The Bauble of Focus 20160827

I have not wanted to write poetry in weeks.  That bauble of focus of being too much in there and not wanting to go in there.  Sometimes the walls are plaid, not blah vomit, not bombastic rainbow, but engineered in a familiarized pattern that makes the vertigo standardized.  One knows the clock twitching between work day and week end of one wanting to not be in either because this time has that itch of death and reprobation.  The atheist plaque of not believing, at times missing the old blanket in one way conversations through implanted teeth.  The hopelessness is representative of, but not a recreation of the search.  It’s scat of the hairy recognition of not being sure why I want to be alone.  I know I do and I don’t.  The balance and science of psychic trauma and individual freedom, being watched, judged, misunderstood, feeling obligated to explain rationalizations that appear to have only disappointed people, attempting in leaps of artistic possibility in others and staring into the abyss of reductionism and quietude of non-response.  There is a stigmatism to the non-response of the horror of being seen versus the mixed blessing of not being given a chance, the truncation of tossing aside caution into acting ever so as if this is a plate I will not push away from the table simply for the native essence of being a plate. 

I do not want utensils or a place setting directly; I want the desire from the other to attempt to share a meal.  I can prepare on my own or maybe that is the blockade?  There is a barrenness I find calming that others make me tremulous.  I am a conditioned human.  The ledge of writing a love poem or viewing that crevice at this junction feels synthetic with the forced nature of a carnival wheel rising and descending in view for the vertiginous stir.  The uneasiness of possibility of being surprised and jostled from the plaid bears a comfort and disgust I crave and abscond.  The rotation is not so miraculous in the current prism, but I know too that is a lie. 

Love will always be the miracle of infinite connection, to drink the cup of the universe and billow the kiln of time and godliness and purity of what we actually are crying out to fear in laughter and mirthful strength to immolate the notions to deride pain.  Pain is the nature of growth.  Growth is the nature of understanding.  Understanding is the nature of consciousness.  To do is to transcend the caked prison of the mind and be, to simply be and there is no key other than love.  Love through the universe however one gets there, but it cannot be done alone, that much is certain.  One must recognize the infinity inside the self interconnected and common to all others.  This is the flint of being with another person to simultaneous split the atom.   

So this is the leak in the system, the inability to properly pressurize and regain homeostasis.  The upcoming surgery, the attempts at mastery of my body, of lifting, of yoga, of breathing, of consumption in intentional acts to bear this chrysalis well.  To embrace the abstinence of contact with discovery through rehashing an old novel and reading like a mad person in a sanitarium of modern culture nipping at the perimeter of wanting to enter and finding the basic task of attending any form of social construct Sisyphean.  The rock can stay at the bottom of the hill for now. 

The greatest whelp is the idea that there is something I should be doing other than these books or pages and I am ignoring or ignorant or passively peddling up the wrong hill or pacing in an imprecise direction.  The notion to abide in stasis, to not risk the requirement of retracing these steps of humanity, of exposure and seeing the lot wash away in a depleted glass of sand.  To have the words daughter, spouse, friend, god, lover, partner dissolve in that fray as unpronounceable is to stitch lips out of scabbed skin cells and weld convalescent silence.  I dare not utter in this parched valley of shadow seeking reflection rather than solution.  Solutions are for the dead.  No living being finds solution in any prism but one of illusion. 

The stillness and motion, the swivel of the universe in the vetted umbrage at steeples and television trumpery, the cattiness of photo-shop grocery cart bodies, of wanting to be wanted and alienated at the layers of social engineering and notice, of noticing the machine and the coldness.  I can no longer bear the frost of the mechanics.  There is a flavor of truth in acknowledging so much of the biological depression, that I like the clarity of depression, that one should be knowing the better be unaware, that to become aware requires the psychic trauma of why the unawareness tastes so much better to so many and to ask another to become aware to be around you is a threat.  It is a god damning threat to entire systems of order and one becomes virulent to the systems of order that maintain the human world.

I cannot go back in the box and I am embattled by the science of silence, of most of my conversations with authors and audiobooks while driving or in the grocery store or inside an electronic library of novels and treatises swiping pages of the dead and the lonely and the aware and what is there to say.  I have tried in these years of reading and living as Odysseus knowing Penelope married another and not wanting her, wanting others in cul-de-sacs of shake, of willingness to toss the cart to attempt to know a grain of truth, to jostle the gut bacteria of alone and risk having to rebuild cities of rot, to give of the fecund harvest of these books and hours of investigatory discipline appalled at how little one can learn on one’s own, wanting to be taught something that is not quilled in blood.  The want of another to want to be seen by me and heard and fought for is so basic and untasted in the maelstrom jungles of vulnerability. 

There is the nudity of poetry of saying I don’t know, but I want to try; I am trying; this is an attempt to be of bare mind and body and be present and to be dismissed as probably too vivid or boring or weird or normal or in vivisection inspection of the situation one never knows.  One never knows because there is not the desire for a conversation only the reverberating hum of code of the way one says and does not say this is a comfort zone or a support system of distance of what presence means or seeing or being seen and time and allotments and sex and a body and a spirit and planet and a universe and all of what is confronted in the concept of a response becomes blasphemy. 

This price is too much, to recognize the dynamics here are to witness a depravity in the arbitrary and the energy of what is this, who cares, I would rather uncover or engage or participate in an alternative, which is normal and appropriate, for the volition is the determining arrow from the quiver, not fate or providence or justice or one to one equilibrium calculated based on a perspective of either of the individuals.  The only equilibrium is one of totality in energy and focus between what is. 

So this surgery and assessment and calculating the reiterations of hopelessness or seeing the Earth, the state of the species, the potential of technology, and feeling so very far away from love.  The thrum of love in the background is inescapable in the harmony of who one is.  Therefore to find any other frequency will modulate discord.  This is an ancient truth emblazoned on the crest of what it means to be spirit and stitched flesh attempting to converse in moments, to be in moments and cultivate presence. 

So it is I am not sure if this is waiting or evolution or muscle tears in bloody tolerance to endure the magnitude of what is and what is becoming, but I am here.