6.2 The gate of the subtle and profound female Is the root of Heaven and Earth.
6.3 It is continuous, and seems to be always existing. Use it and you will never wear it out.
Use it and you will never wear it out.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
Dao
6.1 The spirit of the valley never dies. It is called the subtle and profound female.
6.2 The gate of the subtle and profound female Is the root of Heaven and Earth.
6.3 It is continuous, and seems to be always existing. Use it and you will never wear it out.
6.2 The gate of the subtle and profound female Is the root of Heaven and Earth.
6.3 It is continuous, and seems to be always existing. Use it and you will never wear it out.
Monday, September 30, 2013
MY BIG WORLD DREAM COME TRUE
Dearest Chantel, Chelsea, Danny, and Robert:
This is my rattle and bone. I am aiming toward the middle of this ridiculous peanut purgatory in which people are more poised to protest the concentration levels of Tropicana, finger fuck their vegan box dinners, and "sweat it out" in a Bikram yoga box office to decide to live or die.
Kids aren't out to play anymore there is no such cul de sac and no such blue grass, unfertilized, you pasture-ass. That neighborhood packed up at the first sight of war, the first sight of the slight on doormat 'not' WELCOME 'anymore'. But American still has bigger BBQs planned for the family man.
Orange neon dictates land falling into itself. Streets crack, gape, reveal more street, break, more concrete, break. And our limbs are still sleeping us sweet amputees. Ice cream trucks are driven by junkies who slap fat mosquitos off sweaty foreheads and curse hoes on the cell phone. All genetically modified flavors; a race with Russia to surpass 21. This is competition and it is favored. Along with blue raspberry, Nickelodeon shaped lactation. And the same tune goes forth...
Believe me. I take comfort in the bum who sings to his dog on the corner. Outside the drugstore. I got to the drugstore because I also take comfort in what it gives me. Only 21 and prescribed 18 different medications by balding doctors with porn addictions. They aren't working and by that I mean I'm still scared shitless of waking up. In this world. My head can't take heat from buildings already risen to fall. My Christ was out of town shit went down and rain comes shit comes up again. The middle class blondes' Chantel jogs sewage nonchalant in last season's paycheck's fake Chanel, Made in China.
I am not even sick of Chantel or Chelsea or Danny or Robert. They roost in the boothed restaurants with homogenous food. I won't go there. I don't straighten my hair but I'll admit my deficient teeth my addiction to whatever this week but at least their advertisements only half-way get me. Buffalo wing. Buffalo wing. Another caked and battered thing. Another battery thing. Cut life shorter with faster technology. Chelsea if you knew the technology they are keeping from you, you'd feel slower than ever. I do.
I have been hampstered, too, Danny, it's not just you. You who don Ray Bans on sunny days get red faced and polluted in lake piss in that polluted lake spit a little when you argue GOP and industry and dismiss the tree or the ME your soul maybe somehow wanted to be.
They taught me to grow up and succeed too, Danny, but I chose the fuck myself over over being drafted into a drone. False conception plaster home. All that bulldozes waste and all that waste stays wasted. I get wasted because when I stare out my window too long the red carbon rays make ill-fed pigeon wings look golden in their feeble flight. And I want to cry.
Robert, you get wasted because you see power lines and power lines and power lines, too, but won't face them as I (unfortunately) do. Rob you are crazy if you think. You are crazy if you think. In this world dream that's true.
This is my rattle and bone. I am aiming toward the middle of this ridiculous peanut purgatory in which people are more poised to protest the concentration levels of Tropicana, finger fuck their vegan box dinners, and "sweat it out" in a Bikram yoga box office to decide to live or die.
Kids aren't out to play anymore there is no such cul de sac and no such blue grass, unfertilized, you pasture-ass. That neighborhood packed up at the first sight of war, the first sight of the slight on doormat 'not' WELCOME 'anymore'. But American still has bigger BBQs planned for the family man.
Orange neon dictates land falling into itself. Streets crack, gape, reveal more street, break, more concrete, break. And our limbs are still sleeping us sweet amputees. Ice cream trucks are driven by junkies who slap fat mosquitos off sweaty foreheads and curse hoes on the cell phone. All genetically modified flavors; a race with Russia to surpass 21. This is competition and it is favored. Along with blue raspberry, Nickelodeon shaped lactation. And the same tune goes forth...
Believe me. I take comfort in the bum who sings to his dog on the corner. Outside the drugstore. I got to the drugstore because I also take comfort in what it gives me. Only 21 and prescribed 18 different medications by balding doctors with porn addictions. They aren't working and by that I mean I'm still scared shitless of waking up. In this world. My head can't take heat from buildings already risen to fall. My Christ was out of town shit went down and rain comes shit comes up again. The middle class blondes' Chantel jogs sewage nonchalant in last season's paycheck's fake Chanel, Made in China.
I am not even sick of Chantel or Chelsea or Danny or Robert. They roost in the boothed restaurants with homogenous food. I won't go there. I don't straighten my hair but I'll admit my deficient teeth my addiction to whatever this week but at least their advertisements only half-way get me. Buffalo wing. Buffalo wing. Another caked and battered thing. Another battery thing. Cut life shorter with faster technology. Chelsea if you knew the technology they are keeping from you, you'd feel slower than ever. I do.
I have been hampstered, too, Danny, it's not just you. You who don Ray Bans on sunny days get red faced and polluted in lake piss in that polluted lake spit a little when you argue GOP and industry and dismiss the tree or the ME your soul maybe somehow wanted to be.
They taught me to grow up and succeed too, Danny, but I chose the fuck myself over over being drafted into a drone. False conception plaster home. All that bulldozes waste and all that waste stays wasted. I get wasted because when I stare out my window too long the red carbon rays make ill-fed pigeon wings look golden in their feeble flight. And I want to cry.
Robert, you get wasted because you see power lines and power lines and power lines, too, but won't face them as I (unfortunately) do. Rob you are crazy if you think. You are crazy if you think. In this world dream that's true.
Friday, September 27, 2013
Breakthrough
Today is September 27 and it's any other day the world is ending the dog is barking
such is the such I want to tell (this) I had a dream last night (lost) in which the poet was reading
from a printed page in some sort of spite for women's rights the same word over and over it was as if
she did it on purpose not to be good not to do well not to be Gertrude not to do well for herself it was
all kind of swill and quick and unthought and I think I dreamed this woman because I graded
the last of the papers last night and saw the grammar mistakes not worth making let me tell (this)
those mistakes glaring. I am not one to criticize a mistake when I see it if I believe it is justified in that
kind of mistake-y way when we are young and bold and walking razor thin planetary lines across
the universe of ourselves and sometimes burning or slipping or choking up no these mistakes
were not that kind they were not cosmic not bright not sweet not hard not true they were dumb
plain and dumb as parking lots in mid-May town of twenty Wal Mart dumb processed meat dumb
the kind of dumb that spawned social media out of last resort kind of dumb put a comma in the wrong
place not on purpose kind of dumb spellcheck dumb not looking at spellcheck dumb I couldn't look
any more without tearing the paper and getting real angry so I took my steam outside and lit a
thing of paper and sucked it so there I was. Feeling dumbed down and wrong for believing ever
in the generation preceding ever this mess won't clean won't clean all of it gone down to sit in the
sewer somehow unhappily — And then a call from my brother
who at 17 tells me the trees bluffed cold weather and snow in Mississippi the first time ... who tells me
cold chicken and canine teeth clinging to UV ray by the waist ... who tells me I am dumb and bored
a spoiled little bitch clinging to life from a camera cooking noodles making raps in the basement ...
brother I love you O god I love you o Brother I love you O god I love you take us home
such is the such I want to tell (this) I had a dream last night (lost) in which the poet was reading
from a printed page in some sort of spite for women's rights the same word over and over it was as if
she did it on purpose not to be good not to do well not to be Gertrude not to do well for herself it was
all kind of swill and quick and unthought and I think I dreamed this woman because I graded
the last of the papers last night and saw the grammar mistakes not worth making let me tell (this)
those mistakes glaring. I am not one to criticize a mistake when I see it if I believe it is justified in that
kind of mistake-y way when we are young and bold and walking razor thin planetary lines across
the universe of ourselves and sometimes burning or slipping or choking up no these mistakes
were not that kind they were not cosmic not bright not sweet not hard not true they were dumb
plain and dumb as parking lots in mid-May town of twenty Wal Mart dumb processed meat dumb
the kind of dumb that spawned social media out of last resort kind of dumb put a comma in the wrong
place not on purpose kind of dumb spellcheck dumb not looking at spellcheck dumb I couldn't look
any more without tearing the paper and getting real angry so I took my steam outside and lit a
thing of paper and sucked it so there I was. Feeling dumbed down and wrong for believing ever
in the generation preceding ever this mess won't clean won't clean all of it gone down to sit in the
sewer somehow unhappily — And then a call from my brother
who at 17 tells me the trees bluffed cold weather and snow in Mississippi the first time ... who tells me
cold chicken and canine teeth clinging to UV ray by the waist ... who tells me I am dumb and bored
a spoiled little bitch clinging to life from a camera cooking noodles making raps in the basement ...
brother I love you O god I love you o Brother I love you O god I love you take us home
Monday, June 17, 2013
Poem like it's 1999
A little piece taken from Milk Magazine (an archived issue: 1999)
Michael HAEFLINGER
sitting in the
café of
our heroes: just
walked along footprinted
sidewalks gazing
at the blue
between the clouds: edit
as you
run (the h
i
l
l
s
will stumble
you) up
into the next
neon glow: the regulars talk over
their heads
about the midwest and
world travel and agree suspiciously
too much
with one
another
Friday, June 7, 2013
Friday, May 17, 2013
Thank You Meditation
The Thank-You Meditation
Thank You, Universe, For My Years in Retrograde [and Fast-Forward]
Thank You, Universe, For My Years in Retrograde [and Fast-Forward]
To make life zen is to make life not zen.
This is a thank-you note. This is a green letter. This is a blue one.
How am I supposed to assign color to rain drops? Thank you, America. Thank you, elementary. Thank you, college. Thank you, raindrop. Thank you, raindrop(s). Thank you, love. Thank you, big dream. Thank you, small chair. Thank you, student. Thank you, teacher. Thank you, music of bugs and leaves. Thank you, music of metal and string. Thank you, mother and father people. Thank you, angry ones. Thank you, sad ones. Thank you, laughing ones. Thank you, ones that say what I want to say. Thank you, ones that say nothing.
Thank you, hand prints in the dirt. Thank you, dirt in my shoes! Thank you, particles. Thank you, pollution. Thank you, shovel. Thank you, axe. Thank you, coffee bean. Thank you, mountain next to the sea. Thank you, sea next to the mountain. Thank you, tiredness. Thank you, alertness. Thank you, senses. Thank you, the unseen.
This is a thank-you note. This is a green letter. This is a blue one.
How am I supposed to assign color to rain drops? Thank you, America. Thank you, elementary. Thank you, college. Thank you, raindrop. Thank you, raindrop(s). Thank you, love. Thank you, big dream. Thank you, small chair. Thank you, student. Thank you, teacher. Thank you, music of bugs and leaves. Thank you, music of metal and string. Thank you, mother and father people. Thank you, angry ones. Thank you, sad ones. Thank you, laughing ones. Thank you, ones that say what I want to say. Thank you, ones that say nothing.
Thank you, hand prints in the dirt. Thank you, dirt in my shoes! Thank you, particles. Thank you, pollution. Thank you, shovel. Thank you, axe. Thank you, coffee bean. Thank you, mountain next to the sea. Thank you, sea next to the mountain. Thank you, tiredness. Thank you, alertness. Thank you, senses. Thank you, the unseen.
I saw the tree and I cried. Saw the bird in it and laughed. A lung is a bird like that. I did it the old fashioned way. Did not pray for results. There were some, they told me. Their faces went clear in the evening light. I believed I saw the inside of their head. It was nothing. It was like Noah's Arc. It was like static electricity. It was like TV and hollandaise. It was like a vacation. The picture frames are elsewhere. Take down your poor rafter, your poor rafter holds up. Let's go.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)