Tool

 The obvious blares and I react, careful to contain my observations.

Luscious colors illicit the recanting of memory, into days made whole

The motive of nature, flipping every switch: systems-  GO.

This language is the oldest on earth; the very definition of 'create'.

The palette of Man still lulls these senses, readying the rouge with wet.

How many more days will be spent etching plural meaning?

I do not know. This is the beast of my patterns. Embellishment of the senses.

Hoping to trigger select prey in a fashion that Mother Nature has perfected.

It simply cannot be done; I am not hunting for myself.

Or am I?

There is an existential cadence to where my interest lies.

There, that word again; encapsulating double tense, and, making sense.

The Catholic in me is strong. Aware. Accustomed to control. 

Restraint is perhaps my most powerful tool. Practiced with ease

No matter how thorough the allure of the vice. I am grateful for this.

  

Inner Chant...

 Initiative needs no audience, in fact, it needs nothing but itself.

Distraction is a contemptuous sea where indulgence has no shortage of swimmers.

Which of the two will occupy and determine the course of life?

To be aware of both is half the game. To stay put the tentacles of inaction

Is often not a goal for the mind built of entitlement, built of sloth, built of the weak.

I see no strength in weakness. I do not associate the necessity of such to get ahead.

To be weak is to give up. To be weak is to complain. To be weak is to accept defeat.

Defeated people eat gobs of their misery, they cannot get enough of it.

They will offer it up, of this - they will love to share. To be heard is to be loved.

To be listened to- is care. To listen without prejudice and hear without helpful advising

Is equally weak. 

Love and care contain constructive aids that are to be distributed as needed.

"Who am I, Darlin, to ya? Who am I...?" - BH

What constitutes these thoughts? That comprise who I am into the toughness that I understand?

By which design and whose measure did I come to be this way? The spirit dictates?

The Soul? Are they one in the same? Are they separate? Do they deliberate?

These facets of being, they have been with me, built into me- existed from the start.

I think far back and can still conjure early feelings and the notion of 'why?'

Young in California, yet able to remember the purposeful finagling of internal fear.

Seeds planted to a core that was unsure. To take the 'why' and analyze it, quietly.

Keeping love and care at the center of all focus, regardless of how confused I became.

The years have laid upon themselves in succession in such a way that I can look back now

Proud of the avenues traveled and able to rationalize the 'how and why'. 

The grip of the grist and the trimming of juicy fat have been taught to know their place.

To be given due is the best and perhaps only way to get past 'uncomfortable'

Heated beings that spend time listening to their core become better managers of their life.

I hear the noise and recognize the chaos of everythingtryingtodistractandimpugnme

And I leave it where it is- outside the perimeter of my vulnerability. 

After nearly 49 years of existence, I am a strong, capable, caring, intelligent and honest fighter.

Life IS strategy. There are hurdles that arise both naturally and planted.

If I lack the wherewithal to fight, how will I get to the other side to love and care for anyone?

Least of all - myself?

The skin is thick, the sensitivities are protected, the lessons learned are respected.

I suit up each day, in varying degrees of priority, ready to tackle the now and the future.

I want this life. I want it all. I will earn the inner and outer bruising that comes with territory.

If we don't understand the balance, we are only half alive.

Chosen Hues...

 Heated Thursday, with appropriate amounts of strain and pressure.

How do we live well if there is no path worth learning?

It is more than resistance; it is the ease with which to fall back

And languish in the lax of 'nothing' that entices too many into inactivity.

Days pass, I look out the window, and see the sky, thankful for its consistency.

It is my job to do the changing, to recognize the beauty and MOVE towards 'worth'.

That future windowsill, I imagined her again this morning, 

And how intuitively great it already feels to know that in the future, she will be mine. 

Mine to arrange and dust when needed, and to look out of, into that vast Southwest Glory

To see future skies from her glazed gaze, and smile in gratitude

At the whim of a dream and the action taken- to grasp and control enough

To make what I wanted - mine.

Tabletop Possessions

 Pinch of iniquities, cramp the days

The torment of shallow beliefs clings thickly to impressionable ignorance.

This, the reason for 'off the grid' living.

These inanimate objects that crowd around me

Hold varying degrees of value as I conceptualize my future.

Pruning of memories is inevitable, while I gauge the worth of attachments

That may or may not, make it through this transition.

Taos, firmly planted into my psyche, perpetually enticed 

To return there and traipse the land long enough to pick over trails

And commit them to memory.

The washing of slate has begun.

As that action performs its magic, mental limbo twists and turns

Bound by the need to chase inertia into safe corners

To breed more doubt and insecurity. I feel the resistance to change

And ante up my resilience. Fuck monotony and the hamster wheel it cruises in.

My dreams demand much of me and I honor that call.

There were sacrifices that came before my name was first spoken,

And to their due, I will not be remiss in their payment.

This life is built for creation.

Soul Shitter

 Gall. Your gall, it behooves me.

The mud of your own incandescence emits misery.

Shame rides high but hides poorly, you, smoked out of your comfy hole.

I would say "How dare you?" But I am aware of your dare.

Cultivating resentment for the recognition you assign to others

When the results you seek are theirs. Blech.

Shame too, as such a statuesque being could still, reconfigure his course

But no, not you, you clutch too closely, to the malignancy of your making.

Years of regard for you, discarded to the shitter.

What you really crave, I suspect, is to be slapped for all your smugness.

I used to desire time alone with you, to open and welcome the whole of your mind

The blowhole of your bitterness has replaced the idea of you and the muse in you.

You, my friend, scream silently of an urgency to be cracked. 

Cracked from the caked on lethargy that you alone, have slopped on thick. 

From rebellion to resignation, where did the gorgeous fire in you - go wrong?

For more than 20 years I contemplated that talk between us. How little I knew you.

Open your carcass wholly; expose the desiccant of regrets that you harbor

In exchange for some moisture, to lubricate and sweeten your soul.

You have been  a monolith of consideration in my life from the time we first met.

The intoxicating inhalation of the young you - I could not get enough of.

And your lack of risk for worthier outcomes has destroyed the man in you.

I have no interest anymore to engage you as you navigate your case through bared teeth

That shit gets old, repugnant, putrid. Your ping into the atmosphere is expiring

Lacking all effort which will lead to the eventual outcome of zilch.

To have loved you so long and unfortunately, long enough to see you rot

I debate within as to whether or not I should give a fuck about the status of our friendship.

Or perhaps I would be better off utilizing you as a powerful lump to launch off

Into greater positioning where I can claim that the "mercy" of your back has afforded me opportunity?

Your patronization of powerful females that keep their eyes on the prize, needs muting.

And for the record, that exceptional being that you so carefully continue to 'remind' me of

Would die a second time - if she knew of your willingness to use her tenderness to demean strength.

Until next time, fuck you. Your 'wolf in sheep's clothing' attire is grossly ill-fitting.

Bulky Pages

 The repetition has begun to denounce nearly all former points.

Tis a sin to read, and reread of years past and their resolute points..

A-ha! Here I am again, beginning with an intro to open again that door

That spells the same message. The trade, the worth, the wait - but wait!?

Show me the twist! Am I now catering to more of the same?

Or when, upon when, upon the when of fucking whens, will I build anew?

In the flux, the ease of known patterns continues to wrestle for the lead.

No. 

Dear red Moleskin, your intentions have held strong, your bulky pages

Do beckon for more seawater and gouache swirl. Your dried captions

Entertain me further. This time; this now; this outcome; structure loosely

A life of firm sound, built away from the bulk of these musings.

It is as if the ether has layers that are now exposed to me;

And the where to from here requires that I peel those layers apart

And climb right in - to the life that now presents itself.

50 soon. One last year for forty. To untie, unravel and eradicate monotony.

It is courageous to open this mouth and with fluid intention

Speak of the life I want. The life I am willing to build. The opening of 

Good futures. Grand canvases are touched and handled with care

Often, and again, and often even more. Pushed, adjusted, hung, examined.

I have catered to intensity my whole life. I have controlled what I could

To accentuate secure outcomes, and I have done this well.

This new Season is forming. This next phase is determined. 

Empowered enough to take the echo of all I have been exposed to

And rocket my way to something stronger, heartier, healthier, warmer

Loved in ways that are without limit, and felt with ease.

High

 Attempting to reconnect to that stream

Of consciousness that hits each time a pen is

Impossible.

Thinking hard to reclaim nodes that poked out freely

When once my mind lifts off and away from stationary noise.

Who I am when I sit away from myself,

JBP suggests to watch myself and see how it is I navigate

The life I am living. He is now my Muse.

Everything that pushes out from behind his blood and bones

Is the absolute stuff that Heavenly Dreams are made of.

His is ether talk made simple.

None to this point in time in my entire life

Has ever pierced through to the recess of what is deeply felt

In the manner that this man has.

Ethos, Pathos, Logos.

Smooth intensity. Aggressive confidence.

Intentional restraint, and deliciously persuasive.

It doesn't take much to listen and swoon and gel to the nines.

This man is The Highest High.

A Sampling

 Thursday has noise, and much of it is Beautiful.

My son walks to commemorate his graduation from high school.

A milestone event in his life that he accomplished a year early!

Jack Be Nimble! Jack Be Quick!! 

Jack follows dreams- And the results- They stick!!!

I am blessed to no end with my glorious brood.

We have among our ranks - 4 Artists: who operate 

At Fine Artist levels........ Ode to Joy for me, as their Mother!

We have 2 future bilinguals in our midst; Japanese is their choice!

We have a singer/songwriter who plays guitar and piano....

And on evenings rare, I have been witness to the beauty of her

Spontaneous instrumental creations!

The scholar in our midst has a mind in overdrive

It is a wonder her head can contain all that transpires there.

Art, in so many forms, practiced; Spiritual practitioner

Stones; Tarot; Meditation; Writing; Digital; Tactile... 

It seems to name all, a mass conceit would exist

But No. This is simply a sampling of who we are.

Independent thinkers. The world needs them to exist, and,

They need them to be backed by Accountability; Responsibility;

Empathy; Understanding; Confidence; and Willingness to 

Stand Up For What is Right. 

If we have learned anything, it is that Freedom must be

Practiced and pursued and not practiced from a place

Of submission.

Suffice

 Would I settle for the ghost of you?

Abyss of days between the Us and You

Thousands of days have passed since we could see 

Who we were, who we had become.

And that letter you wrote, ringing true to this day

All you felt and the wisdom behind your words

They carry your sentiments still locked in the chamber

Of all the beauty we felt, before the road split into two.

That twinkle in your eyes, your laugh, your smile

The authenticity of everything you shared in our bubble

The world that only we knew, and the injury committed 

To that tender, intimate and precious fellowship we gave

To you - to me -  to each other.

That day in your room on Wintergardens,

The rain on the windows as you sat in your chair smiling

I knew then that to preserve the best in you

I would stay until I could stay no more.

The time came and in that transaction, I traded

Everything you gave to me and all the ways I felt

For new life, new love, and the legacy of Us - born anew

In the heart of our child; a girl, soft, sweet and true.

"...and if I can't be next to you..." 

I settled for better than the best of You.

And though "...I miss you more than life..."

Our memories suffice.

A.G.

 Invigorated, visual bliss- descending

These burners, once lit, pop and moan for encouragement.

The sleeping zone, aged and dilapidated

Grown mute with time and inactivity...

Has been lured once more,

Into intoxicating leads.

Much of You...

 "Here's to the babies of the brand new world,

Here's to the beauty of the stars..."

Lyrics that roll decades forward 

To stick in my psyche for periodic enjoyment.

I have committed to memory those things that elate me

From so long ago, like these lyrics, initial joy remains.

Wired the right way, and gratitude abounds

The path has been set and continues to unfold

In such a way that I march through in confidence

Trusting my gut, bones, head and heart.

It occurs to me that Solo is a State of Mind 

One that I was born with. This belief system is not learned

This is not formulated out of necessity, this is who I am.

Who I have always been, who I will continue to be.

In love with the loyalty, the dedication, the perseverance

In love with the tenacity, the resilience and the bare-knuckle battles

They were always going to win, as this form of steady

Is untouchable.

Reasons, explanations, descriptions- irrelevant

This tune is mine alone for humming and enjoying.

Control is the single-most powerful action we can exert on ourselves.

And when that act is wrought to its core with conviction

The likes of which are built for ONE mode - 

There is tremendous honor and satisfaction in welcoming each new day.

To rise to action in continued motion that has  long laid the groundwork

Of a lifetime of 'The Good', the will to live flows proudly.

Of the two, my Father is built this way, a Stoic to this very day.

And the rebellion necessary to engineer innovation, is not to be underrated: Mother.

She was contained in the vessel of her design; wild, beautiful, and strong.

Unyielding. I am much of you, and mostly him and blessed to call you mine.

Fresh

 Practiced mania sent out in pulsed waves

The puppeteers up top enjoy the view.

Orchestrating chaos as the nameless benefactors

Pick their teeth of rotting meat, to make way for

Fresh kill.

Tickle and Slip

 Here, before any words spoken,

I sit and analyze thought.

What will Thursday bring?

Thursday, will bring, whatever I induce.

January 13th, a day to design with intent.

Ideas swim, muses distract, intention must

Be the solid Victor.

Sleep brought cumbersome dreams 

Of misplaced jewelry, hanging from threads

In places that dementia would only know.

The message here is dubious, lingering

Is there use in deciphering?

A single copper ornament, lost to its pair

A friend, recently stripped of all familial company

The cast in order of appearance was particular.

What philosophy is carefully placed in this setting?

Where my pillowed head floats in controlled chaos

Meaning, mulled into deep, wordless explanations,

That coast in agitating vibration,

Coaxing distraction enough,

To tickle and slip away.

Free

 In later hours the wrist takes its liberty

Vision dances loosely on the brink of slumber

And still, the compositions present themselves.

With less control there is more risk

The relaxed state promotes flimsy with flow

A grace-line that knows to roam freely 

When sleep takes its leisure as limbs give in to rest.

Two nights now, a slight pattern - forming

The wavy vibrations toy with visible dimension...

Or so I am told.

To what do we attribute to, this midnight muse?

Who glides in gypsy formation

In indelible strokes?

As the severing of workloads cement themselves

I too, like the wrist, post-slumber

Take some Liberty of my own.

Who knew something so powerful as an Inalienable Right

Would be proudly invoked

In a world now parading with the illusion of 'Free'?

Boise Boy

He sends, I read

Punched. 

His words, stirred

Aggressively making their home

Inside me,

As they always have,

Stitched in tight.

Vultures swirl, encircling

Eager to dig in...to...

The viscera. 

Inky tendons, tightening

Flawed indelibly into view

An expulsion of pages

Dictating turmoil. 

Throat rope tangled

Controlled fray, exudes

Blinded eyes that 'see'

"...bone dry words form 

from twisted lips 

come from 

someone something strange 

a throat deranged..."

We roam in tune best

At these distances We have known

From flurries to salty sea

~And anxious knots in time that rots~

Betwixt the Now and He.

...known

Sunday ends in familiar tones 

The abode, dutifully open for inhabitants 

Who sleep to dream to rise and make ready 

A life of welcome change. 

The greenery, happy to hear our sounds

And the inanimate contents, made ready

For use in the home we've built and known. 

Launching...

Finality forming, by

Automated triggering.

The dump of my earned remains-

Clarify much.

Light blows open the status

Of the beginning of: The Where To-

From 'Here'.

Excitedly eager

To climb sturdy ladders

That lead to an infinity

Of yet, untapped wealth.

With value grown, and confidence ushering

I return to begin the finalizing

Of books that are begging for closure.

The Future, launching...

Ratio

 San Antonio, Texas...

And Hatch chili peanuts.

Gas, still under $3 a gallon

This State, a State worth knowing.

I am recognizing this gorgeous place

As I drive back in the path I know well.

The vast expanse is promoting itself

In unabashed tones of Freedom.

Space. To breathe, To move, To elevate

Pursuit of dreams made whole.

I am eager to claim my plot of this story

And drive hard to the mark of Change.

Ready

Willing

Excitedly able.

Midnight oil burns through morning

And on through each mile that we pass.

2022 sees a ratio of gain

That I WILL obtain.

NOW

Value

 Unseen understanding

Tangible, emotional currency

The value of which is traded 

Without trace,

Makes this form of living,

Sublime.

With Love.

 I sit here in Texas

Aware of the time

As the world swarms slowly

In hastened momentum.

California again soon,

To make decisions that lead,

Elsewhere.

This is a good life, 

A blessed life,

A gifted existence.

To be free to choose

To choose wisely,

Based on the wisdom

Of all my experience.

Intermediate life,

You are a good life.

Thankful for the powers that Be,

And the God that has been

Walking beside me

Listening to me,

And guiding my light.

Filled to the brim

With Love.

High Wattage

 Inevitably, the time comes

To involuntarily drag me through the urge.

The pristine flavor of untouchable, 

Devours me.

Practiced

 How long have I walked with words that have ailed me?

I think to utter and prop up my bones in doing so,

But the dig into my very being, incurs remittance.

What words can I find now, to crack these practiced codes

Entering into a better bargain to sate the days as they pass?

The voice is crowded with frustration that seethes and moans of monotony

I must better serve my posterior for when it surges forward

The need to have acted on foresight will then be put to the test

And questioned in detail for what may have gone overlooked.

I want to then counter with 'no stone unturned' and revel in preparedness.

I am hunting for worth and Steppenwolf, to tally the marks I have carved

To inspect and deliver the prognosis for which I must deter.

Lengthier meaning, longer streams of thought,

May they begin to coach stealthier practices and evacuate the tight, terse twine

That I have been weaving along my interior 

To brace the emotional hernias that puncture through from practiced restraint.

Necessary, practiced restraint. 

I am here.

 Another volume, delivered

The involvement and the emotional investment,

They have grown.

Turning into the idea that a way to ease sorrow

Can be felt; the news shared, deserves emphatic empathy

Delivered with concern, true care.

I am here, dear friend, listening with respect

And I am mindful of your experiences,

The fragility of life, parading.

Full Tilt

 115 notes,

On how to tell the story of pain.

A year to gore the innards with abrupt malice

Funneled through a disease without cure.

2016, an impalement.

Breaking in the upright position

I festooned my misery into a manageable shape

That took me to shreds with impunity. 

What does it mean to be broken?

I will never know.

The grist is worth the ingestion of any hurdle

To earn the worth to carry on.

Words in their arrangement serve to protect nothing

Confusion cures ignorance, and that will do

Procurement, a word I adore

As it seeks to attach skill to understanding

Giving way to a comprehension, sublime.

Some stories are not worth understanding,

Certain levels of agony belong caged.

Secrecy is a precursor to composure,

When light requires forgiveness in its lifting.

I know a man that gets this game.

The level of what is at stake, 

The wisdom to keep his mouth shut

And the potency of his commitment to restraint.

Such animal mastery is also, bent for secrecy and containment.

It is often the understanding alone that can portion the scales 

To the equilibrium needed,

To lead a strong, stout life, worthy of respecting.

Enough hounds prowl without regard 

...for more than their 

Own hunger.

Pangs of which, once punctured

Care nothing for the kill.

And who cares to hear these musings,

Of lives well lived, and shoulders that never caved

These are words that form little meaning 

To none other than Self, who seldom pauses to wonder how 

That same self will evaluate and preside

Over the decades spent in well controlled demeanor.

I am leaning forward more and fascinating myself

With potentials that eek of action, and grease eager to spread

Would there come a time where the Now will crave more sprint?

No.

The time is Now. The Will is Present,

And the wisdom to know the difference is

Parading like Maximus in full tilt.

In This Now

Chisel off the hesitation,

Or the story remains the same.

That languid layer of testifying tongue

Cornering the verbose into paralysis,

Gaining no ground.

The New Order is Intentional

In ways, everlasting.

Powered by would-be oppression 

And the nerve to demand:

Better.

Been walking awhile on hesitant turf

Offensively protecting my interests.

Independence is a living act

To be claimed daily with effective patterns

Grindstone tending.

The insanity of repetition 

Keeps the average - sated.

I am hunting for something more, than

Satisfaction. I will pursue

Better leverage.