front of palm, back of hand
The alternative to my preamblememic, even if it can't count as an I'm sorry, seems to be stern-ness, an austere stoic (usually) quiet, abnormal in the shift, in the bed. A side effect of being a stupid little man. Greatness! inside, it's all showing guns. It's my old teeth. It's the screaming fear i rejected as a little boy. I am the man I tore. Inside, inside my insides, i'm just the same scared bastard everyone else is. Outside, though, I ain't the one that's sick. I'll stand. Even if it's just standing there; I'll stand.
Strong animals got not mercy.
---that breeds under the might of however many years it takes to make the impact our density was designed with which to strike. This too, seems an unhappy side-road, one with too many stop-lights and deep canals un-barricaded on either side
so that inebriation can only make with definite probability many accidental
even/especially(if on purpose) perilous ends. The type of animals that eat their own mommas and daddies.
Humbled, am I terrible? Am I haunted, the hunted, a phase of a grave set to song? It is not a matter of Ego or Self that i write of this, pose these questions, but it is a maste of poetry that the flower-stems be chained this way. I cannot change it, the surf, the cycle, and harsh turf on which pebbles land to solidify. There occurs to me a replicant pattern obvious as trend (or perhaps sake-able as the tides stake the moon), perhaps stationary as-it-is-repeated to the balance of un-nerving forces, maybe ballast aside atlas-weights un-forsaken (cannot.. will not!) for the station in life given me, but most assuredly a pattern follows discernible through the repetition of a most-needed (that is to say: wanted, when missing more than momentarily) harrow of cultivating a new Art. --Each individual for his/her place in the contsituency of immaculate (or unmoveable) affairs of their age, inferable through and despite the differences in age and culture to any observer who dares contrast them, but also as witnessable as it is attestable to certain factors-immutable-- no matter the stability or point of origin or digestable action of their individual history or particular culture, has a soft burden to bear. My jumbles here are an attempt to follow.
It is a common thread in the lives of many who people deem of interest to journalize about, and even more so those who poet their own beat, is this nature of refused economy, of a seeming taking-for-granted the obvious neccesity of common love, platonic and not, coupled to the dichromatic competitive-reversal of a public fraternality and a private corporality, there is a secular maternality that divides itself with reclusive nigh-religious environmental misanthropy wherby emotional diagnostics and ethical query are set and bound to the sacramental and vulnerable inner sanctum by set reasonality and what is generally accepted as negative refluction upon the masse of (apparent) ubiquitous dedication, honor, or service. My public face does not always wear itself when not public; dastardly actions remit themselves when proof is not my burden. That is to say: at home i can be a real asshole.
Should this quandary not prevail itself from within the personal history of the subject, it is often put upon him. Arthur and his Hero, for instance. Or little Adolf and Mr. Reich. This isn't the place for such fantasy, however.
This is a peculiar dichotomy i am only now personally being to see as manifest in my own life, that is to say it is and has been pointed out to me, directly and with more than one flurry of example. There is a definite-in-repetiton action sequence and subsequent (if not predelictive) reactionary stages catalogue-able that attest and verify this human social flaw I must hold to the detriment of my personal causality, and it has arisen as a commodity of action if not a diatribe of fated disillusionment that is not allowable by my own measure. Despite all the big words which are my attempt to disguise my vulnerability, the goal is one of self-empathy or egocentric pathology here must be admitted. This is a glaring thing, to me, like lightning not the sun- it blinds in its awesome power but for a second of feint threat that cowers me in frailty but not a lasting thing, the echoes of repeated dream not the fires of Inquisition. This is my view and mode; my approach to the beast's reverence is not with the caution of known deception but a perturbed notion of actualisation; what is knowable is not what is known and the expressives motioned by the animal do not, by any measure, designate whether to impore a harness, a feast, a whip, or a sword in communication. The specific pains about this charactaristic are not static (as yet) and cannot be allowed to submit its most viral tactic upon another character traits; the mystery remains peril--at least enough to try and change it should the night and day and moon declare study of this nature too treacherous a path on which to adventure.
Reaction must be known as it exists. It cannot be understood on any level within the concept or grasp of its own venom, or of it flow through the bloodstream, or through the swiftness in which it decides to kick. It is a mistake to attempt to refine our ideal of reaction while amidst it, or as cause of it, or indeed on either side of the aftermath or rebirth that accompanies both sides of the time in which it is happening. The actuals change, the truths are malleable and imperceptible from reality, and the concensus is at its most liquid, dissolveable. Rationality is unremoveable from the verifiable-- villifying at worst and nullifying at best any attempts to refine an observed and observable defined cause within the mutant state of discovering like-identity between what is known and what is unknown.
My scornfulness and temper had to be brought to my attention. Of course I knew, but certainly did not understand the great importance of what I began to grasp. Just before, maybe months, in a biography something was written about a certain great man, one with far more suffering and darker substance than destiny has weighted my heavy back with, most asuuredly, and in that moment I noted both pride and sadness in sharing the same trait, however miniscule and possibly destitute, with History such as he (and through him inferred hundreds perhaps of others), but subconciously also something that would rear a fiery roar when brought to me honestly by the closest of council. My friend fed me back my own wrath, and those moments an understanding took to me that my attempts for words have until now failed to make more than a groan and hard whimper. It is with some great personal importance that I find myself grappling with the befores and afters needed to rectify this wicked thing. I do not wish to be considered as evil by any, much less and especially by those who define my world, my existence, and without whom my life would have long ago become a question long forgotten to be noted for asking.
Daisy-hats, shuck and jive shoes, smiles all the way to the temple, bended knees and broken ears, never saying no and accepting that fate, O! and Lo! the jibberjabber---
biting tongue and winded debate-- there is no end or rhyme to what is demanded over the course life in the fire-baptismal. These are actions that must remain a constant in my given service, even when I don't want to. It's my job and one must do what one must do. My personal services both night-screaming and day-quiet take a toll even on the holy patience of accepting death atop of the sacrificial denial of partisanal life. To find a balance, as it were, on the interior is a heady quest; a grail of a beast in its own vulturous right is the still-young cut-path in which my turnover between intake and output is a matter of consequence and not always such a Mousetrap. Service, in this sense, emits from the zero point, from God, and resists easy measure.
The realignment needed in counterbalance has not a retribution stolid and set by lack of autumnal ethos or concrete-ness. The loss of empathy that comes from the desecration of a pathetic state, the loss of a consistent embreyonic nature in home's device, of what that word feels like when it is uttered in all forms, or the majesty of returning to the place that gave you and gives you birth no matter how pastoral or pathetic it holds known to the rest of the world understood. I nest and am vulnerable, perhaps. With my hand on a dog and screens before me, maybe the other hand on a breast or thigh- it is there we scrape the deepest of thoughts, become the most known. This rises from comfort; from romance, from reliable love.
Conversely, and cumulatively, to my family and sometimes even my environment at home and away from (public) work i can be averagely-tempered and angry, bi-polar in my emotional state, especially when waking from other realms whether they be of narcotic, of dreams, or of spirit. I am weak and out-lash, certainly, I fear and cower. I sweat.
All of these things are acceptable to me inside-myself, humanity being what it is- it is just important not to show it. To keep the beast in check is not enough; we must kill it. The tendency that follows, though, is that of the Hyde-monster: to be an unruly beast of no apparent right or reason with a biting emotional whip and bile-laced tongue filled with the horror of so many secrets
from so many wailing souls. This is my burden and i have chosen to accept it,but this does not mean that it must also be a pain and weighted on those that love me. No longer can the scenario where people must learn to accept any evil that I am or hold. It must be done away with.
(It took the wonderful film BEASTS OF THE SOUTHERN WILD to show me the will out of the hedge maze above.)
Strong animals got not mercy.
---that breeds under the might of however many years it takes to make the impact our density was designed with which to strike. This too, seems an unhappy side-road, one with too many stop-lights and deep canals un-barricaded on either side
so that inebriation can only make with definite probability many accidental
even/especially(if on purpose) perilous ends. The type of animals that eat their own mommas and daddies.
Humbled, am I terrible? Am I haunted, the hunted, a phase of a grave set to song? It is not a matter of Ego or Self that i write of this, pose these questions, but it is a maste of poetry that the flower-stems be chained this way. I cannot change it, the surf, the cycle, and harsh turf on which pebbles land to solidify. There occurs to me a replicant pattern obvious as trend (or perhaps sake-able as the tides stake the moon), perhaps stationary as-it-is-repeated to the balance of un-nerving forces, maybe ballast aside atlas-weights un-forsaken (cannot.. will not!) for the station in life given me, but most assuredly a pattern follows discernible through the repetition of a most-needed (that is to say: wanted, when missing more than momentarily) harrow of cultivating a new Art. --Each individual for his/her place in the contsituency of immaculate (or unmoveable) affairs of their age, inferable through and despite the differences in age and culture to any observer who dares contrast them, but also as witnessable as it is attestable to certain factors-immutable-- no matter the stability or point of origin or digestable action of their individual history or particular culture, has a soft burden to bear. My jumbles here are an attempt to follow.
It is a common thread in the lives of many who people deem of interest to journalize about, and even more so those who poet their own beat, is this nature of refused economy, of a seeming taking-for-granted the obvious neccesity of common love, platonic and not, coupled to the dichromatic competitive-reversal of a public fraternality and a private corporality, there is a secular maternality that divides itself with reclusive nigh-religious environmental misanthropy wherby emotional diagnostics and ethical query are set and bound to the sacramental and vulnerable inner sanctum by set reasonality and what is generally accepted as negative refluction upon the masse of (apparent) ubiquitous dedication, honor, or service. My public face does not always wear itself when not public; dastardly actions remit themselves when proof is not my burden. That is to say: at home i can be a real asshole.
Should this quandary not prevail itself from within the personal history of the subject, it is often put upon him. Arthur and his Hero, for instance. Or little Adolf and Mr. Reich. This isn't the place for such fantasy, however.
This is a peculiar dichotomy i am only now personally being to see as manifest in my own life, that is to say it is and has been pointed out to me, directly and with more than one flurry of example. There is a definite-in-repetiton action sequence and subsequent (if not predelictive) reactionary stages catalogue-able that attest and verify this human social flaw I must hold to the detriment of my personal causality, and it has arisen as a commodity of action if not a diatribe of fated disillusionment that is not allowable by my own measure. Despite all the big words which are my attempt to disguise my vulnerability, the goal is one of self-empathy or egocentric pathology here must be admitted. This is a glaring thing, to me, like lightning not the sun- it blinds in its awesome power but for a second of feint threat that cowers me in frailty but not a lasting thing, the echoes of repeated dream not the fires of Inquisition. This is my view and mode; my approach to the beast's reverence is not with the caution of known deception but a perturbed notion of actualisation; what is knowable is not what is known and the expressives motioned by the animal do not, by any measure, designate whether to impore a harness, a feast, a whip, or a sword in communication. The specific pains about this charactaristic are not static (as yet) and cannot be allowed to submit its most viral tactic upon another character traits; the mystery remains peril--at least enough to try and change it should the night and day and moon declare study of this nature too treacherous a path on which to adventure.
Reaction must be known as it exists. It cannot be understood on any level within the concept or grasp of its own venom, or of it flow through the bloodstream, or through the swiftness in which it decides to kick. It is a mistake to attempt to refine our ideal of reaction while amidst it, or as cause of it, or indeed on either side of the aftermath or rebirth that accompanies both sides of the time in which it is happening. The actuals change, the truths are malleable and imperceptible from reality, and the concensus is at its most liquid, dissolveable. Rationality is unremoveable from the verifiable-- villifying at worst and nullifying at best any attempts to refine an observed and observable defined cause within the mutant state of discovering like-identity between what is known and what is unknown.
My scornfulness and temper had to be brought to my attention. Of course I knew, but certainly did not understand the great importance of what I began to grasp. Just before, maybe months, in a biography something was written about a certain great man, one with far more suffering and darker substance than destiny has weighted my heavy back with, most asuuredly, and in that moment I noted both pride and sadness in sharing the same trait, however miniscule and possibly destitute, with History such as he (and through him inferred hundreds perhaps of others), but subconciously also something that would rear a fiery roar when brought to me honestly by the closest of council. My friend fed me back my own wrath, and those moments an understanding took to me that my attempts for words have until now failed to make more than a groan and hard whimper. It is with some great personal importance that I find myself grappling with the befores and afters needed to rectify this wicked thing. I do not wish to be considered as evil by any, much less and especially by those who define my world, my existence, and without whom my life would have long ago become a question long forgotten to be noted for asking.
Daisy-hats, shuck and jive shoes, smiles all the way to the temple, bended knees and broken ears, never saying no and accepting that fate, O! and Lo! the jibberjabber---
biting tongue and winded debate-- there is no end or rhyme to what is demanded over the course life in the fire-baptismal. These are actions that must remain a constant in my given service, even when I don't want to. It's my job and one must do what one must do. My personal services both night-screaming and day-quiet take a toll even on the holy patience of accepting death atop of the sacrificial denial of partisanal life. To find a balance, as it were, on the interior is a heady quest; a grail of a beast in its own vulturous right is the still-young cut-path in which my turnover between intake and output is a matter of consequence and not always such a Mousetrap. Service, in this sense, emits from the zero point, from God, and resists easy measure.
The realignment needed in counterbalance has not a retribution stolid and set by lack of autumnal ethos or concrete-ness. The loss of empathy that comes from the desecration of a pathetic state, the loss of a consistent embreyonic nature in home's device, of what that word feels like when it is uttered in all forms, or the majesty of returning to the place that gave you and gives you birth no matter how pastoral or pathetic it holds known to the rest of the world understood. I nest and am vulnerable, perhaps. With my hand on a dog and screens before me, maybe the other hand on a breast or thigh- it is there we scrape the deepest of thoughts, become the most known. This rises from comfort; from romance, from reliable love.
Conversely, and cumulatively, to my family and sometimes even my environment at home and away from (public) work i can be averagely-tempered and angry, bi-polar in my emotional state, especially when waking from other realms whether they be of narcotic, of dreams, or of spirit. I am weak and out-lash, certainly, I fear and cower. I sweat.
All of these things are acceptable to me inside-myself, humanity being what it is- it is just important not to show it. To keep the beast in check is not enough; we must kill it. The tendency that follows, though, is that of the Hyde-monster: to be an unruly beast of no apparent right or reason with a biting emotional whip and bile-laced tongue filled with the horror of so many secrets
from so many wailing souls. This is my burden and i have chosen to accept it,but this does not mean that it must also be a pain and weighted on those that love me. No longer can the scenario where people must learn to accept any evil that I am or hold. It must be done away with.
(It took the wonderful film BEASTS OF THE SOUTHERN WILD to show me the will out of the hedge maze above.)