only to return and fold in upon themselves<br />
in another slow assimilation of vapors. Condensation<br />
is good for time to reveal itself as self and mattered.<br />
Extension into our world, vibrating like a physicist's<br />
wet dream string tossing about in the embers of<br />
cold fusion. Nothing is cold at the moment of death.<br />
Tomorrow closes in like the lungs of a violent asthmatic,<br />
with next week a mere coughing attack brought on by<br />
the light cigar smoke and smog of the present day's shrill<br />
enervations leading t a drink and a thought that<br />
the time to make it all make sense has passed like<br />
the spectacular unknown beauty of the northern lights<br />
or the humpback whale. TV is another leveller and<br />
anti-climatic equalizer. Time is a wooden sailboat<br />
rocking and creaking in the middle of the dock, tied<br />
to the pier with loud croaking rope - a wooden boat with<br />
three tall masts for show - unable to sail anymore these<br />
days, unable to unwind and afford the guy a chance<br />
with the girl. Time is a display of jewelry in the<br />
5th Avenue window sparking in the view of layered<br />
faces or dirty teeth. Dirty teeth are sad in this<br />
veneer world of sycophants. Breath of duck mean pizza<br />
and cheap wine with lemon ice-box squares is the breath<br />
to capture the firefly in the summer evening. Sometimes<br />
time lies in the hammock and stretches its old brittle<br />
bones on those firefly catching evenings with the glowing<br />
jars and flashing faces of unbreakable children. Time stretches<br />
long enough for the kid in the towers to catch a bullet<br />
watching the kewl gun fight down stairs in the piss-<br />
bucket street. Time stretches and yawns like a slightly<br />
inebriated uncle on loan from the probation officer. Eyes<br />
the color of ether and the excitement of a fat tick.<br />
The moon has caught up with the hammock and scoffs<br />
at the laziness of time, scoffs at the unchanging care -<br />
less nonchalance. The moon is young in this game.<br />
The moon shines down its flashlight rays onto the<br />
writhing streets of Earth's concrete back yard with<br />
red eyes.<br />
<br />
<br />
6.23.09<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-22613205449144418302015-05-10T01:30:00.000-04:002015-05-10T01:30:01.742-04:00Journal 69 - Words, Laughter and Absurdity<span style="font-family: inherit;">The word to sum up the world is degree, no -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">perspective. No, it is. The world to accumulate</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">the dust particles we refer to as birthdays appears</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">to be non-existent, nothing, impossible, incommunicable.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The word to refer to laughter isn't laughter for that</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">is absurd. But the word for absurd can't be absurd</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">for that is laughable. Words it seems are contrived</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and disconnected from the world. Words are irrelevant</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">but alone in the quest to co-habitate. Meaning is</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">tautology for the mathematician but little bits of</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">soul for geographically split lovers. Words are without</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">meaning except when Shakespeare says, "To be or</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">not to be" or "Shall I compare thee to a summer's</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">day" or even the abstract, "Let me not to the marriage</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">of true minds admit impediments." But force is still</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">equal to mass times acceleration, whatever those ostensive</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">words mean or allude to. Allusion and probability bubble</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">up from beneath the foamy pond of universal drying</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">primordial drivel. A chair is not the word chair</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">but it is not an anvil either. Unless someone sits</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">on it. But then it is an anvil being used as a chair.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The signifier is not the signified but it is also not</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">insignificant. Does the chair require four legs? A back?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Arm rests? Ah, to define precisely the chair. Philosophy 101.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Quien sabe? We still know what a chair is. And that</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">it's not a word like chair or ______. Justice of</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">course is the tougher battle. Justice is the dark side</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">of the moon. Justice is the dark matter of the uni-</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">verse. justice is an abstract base class, a late-bound</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">instantiation of a virtual conceit. A reference to a</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">postulate of another pass in the night debate. Conversation</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">would be so much easier if meaning really was a</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">cell-phone abandoned and left on with minutes remaining</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">on the side of the street of the gutter of last night's</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">liquor piss and vomit. Laughter is another word for</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">absurdity while absurdity is another word for on-</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">the-hook thought. Processes live in shared memory for</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">a time before the out-of-memory killer trolls along and</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">kills it for abuse of power and resource management.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">6.22.09</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-63903072595978606742015-05-09T19:52:00.001-04:002015-05-09T19:52:24.300-04:00Journal Poem - On HopeHope hangs her damaged head like a daisy,<br />
In disbelief that hands could be so cruel -<br />
<br />
-------<br />
<br />
Hope sits in the corner of the bar silent<br />
with the music and eyes and feet -<br />
pressing along with dirty fingernails and<br />
tight clothes on top of folded skin<br />
waiting for the perfect vacant seat -<br />
On which to seduce another damaged man<br />
With dreams drawn on naked bodies;-<br />
Naked wandering beer glass broken streets<br />
For the true and the real life-loving grin;<br />
Hope stretches her arms and yawns<br />
Searching the alternative choices she pretends<br />
Will charm her when the music quavers and ends.<br />
Big sunglasses can't suppress the out-cry<br />
Of a socially dependant grown-up lie.<br />
I just saw Hope wink from the corner of the bar<br />
At the tattooed convict strumming his guitar.<br />
<br />
<br />
5.22.09<br />
<br />Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-21768465248458652252015-05-05T05:30:00.000-04:002015-05-05T05:30:01.671-04:00Journal 68 - Language Dried and WrigglingLanguage is not a wooden baseball bat you beat<br />
people over the head with, hoping to straighten<br />
them out or convict them. Words are life<br />
preservers thrown out into the wild winter ocean,<br />
necessary for survival but always to be improved upon<br />
and reconstructed like Charlie Brown's red kite now<br />
lost in the waves of the adolescent spitting ocean.<br />
Poseidon is pissed (pun intended for my English friends).<br />
It seems knowledge and facts are hidden underneath<br />
the modals and the simple tenses lost in the distance<br />
between our minds and the "world." The world is a<br />
conglomeration of disjoined perceptions that swarm<br />
like maggot flies inside our material brains searching<br />
for a way out through the ancient tunnel of<br />
meaning but meaning was crippled by the Qoheleth.<br />
For all our random pseudo-intellectual bullshit about<br />
the noose of meaning every day and each minute<br />
we assume words' meaning and communication. I'm<br />
sorry officer I can't be held responsible for that<br />
accusation; your words are meaningless to the context<br />
and daily life I live. Facts are by-products of the<br />
classical physics of Newton and Aristotle - both<br />
wrong and frustrated in our internetized world of<br />
mass information and probabilistic communication. I<br />
live in a constant state of affairs that changes<br />
with each breath I see from the anti-misanthropic<br />
TV. Yes, constant change. If TV weren't anti-<br />
misanthropic perhaps The Wire would have survived<br />
beyond its adolescent years. Sometimes I wonder if<br />
network TV (including FOX) isn't taking over the<br />
role of psychology and the church - a mild analgesic<br />
story to assuage and reconstitute our worries in a<br />
magical framework of justice and the Hook Up<br />
for a manageable construction of the social political<br />
ways of the new secular world order. Religion has<br />
had its hand in this since the beginning - another<br />
topic for another day. The secular world doesn't<br />
seem to be much better off. The world is a<br />
bundle of potentiality and degree and perspective<br />
dried up and wriggling without the water and the spirit.<br />
<br />
<br />
6.18.09, 2<br />
<br />Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-78421240215710796912015-05-01T23:32:00.000-04:002015-05-01T23:32:00.285-04:00Friends<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Friends are spread over the coast</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Like lookout fires at wartime</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Distant warmth and covered backs</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
To be rejoined only amid tear-hid</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Laughs and clinks of glass</div>
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">Around the fires of our funerals</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-70574014324241884502015-04-30T07:30:00.000-04:002015-05-09T17:46:07.796-04:00Journal 67 - Blog Nobody ReadsI write a blog that nobody reads. And in this<br />
blog I write that no-body reads I fill with the<br />
pages of this little journal. So now I pressure my<br />
self to write well and clever for this journal for<br />
this blog that nobody reads. As the images scramble<br />
away like the hoppers left in the pit when the<br />
five-o unearth themselves. I walk around like<br />
Omar the stick-up artist whistling to the dead<br />
dark night dead dark lullabies while the images<br />
of the blue black orange world scatter fearless,<br />
scatter in the alleys and the brick apartment<br />
buildings fearless in their selfish clutch on their own<br />
primacy. Soon the winter will stand like a stripped<br />
Poplar on the street; like a Japanese magnolia bared<br />
in November, not even the remnants of its purple tinted<br />
leaves lying rotten and beautiful on the late winter<br />
ground - the winter standing decked out with downed<br />
electricity lines and sharp icicles drawn like a<br />
nasty comic villain. We stand in the street naked<br />
with red wine in our hands and cigars in our<br />
mouths smiling at winter's icy stereotype. Then we<br />
look at ourselves and the cigar falls from our mouth<br />
like AIDS. The bug is here to match wits with our<br />
goofy brethren. Words can be hard to follow when<br />
games easy games are played with the signifiers<br />
and the signified; puns are the mark of punsters<br />
not geniuses. Genius may be a necessary condition<br />
for a punster; not a sufficient condition. Language and<br />
pronunciation is a tricky localized relative endeavor in<br />
evolutions & rights. It's la-fee-ette in Louisiana<br />
but la-fayette in Oxford (MS). Both are correct.<br />
If the localized region uses a phrase or contraction<br />
illogical and irrational it is a boy in Baltimore who<br />
only knows Baltimore radio stations. Nomenclature<br />
carries the weight of the king. Language is a<br />
drug dealer ready to change-up whenever the five-o<br />
try to incarcerate the girl watching the street.<br />
Language spoken real language is not an inscription<br />
on a tombstone reminiscing of the days of yesteryear.<br />
<br />
<br />
6.18.09<br />
<br />Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-50634138787386517642015-04-28T08:00:00.000-04:002015-04-28T08:00:05.834-04:00Journal 66 - God, Meaning and Incompleteness<span style="font-family: inherit;">The world itches for meaning - the world hurtling</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">the world spinning and hurtling through space</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">like a big blue streak, a colorful cold comet; the</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">world in all its wet wonders and glimpses of life</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">itches for meaning. And like a poisonous itch that</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">is scratched at until it bleeds, there is no relief</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">for the itch of meaning. Meaninglessness of Meaning-</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">lessness; Vanities of Vanities, all is meaningless</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">vanity. Words the preacher spoke with a fevered tear.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Meaning it's said is lost in structure and context</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and meaningfully lies in the grown eye of the beholder.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The eye of Elmo glue pasted letters and cut words</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">blown apart like a dandelion in the wind with</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">meaning reaching out in horror to clasp onto another</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">meme, another lexeme or mytheme to rearrange itself</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">from that horror that is Dante's 3rd circle of hell.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Meaning vibrates inside the nucleus of the hemoglobin.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Crying out for attention meaning screams with no sound</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">like an explosion in the dark matter of space. If</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">there is a listener who can't hear does meaning lose?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Meaning vibrates off the E-string of the acoustic guitar.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Hiding inside the duality of light, spreading its wings</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">in broad waves and penetrating each dissenter with particular</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">precision meaning surprises the scientist in the white</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">blue-stained lab with its unsolicited itch, the scabbed</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">itch scientists have doused with various itch-relief</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">formulas of relativity and deconstructed uncertainty.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Gödel and Derrida are unlikely bed mates on the</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">path to incompleteness. Tapping on our souls like</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Chinese water torture these drippings, these continuous</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">disconnected drippings of splattered meaning resonate</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">like a tuning fork to our own miserable incompleteness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Vanities of vanities we try to attach meaning to</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">our wandering ghoulish lives like prisoners in the</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">muddy prison yard. We touch ourselves incomplete.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We children of God wander the night like runaways</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">ignoring the hand of broken experience slapping a</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">random pastiche of experiences together to form a</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">broken world of rationalized meaning. Vanity of Vanities!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">6.8.09</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-190593186581578852015-04-24T08:00:00.000-04:002015-04-24T08:00:10.021-04:00Journal 65 - Witch's Eyeless SqualorI reach outside my car window and grab the<br />
lightening, grip it like a witch's broomstick and twist<br />
it into a tiny ball of dust, silence in the heavens<br />
on a dark gluttonous day. I have no time for silly<br />
quadropedic misdemeanors heads arched up toward the<br />
sky like bodies sung electric. The rain it is said<br />
conducts the electric bolt the way a crow-bar conducts<br />
pain. I stand in the middle of the storm and the<br />
rain, and laugh at the skies like a starving hyena,<br />
laugh like a ribbed skinny hyena for the rain and<br />
the lightening to slap me and slash me and slice me -<br />
throw me across the back of the earth like a gibbering<br />
holy man, a holy righteous man laughing at the<br />
stormy scowl of the trees and the wet wind in the<br />
dry leaves I stand back arched, laughing at the<br />
lightening bolts erupting around me like distant jagged<br />
spears thrown by that temperamental adulterous Zeus.<br />
You wouldn't know if those were tears or rain that<br />
soaked my cheeks in the mid-day heat. It takes<br />
guts or ignorance to laugh. I laugh often but<br />
ignorance is often capsized in my world. I feel<br />
lost drowning sometimes. And then I find myself<br />
standing on the surface of the water and playing a<br />
short game of soccer with the other man of faith.<br />
The man on the shore with the fish doesn't laugh.<br />
And I sink in the sea like a flooded engine block.<br />
I twist the lightening in my mind to elucidate the<br />
gravitational pull; the gravitational pull is nearly<br />
irresistible next to massive objects. My mind is<br />
twisted by massive questions of mediocre care -<br />
leaves in the gutter and spaghetti monsterians. The<br />
world is against us the World is against us the<br />
old world is with us like the new world is<br />
gasping in its eyeless squalor. Eyes are the visors<br />
of the windows of other souls. Eyes invite the external<br />
into our internal world. My eyes are being tested<br />
by the pileated woodpecker. The tones of home<br />
sound like children on the football field trying to<br />
start a fight for the flighty eyes of another pretty<br />
physicist.<br />
<br />
<br />
6.7.09<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-76622750810959199822015-04-21T08:00:00.000-04:002015-04-21T08:00:05.169-04:00Journal 64 - Free Willie and Ontological EqualityThe light shines down in the light of the orchestra<br />
down like a slap in the face in the morning to wake up<br />
for work or school. Life is one or the other. Music<br />
instruments lie silent in their cramped crate clumped<br />
together like forgotten stickers in the back of a child's book.<br />
The stroller sits broken and empty, unable to scramble life<br />
in its tiny plastic seat and wheels. These signs are not<br />
so. They live they breathe they cry out with connected<br />
notes when the new born breath of children breathe the<br />
dormant notes into them like a patient etherized upon<br />
the table. Frankenstein rises from the dead toys each<br />
day ready to destroy with mirth. The earth is old<br />
and damaged creaking like hardwood floors underneath<br />
our feet to those with the hearing aids to hear.<br />
My ears have receded in availability the last few<br />
years, locked on the absence of the ancient music of the<br />
spheres - I toss and turn each night out of tune with<br />
the lady at the service desk in Barnes & Noble. She<br />
has a name tag. She has an identity, like my neighbor's<br />
cat. Rachmaninoff wasn't far from the truth when he<br />
put his warmed cold hands to clefted paper to pen<br />
the 2nd & 3rd piano concertos. He was Russian though.<br />
I hold my head high, I hold my lazy head high<br />
to avoid the quicksand and the rain. If only her<br />
napkin could wipe clean the stain that penetrated my<br />
epithelial tissue. Science doesn't make it all better; nor<br />
do scientific terms. Science is the performer at Sea<br />
World containing the killer whale and forcing him and<br />
her to bow to its every need - controlling it like a<br />
lower pet while claiming ontological equality. I'd<br />
like to free my willie. Yours too but the gravitational<br />
constant keeps me down. I'm stuck wriggling and<br />
writhing to the quadratic equation and Gauss's<br />
summation theory lost as a 3 or 4 dimensional soul<br />
in a multi-dimensional world. Soul? Souls are not<br />
allowed; this is biology not poetry. Therefore poetry<br />
has no meaning in the biology class. Not vice-versa.<br />
And thus God has no meaning in the science class;<br />
except now that means no meaning in any class; Not so...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6.3.09, 2<br />
<br />Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104205852329374605.post-15831095546161932932015-04-19T06:00:00.000-04:002015-04-19T06:00:02.041-04:00Christmas Notes<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Gods come and gods go</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Gods shapeshift and shit shapes</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Afraid of yesterday's red sweat</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Under a back-city olive tree.</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Dreams are not a warm blanket</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Or a cozy home on another street,</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
But an orange flower spurting</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Forth on a cold November day.</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
This day once was Saturn's day</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Commandeered by faint subjects</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
With too much dirt clogged between</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Their swollen calloused toes;</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
And once this day smiled with teeth</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Brown and Whole and Musical. People</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Dancing hand in hand around bright</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Flames eliciting unfeigned smiles</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Wrapped round and around bright</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Sparks prodding silent brittle feet,</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Hopping without cause and without </div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Merit. Merit is not a god's homage.</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
My dehydrated alcoholic brain misfires</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
In slow spurts of garbled words</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
And disconnected strains of thoughts</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
mired in unsympathetic virtual merit.</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Upon this distant pantanomic scene</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
I raise my brown glass and toast</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Quietly to the unheard divine voices</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Ruminating amongst themselves.</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
These voices shatter our porcelain hearts</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Like lyrics from drums and guitars</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Screaming for one soul to stare and hear</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Their trampled song among the wordless throng.</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
At what point do you recognize the</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
broken face in the mirror, and at what</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
point do you cry instead of laugh,</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
weighed down with myopic soggy eyes?</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
This Christmas wine weighs my wet body down.</div>
<div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">
Matthew died tonight with a smile.</div>
<span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; text-indent: 0.2px;">Words convey neither more nor less.</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Dulukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02480650545522930136noreply@blogger.com0