Live Off Embers

We live off the embers

of something
so much bigger
and denser than now.

Something almost gone,
yet still so very beautiful,

powerful.

Have you ever seen the stars.

So the reasons
we have any of this, believe me,
are in the power
still left in the smallest sparks.

Just look up,
have you ever seen the stars?

and wondered...

Look at your next clear night
up and down and up.
Mostly up.

Embers
all embers
of something so much bigger,

and yet still enough
to lead us round and
round water or soil
in light enough to see.

We live
live off embers.
of oh so much more
than we will ever be

But what we do with this
is more than the brighter beginning still

We live
live off embers.

Off the bits we can handle
not the truth that'd kill us.

We live
on the edge of what used to..

and begin
a new potential.

Like flies
on an old pie
but on the universe's more pristine.

Yet scavengers all the same,
we resourceful
become.

We become.
and whats left
will be the fodder
for the next.

We become,
but hopefully
are not the last.

We become.
but what is
still
to
be
still to
to be.

Vallero

Pulling in
to Valero

in my
nice Nissan,

Such
a nice Nissan.

The better
better of my three
nice outfits

gets
the better of me
of me for the day.
 
Good job,
good pay,
form nice neighborhood,

but funding flown into my artist hands,
my spouse of even better artist hands,
two kids, said car payment, house, all the lights
and all means of fighting decomposition of all above.

How many know me
know that me
this me.

How many who know me
would know this 5 dollars is my last
last of the month going into the tank
and to top it off that two of it was shattered in pieces under the floor mat.

Quarters and less
reunited
in extra work
for me and the cashier
and only me so thankful.

Only me so thankful.
Pulling out
out of Valero.

Out,
out of Valero.

Just a Beginning

What goes
without
comment
goes,

or dies
mostly
on the shoulders of the too kind
to engage,

but the right
hand
open to the right fist
makes peace,

and once
in awhile
love.

Let me walk all
of my path,

but also
don't let me fall
all over your flowers
as I stumble.

No growth
that's eating more than giving
is as shinny as it sometimes comes off

So much going out
for the few returns,

don't keep letting,
letting it all go
letting it all just keep
on going.

Say
what you see
and what you know.

My growth
and your growth
are more than either of us alone
could do
and that's just a beginning...

So Certain

Amazing
how
we can be
so certain,

then just watch
a slice of day in reverse
and see so much more
than ever.

Amazing
how a sunset can pass-- in minutes
if you're not looking
or be a brief eternity
that lives a long memory.

All where we are
or which way we're walking.

Eyes open
up or down
or heading home
or heading out

you'll have seen a different day
than many an other
depending on the where
that you happen to be.

But together we are starting to see it all
what it means to cry
and then find laughter.

To kill then find saving life
to be far better.

Spread round the sphere together
we can see the sun rise and set at once,
and every good or bad dream
or daytime event,

but just a pair of eyes alone
have only their tremendous unique perspective to offer
and noting more.

Amazing
it is
to be so certain
and so not really built for it.

At least not on
only these two feet.

But the more we are
might just begin
if we can stop the stopping
and start to see.

Thick and Warm

Sheets tangled round
my ankles
under a thick and heavy comforter in December,

To warm in here to get out,
to warm to be off enough to fix anything.

Same in my life,
to okay
to fix any anything,

well enough
to not be jumping up to.

Sheets tangled round
my ankles
for real or by day.

I stay
wrapped up
in comfort,

wrapped up
safe away from life's December
in the north side of this sphere I live on.

Letter

The letter
you left...

might as well
of said I am going to the store
and stopping by Kentucky on the way out of California...

The letter you left
might as well have said
we suck
and even at that
we are no good.

No good.

Good
no good.

Bad
plenty
plenty to share,

but no one's listening,
no one's lining up,
no one is in need of more misery.
Everyone
can go home
and find plenty of that to spare,
plenty to spare
on everyone's table, plenty,
plenty to spare.

Yes.
This,
this is the new thanks,
the new thanks,
thanks.

Glasses usually used to cheer
raised really in hope of forgetting.
Fill 'em up
fill 'em up again
and again.

Joy to anyone
that can still define
it,

but here
the night rises
and takes the pressure off
for awhile
form the light I wasn't living up to anyway.

Anything New

The sun coming through a window
has always looked the same
since we had widows
and the right exposure
to sit and stare off.

Why I should feel unique
other than for me that this is the first time--
well not the first--
but a time where it is sinking in as something.

Same something as for thousands
or millions or more
of which only a few
had a voice
that outlasted life's grasp
on itself.


The sun coming through
the window, roof or clouds--
whatever you keep overhead the place you call home--
is all your own,
but there's more at some particular moments
that make one bigger than one's own shoes.

Those moments that water your own eyes
with not joy nor anguish
but something more still inbetween.

Live for these, and if you have means
spread the recipe,
those alive
protect life

those angry and dying
find more of their own.

Wherever you land
don't let the world
or people
or self that put you there
be the final say.

The more alive
the more.

The more alive
the more in us all.

That more alive
the more in us all
in us all,
in all.

Seeing Sometimes Too Much

sometimes we see so much in one second
that we can't see the day

like the river that fog really is

or the line the earth lets the sun draw
by its own spinning just as does

There's a balance I'll never get
somewhere
between seeing the detail
and being blinded by it

nothingness on both sides
like it all
only knowing the best spot
after being there and being now long past it
and never there.


Inspired by consuming:

http://www.simonchristen.com/adrift.html


 

Between Wind, the World and Being

As helpless
      as a feather
in the wind that thunder blows
I bow
before a world
that I know
not how
to engage.

I have eyes
but not the how
to make you see,

not the heart
    to grow.

mirrors only tell me
what I am already ashamed of
not how to turn around
and open a new door.

Right now
I'd take a silhouette
over this reflection,

more to imagine,
more to fill in,
more to figure out,
more undone,
than poorly done.

I want to find the last
path still powered by possibility
and a better yet to be.

A touch of something less than Midas,
but grand all the same.

As helpless
      as a feather,
I want to come to rest
in the potential of a hand
attached to a child's eager eyes,

all ready to be whatever
and not only what is easily possible.

To be
the more
that is the making of proud
and better hearts.

My pieces, if together

Our spines
strong
straight
or crooked
leaning or laying
are all
just pieces.

Pieces full
full of depends on.

Lots of holding together,
lots of won't out live our initial rot.

All the signals
sent
moving feet
or any other,

glue, or whatever makes
the few moments where I 
all held together,

together
oh what my pieces can do.

Free breifly to jump full
into whatever I am.

Yet to often
the war with in
has left going right
right going left,

and a few other bits
of nonsense.

Surprised

You'd be
surprised
what I'd do
for a nice
open
pair of eyes.

What I'd do
for a simple smile.

Wouldn't even have
to show
teeth.

Just some
something
to say
what I say
is welcome,

or to know
we might
have words to trade.

You'd be surprised
what I'd do
for a little
more life
in my life

and yet how friendly
loneliness can be
and how much more lonely
company can be.

You'd be
surprised
how long
I can look
at a wall
or ceiling
and pretend
to be next to asleep

or in some extra special
thought

about to take the world
back
into sense.

You'd be surprised
how much time
I spend waiting.

How much time I spend being useful
for lack of being me.

You'd be surprised how good I am
making value to others
just to have purpose.

Whatever the hell that is.

Now or
a year later.

Maybe it lasts
sure it lasts
some of it
but it is all to fill

to fill

to fill
a need
that is not
being fully
fullfilled.

Really just need a little more life
in my life

and for anyone to really
be surprised by the little I manage.

Where I want to get to

You,

you are
always,

always
where I want
to get to.

But how?

How
do I stop
this eternal getting there?

Something
in me
has the process off.

Like I'm going far north in December
and all the way back south in June
and can't figure out why I'm cold
every time I stop at the ends.

You are
always
where I want
to get to

and when I finally make it to the couch for a show we're both into
but not enough to not be into each other
I think I'll stop walking then.

I know I'll stop walking then
stop then for as long as I can.

But still every time I get there
one of us is full of the outside world
or too tired from it
or too into some anything other.

What a thief life can be
or us too.

Never enough to go around to fill everyone's hands
never enough to fill everyone's hands.

Taking from here
or there anywhere
to keep each other barely going thing
going.

You are
always
where I want
to get to

and for all the times
you find me not there when you need me
know in all the mess
that I am on my way.

rise

a
rise
cheap
in the thousands of mornings
thrown to the bed side

dirty
laundry
never comes clean
after too many onces over

laying there with my mornings
on the floor next to the bed

a
rise
lifts this time
no more
than a brow

where
the fuck
is that phone

a
rise
for not,
as silence
gives back its presence
and no message rings in to break it

battery
and the hope
it will last
leave some peace for now

a
rise
somewhere
out there but not here

sleep
takes back
what consciousness could not
and 'll bury it or spice dreams

good bye
this me
until I rise
anew

Falling short

How remarkable
the distance and space
we have placed between us
within these walls

how hard it is to spot
exactly

but summed up
so perfectly
in the slight pull
away

of a shoulder

about to be touched

on Friday night
with the kids in bed.

How a little shrug
can show
just how
how far
we've gone

instead of how far we've come.

How alone
together can be
when day after day
is not meeting in smiles,

but frowned expectations,
even those falling short.

Here we are
responsible
but dying
all
the
same.

All we wanted
was happy
when left
much simpler than this.

Still here
wanting to be loved
and find it in myself
to return.

To return
and offer more
but tired
is the overwhelming tide
I can barely tread.

Like Wood Looks

I feel like
wood looks
in the grasp
of 20 years of sun
and rain,

dead but full of character
and shades of grey.

Nailed flat
and obedient

to posts
snugged eternally in cement
sunk in a further embrace of earth.

I hold the cards in the house above me faithfully
but for how much longer?

All the righteousness we were born into
seems dirtied
if not outright
thrown in the gutter.

Truth, we never had it,
just existed like we did
in the absence of reality to set us straight
beautiful bliss are times like those, but never real.

Here comes the horrible bright light
sun over earth
always rising
despite any thrown stones.

Here it comes
here it comes sun over earth,
sun over all that befalls us
the day still has
a going on that is
always.

Back into order
I go.
Nailed flat
and obedient
but intact with my own grain.

My own fingerprints
and parasites
twisting the view a bit.

Twisting out a minor
different
new way
to look
around
where I can,
and share what I see
and how I record it.

Colored
by all the sun and rain
that taints my feelings
unique.

This sharing we all do,
this is what
makes all
new or different enough
to go on,
and not fall
tumbling
down.

Little Deaths

Little deaths
hoping
on balance
I use them well,
creating ground for as many births.

Looking for
many new starts,
not to their end.

But really I fear
the doors I see
whether open or closed
lead to now solid walls.

Little deaths
falling here and there
some for good need
for one over another.

Hoping I've got the scale
set right.

So hard
to know how
to weigh anything with so few
books setting me loose.

So many holding
me down
and in place
humble,

as I should be
but not completely
right.

Little deaths
eventually
lead us to an end
or rebirth

no matter how
hard we try to follow
or avoid

can't
stop
being
what
I am.

But can loose
a little piece
here

and replace
it there

to get
to
a new
where.

Many Hands

Too many hands
in mine.

I can
barely keep my own
doing the right
and good things.

Sharp
but broken.

Sharp
but rough in the course I sail
or walk.

Every shining
bug, rock
or sunset takes me off and into
stopped time.

Stopped time
where peace be had
but is only mine
and the world
just keeps wondering where I've been
and why
oh why I haven't kept up.

Too many hands
waiting on mine.

Too into the small beauties
that should have made up this world
but really don't.

Can't focus
on career and accomplishment

seems
   so much work
to just have a good grave stone.

Just can't buy in,

helps so
to not have the money,
but still,

still can't get fully out from under the weight
of all the eyes that see what I can't do.

Let me go
let me go
let go.

Please
let go.

Please
my
oh my
let yourself go.

Too many hands
have the lesser mores of life
handled...

handled better than
I will ever
except maybe in my children's eyes

can't compete
and be anything more than another

but to be me
to be me
might just be something a touch more
than what I've been.

that no one
no one
else
no one else
can

A Left in Fog

I think I have lost
a few
too many letters,

either that or
the dictionary is mad
and removing
my words one by one,

and taking the world's memory with it.

So many things I'd say
better
if I still had the feeling
I did while first feeling them.

So many dreams
written to memory
but only well enough to know they cursed me.

what good is perspective
only to leave me to taking a left turn in the fog.

Still only able to see
what is in view
from here,

and then
only the side showing.

Just a Piece

Who
still cares?

Who still cares
what,

what
this means?

Books
now whatever the last
download says.

Who knows
if I thought it
or forgot it,

maybe it never was,

or maybe it was just my 100 words
of the thousand that picture told

who cares.

Its me

Its me
the cold
and all I walked you into.

Its me
and all the hope
failed.

Its me
and all the dead flowers,
still seeds despite the wear.

And all the dreams
we could have had be something more
if only we had them ten years less than now.

Its me and all the wind
blowing up and down its own storm
taking water from here to there.

Us just small sticks,
victims of chance,
even if only in half of an unfinished truth.

Its me
the cold
and all I walked you into
and not out of.

Its me
the unsahaven
and rough
crap.

Its me
on a Sunday
two days into a weekend
pissed its over.

Its me
and even if you still take me now
I fail to believe it fully.

Still one eye out the window
for the bus I missed taking you on
to somewhere prouder than what i give you today.

Its me
the cold
and all I walked into.

Wondering
what this is
if not love
in its ungreatful
but constant way.

Finding its
home
even here, or despite
the reasons not to
because the heart
only knew one state of being
that remained through all the ups and downs.

At The Ocean...

This impatient water
knows a thing
or two
my six year old knows.

It cannot sit still,
in a constant tug
between new days
and the source of night's pale light

and more impatient still.

All the whispers
and suggestions of direction
blown over it

of little immediate change
but of the small and steady effect
that over time
and distance build waves of measure.

Forcefully,
once in course
following suggestions
raging against the cliffs
and beaches

making sand
of rock and shell alike

it leaps
forward,
then two steps backward,
then forward,
then back,
and over,
and over,

and over.

This has been
for millions of years
and lives

the way.

Parents and cliffs
resist the repetition
having already stood their ground
and crumbled

the young full
of energy and the life lost
we all had once.

But each must
be what they are.

Must stand or
rush forward and fall
and regroup
and rush forward
and fall
and stand back up.

All carving
our own
new way
old way
our own
own new shore
smashing to bits
while building something new

destruction
creation
and re-creation

one of growing smaller
and the other larger
but all the more a beautiful to see

like the cliffs I fade
as my daughter grows
but the very cliff was also once a beach
before being consumed
and built tighter and raised into what it is now.

She will also one day stand here
or somewhere with the same view
and watch the handing off,

but for now it is my time
and her smile
makes it all fit.

Today

Today,

today
we are only a seed.

But tonight,

tonight,
we are a dream,

a dream full of branches,
full of the tree we are to grow up into.

A dream
to tree
to be
to grow
to believe.

This seed
has all it needs,

all it needs
to get started,

and along
that along the way
we'll be fortunate enough

enough
to get all the rest.

The first roots
to keep us upright
planted now

our first flowers to fly open 
when the birds come bearing nests.

Today

today
we grow.

Today

today
I am more than the sum of yesterday,

and that extra
has me wondering,

forever
wondering
whatever
else
is playing along
in this game.

We've barely
come
to understand
the what
that it takes

to make it
here
through an ordinary day

To take the seed
and run with the dream
and make tomorrow.

Where does all this else
land

Where else can feet go
when light as clouds