DOES “LATER” COME AFTER
“DURING” OR “BEFORE”?
Where ‘you from?
Look how far you’ve come.
I mean when you consider that
just prior to being born your name
didn’t mean a thing.
Just prior to the deception of your conception
was your address even Earth?
Switched at birth through time and space
your genes supplied by lovers who statistics
and experience suggests probably weren’t.
The assembly line in your teams heaven was
pumping out believers like a queen termite
miraculously filling out ranks of drones, clones,
soldiers and other tenders as the mound might require
for proper mending.
Hands folded on the top of our desks we’re proud to remember
our address or the flags pledge, to be able to non-squeak speak
through gapped out teeth determined to memorize our teams version
of the events that happened in the forever before our birth “respecting” other teams accounts about as much as our parents did, learning not to laugh outright at the outrageous not right mumbo-jumbo that went on in those god forsaken confines of holy places not our own.
I was fond of saying “god is not confused”. . .
well, at least S/he shouldn’t be.
Our families also “did the best they could” . . .
within the confines of the fears they nurtured, tweezed and flossed.
They brought us to the edge of their madness and with a grand
“It’s A Brand New Car!” gesture suggested that one day
all of whatever it was would, in fact, become ours.
Some of us loved the inheritance of it all.
Some have not been able
to shower enough since.
We, all of us, had to
be taught our names.
CLUB EXCLUSIVE ALL INCLUSIVE
Politian’s, bikers, the rich and other cliques all
have their own rules.
Each prepares their dictums like mine fields
keeping everyone else at bay, out of the way.
Everything from Super Bowls to Super
Atrocities have been created,
the magician waves his hand,
to divert the rube’s attention from the
rude mischief being planned.
Arguments abound whether this is even so,
we marks dance confused and funny,
though listen while some declare,
fists pumping air,
that the poor have too much money!
I am painfully aware I have no clue
if you should pray or if so to who
or what you should say or think or do,
as to what could possibly be best for you?
Yet my three-pound ego wants to lecture
at length about the how of when and why.
I do know we’d feel better if we’d shut the fuck up
and you came with me when its time for me to die.
Should you drop first I’ll come with you
as far as fate allows
from kneeling at your bedside to way up past the clouds.
Just hold my hand and kiss me on my lips or in
your mind, for it’s all over way too soon,
beginning right on time.
We’ll hold hands however we can, kissing shamelessly
for real or while we fly and come what may,
laugh a prayer, coming as we die.
A PUPPY FOUND LOST
Art/science has exposed a most profound truth ~
that solid matter once examined vanishes
much like love, spirituality and freedom.
All human efforts can be said to be creative.
Creativity from love, however, leaves art.
Does your art transcend?
Is there enough of you in it that others notice your path?
Has the space/time you’ve left behind become
more interesting? Elevated? Favorable?
Is it easier there now for others to feel their fears?
I was a ferocious drummer back in the 70’s.
My band played an intense version of “Fusion”, an acquired taste.
Some folks were extremely enthusiastic fans.
Everyone else was not. We made it tough to be indifferent.
Friends and fans engaged us in conversations attempting to
define the how of the why of the “freedom” enjoyed by the spiritual sweep of our music.
My guitar player was asked his thoughts on such “freedom” and our spiritual aspirations.
Usually stoic he said, ”If I could say it I wouldn’t have to play it.”
A favored definition of “freedom” rings:
an ability to identify many varied options.
The more options the more room to Snoopy Dance.
Our venality our addictions, our foul tempers, our spite
our dishonesty honestly arrived at, dropped through the gravity
of all that has come before, when coupled with there yet
to have been a villain who was not also regarded as heroic somewhere else, what remains of “The Brotherhood Of Man”?
Was ever there such a thing and who gives a fuck?
I’ll let you in on a secret concerning the power of this moment or any other “redeeming” notion delivered by scribe or squawk ~ you need not change into or become anyone else.
The unholy truth only resides from your neck up. Reacquaint yourself with your immaculate heart. It’s the part of you that feels ageless as that it is.
Have you tried to think your way into love? What an astounding waste of time that was.
Question better how I could know of your efforts.
What god you’ve chosen is revealed in
the nature of that which you laugh at.
Your birth was a death somewhere else.
A WEATHERMAN REPORTING IN THE RAIN
Discreet pieces of water falling from sky and eye smearing make up gaging children and muting men umbrellas needed clouds seeded
skinned knees pleaded ghost love retreated
we all just have to toughen up some
this world of plenty where promise pleads empty and tastes like
nothing ever had before to most who have even less than their parents
were kissed goodbye through joyous dances complicated by too many feet and not nearly enough notes or notice taken for
granted as one would feverishly starve a cold or trade up a lover for
a remote opportunity to channel a switch to something lighter
more light hearted than a fine fuck drama or dinner laugh
who farted the future no longer worth any paper it was ever written on
- Oh lost direction way before journey's start
- Oh confounded connections attempted to fresh fashion a timid heart
- Oh inured non-zombies sure steps and smiled true hands out for the many and though plenty number few from the
caves candles cardinals clans crusades and any and all alphabetized
assignments any contact or tri-focaled well focused lens reveal
The bog we got way down in is . . . is
is there a . . .
“g”? an “r” please? . . .
- buy a vowel any fool could see –
can I have an “e”, my god,
there are two to my feigned fluster
indeed the creed from emotion to discreet pieces of ocean
disciples to martyred apostle reads the same, you know . . .
“d” reports the screen gem.
“Back to you in the "studio"
at least now damp eyes closed at last the path blurred yet clear.
EVERYTHING, YOU CAN
It has been pointed out elsewhere that after suffering a significant head injury it is important to remember anything you can.
I would have each and every
meatball and meatball-ette keep
these cautionary words handy.
This is, however, merely advice to the general population.
If you consider yourself “in recovery” from one or more of the eleventy-seven hundred substances and aberrant behaviors that can enslave a human bean than the above words are amended, here now, for you; you are hereby required to remember everything you can.
Note: factual accuracy means less than nothing here.
You are charged with remembering who you are/were before you chose your “short cut”, remember your earliest aspirations and dreams.
If those memories still elude you, well, guess at ‘m.
Your higher self will only deliver you to what you desire.
What do you want?
You know . . .”seek and you shall find”.
Learning how to want what is in your best interest is a
consistently recurring lesson offered in this life.
“Remembering everything” means taking nothing for granted.
Not even “nothing” is what it seems.
If you do not feel the gratitude of Thanksgiving on a Tuesday morning in April . . .
what is it that you think you are “recovering” from, really?
Halloween is cute and all, you might even have some goblin sex before
the night is out but you have known what it feels like to dress up as
someone else and pretend since you were 5 years old.
Remember it and don’t take advantage of others by taking advantage of yourself.
Year end, Yule Tide, peace on Earth, Christmas, Chanukah what have you
is for posers.
If you are not doing your level best promoting those
tinseled up ideals year ‘round then the manger is empty.
There remains no room in the Inn.
The Inn be out with the last first in the good bad derby that has
this ball spinning in such a desperate state.
We can not afford you the luxury any longer of pretending that
you’ve got it handled.
You’ve damn near died behind your make up, wake up, demonstrate
to the still suffering that you are, in true humility, glad to be here.
Let the posers settle for being “right”.
Demand reality for those around you. Get, then send, help.
Remember all of it, everything!
A PERFECTION CORRECTION
Practice does not make anything “perfect”.
Practice is required solely for training.
We forget that the Universe refuses to consider our expectations,
desires or hopes about anything while it performs its balancing act.
Creation has yet to respond to our presence as anything other than
blight contained on a planet nondescript in the cosmic swirl of it all.
Any philosophical or quasi-religious fumes from the above can be taken up elsewhere at elsewhen with an elsewho as none of it but the first sentence concerns us here.
“Practice makes perfect” and similar arbitrary pith was perpetrated by fore parents who, feigned order and stability at best, strange, calm poser aspirations of perfection at worst, crippled antecedents, distorting through time our approach towards “do the right thing”,
divining “god’s will” (read war) and our heritage of never knowing who our friends are (no matter where you were born or chose to live) not to mention other ad hoc definitions.
NOTE: Photorealism in painting was/is highly prized although the intellectual gymnastics required justifying its place in the pantheon of great art requires a far greater effort since the dawn of “say cheese”.
What the camera plainly reveals to everyone is what
artists and scientists (of all people) have known all along.
Namely : That a great percentage of what is enjoyed from
“inspired” hands is the result of well planned total accident.
Practice, practice, practice or draw, draw, draw or bang out those
notes daily or recreate those lab findings as often as you can and if
you want to live and work with others who share your passion your dream it’s probably in your best interest to speak, write and bop as the other cats do.
To confuse your efforts, however, with a search for perfection is, well, delusional; at a level of delusion that Charles Manson is, not too surprisingly, conversational with.
Our posing as “perfectly natural” blondes, brunets, bald assed redheads, or whatever
it is that we fear we are not, has had us circling past the intersection of “Wait-A-Sec”
and “What-Gives” for centuries. Misdirection and spelling bees have effectively kept
us preoccupied, distracted, drowsy, sleep a wake, to dream too perfect is but to dream.
Unfortunately, everything has always been perfect, from cancer cells to snow flakes.
If there is a god, I guarantee you, s/he didn’t send us here to “improve” this tiny ball.
Hell, you are barely practicing being awake,
you know, still a mere trainee, stay with it,
your willingness to train is, well, perfect.
It all reminds me of home.
I just can’t remember where I’m from.
It must be someplace busy.
It must be someplace loud and windblown,
where the action at eye level is so glaring
people are forced to lower their gaze,
avert their eyes, contend with what they pretend with,
to hear what’s near and act as if it were in view.
It all reminds me of home
the way the smiles are uneasy and
the anger so quick,
the rooms are clean,
the jokes are filthy.
I just can’t remember where I’m from.
The dull pounding ache of everything being so new and improved
bespeaks death’s searing presence.
It all takes me back, back to wherever.
This pheromone-crazed moth of a life tethered to death’s head unacknowledged places me, kaleidoscopically, interviewing myself,
offering question within question replied answers yet more questions still, at length interrupted by the approach of a wanderer meandering from somewhen later.
It is, gratefully, me.
Whew. I was beginning to believe I’d never get here.
Suppose that vapor is not so much me but more like what I’ve become.
Suppose what has granted me amnesia is not so much what is troubling me but what I’m afraid I’d feel if I could remember.
Suppose the only dream worth having has to do with long desolate highways, crisp vegetables and, alas, amnesia?
Suppose all of my fears are unfounded?
What then can assist me to raise my gaze?
Who was that kid?
Who is that kid that I was?
Who is? Who was?
Who that I kid, was that I is.
The diner has a reasonably beat, life sized Santa, inflatable greeter,
seasonal mock matre de. Christmas Eve day away the air electric
the buzz of neighborhood families on hiatus from some segment
of shopping punctuated by clacking crockery, rattling silverware
occasional shrieks of yammering “look-at-me ” post toddlers.
In the last booth by the window are my Christmas lesson.
Six gents old enough to be older than me, these guys know
each other from forever and longer, pot bellied, big nosed,
tinsel headed - them what aint all scalp or hat – their newly
beauty parlor-ed wives sprinkled about, flipping from one booth
to another like so many electrons comparing purchases, materials,
hairstyles, grandchildren, tragedies. The old boys in the corner were
where the new walkers small stepped towards, the vibe of reunion and
ritual mystery projecting . . . it hypnotizes. . .
Their reverence for some topics tilts caps, produces knowing nods, hushes words, high eyebrow-ed acceptance, others bring rolls of laughter from the vault, the personal pyramid of a past that, in fact, may have really happened.
The cornered guys had their arms and attention at the ready to embrace any of the many tykes that came by to find their
knee, without shifting a gear the way made clear
parking each little dear where best they could hear,
snowflaking them back to floor when the shuffle lust
gets too strong, all without missing a stroke, beat, laugh.
They are proud of their wars and jealous of their families.
I saw the group transform into every ethnicity from every
location on Santa’s Ball. The same six from desert
to mountain top from year end holiday to tragic funeral
from invis-o skin white to blue-black brown these guys,
our “elders”, became cliché became our myths
because they are ever never them, they’ve
always been, well…
FANCY MEETING YOU HERE
What is it going to take?
I ask that question as if what is going on
is not the natural order of things.
As if the greed and cruelty of the man made world were
somehow an aberration, a glitch, a little air in the line that
requires a burping.
A little bubble trouble.
This notion, of course, is Bull Shit.
What’s it going to take to purge this, this, this what?
It’s not Wall Street.
It’s not Religion.
It’s not nationalism.
Nor is it patriotism.
It’s not the politicians.
Nor is it the more common prostitutes.
It’s not dealers or users of any drug or diversion.
It’s not the Blacks, the Asians, Latinos, the Arabs nor even
It’s not the Turks, the Greeks, Russians nor the Indigenous
peoples of where ever.
It’s not even Caucasians.
It is me.
I am unwilling to rid myself of that which I know to be venal.
The shadow cast is blindingly dark, exceedingly long and broad enough to conceal the remainder of man’s selfishness to my “conscience”.
What’s it going to take to convince the powerful to serve the needy?
What’s it going to take to administer to the broken and the starved as a priority?
To shed light as far as a human eye can perceive it.
To share medical treatment as if it were our parents who were ill.
What’s it going to take to come to terms with life’s one sure thing.
Fuck paying taxes.
We have evolved into a species that so fears death
we worship actors, looking for permission,
pretending to be or not to be.
In addition to his many talents, Roby puts ideas into prose with his own unique style...
Please visit often as we will be adding to his collection of work weekly. And we invite you to use the donate button below to donate to the Roby? treatment fund with our thanks!