hello…
…if you’re reading this text, it means you made it to Michelle’s house!
Welcome to the virtual portion of your Where the Fuck Am I? and What Am I Doing? starter kit! A tune, a poem, a tune, and a little something extra special because you asked.
Enjoy!
a beautiful thing
In the ulcerating silence
Perspective comes
The way it always does – for it’s ransom
So randomly…somebody calls…
The phone rings and it brings Niagara Falls
And 3 o’clock in the morning
“You’d better be dyin'”– and you were -
So we talked about time
And where it went,
Unremarkable events,
And how one day took two days
And they got spent.
How you’d continue, carefully, in degrees
Trying to do one true beautiful thing
And your beautiful thing
It’d be
A beautiful thing
To see
That beautiful thing
Continuing
“I don’t live there, I just commute,” secretly cradling a joint and I might puke.
A-fumble with the keys, under duress
The point is, this is, practise duress
At 3 o’clock in the morning –
“You’d better be dying,”– and you were –
So we talked about things and where they went
Big remarkable events
And how each day’s a new day
And they get spent
How you’d continue, artfully, like the breeze
Trying to do one true beautiful thing
Your beautiful thing
It’d be
A beautiful thing
To see
That beautiful thing
Continuing
Your beautiful thing
Continuing
Your beautiful thing
Will be
A beautiful thing
To me
That beautiful thing
Continuing
Your beautiful thing
Continuing
Who Says Words With My Mouth?
All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,
And I intend to end up there.
This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I’ll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I’m like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
But who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?
Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.
Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.
This poetry. I never know what I’m going to say.
I don’t plan it.
When I’m outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.
We have a huge barrel of wine, but no cups.
That’s fine with us. Every morning
We glow and in the evening we glow again.
They say there’s no future for us. They’re right.
Which is fine with us.
—Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī
leave
“Do you mean the attack is routine?”
A bird asked of a bird.
“In this context, a concave nest,
How do we learn to hurt?”
Do you mean there’s no variation?
Watching a dog charge a flock
Of birds exploding in congregation
Why plan; when we stop?”
“I dunno….but why suppose it’s not the way it should be?
When you can fly above the great waiting list,
As the crow implies; we won’t be missed, we can
Leave
We can
Leave
We can
Leave.”
It’s a routine flight for this bird tonight
There’s more worms than earth
In the Afterlife
Where the blind feed the blind,
Whispering things like;
“On the money,” and “Bullseye.”
She picks up the little leaves
Where human wrecks are left to seed
Left to repaint their deities
And plaster away at their villainies
Where there’s love
There’s hope
“And do you hope those earthbound poets
Could learn to sing as good as us?
So we can sit back and enjoy our illusions
And our quiet?”
“Well I don’t know….but why suppose it’s not the way it should be?
When you can squawk and wait for word from above
And change yourself into something you love
When you
Leave
You
Leave
You
Leave?”
Look!
I'm a responsive circle!
Love you!