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Brinesanity – an abide jar, filled with all the fuqs given.

By

Measurement of the counted

Looking in the mirror, and finding what you think you see is not easy. It requires one to look truthfully at the reflection. Count the ways that are important to measure your own worth.

Yes, society tells us over and over again, that wealth is related to the assets that you possess, the “ferrari” that you drive, or the “mansion” you live in, the wine drank in the crystal glasses, and the sun basking on the minds wanderings as you enjoy the cool air over perfect pores.

The danger of driving the car, the hardship and anger that reside within the walls, drunken sweeping of worthless shards tossed into the trash as a consumed commodity provided a chalice to drink with for a moment. These are all things that are possible, actuals for most that walk laughing at the menial pheasant that flies beneath them.

Easy to stand on Mt. Amazing and cast your shadow on those that seem to not be “blessed” with all the good things that are right – a big home, and a luxury car, the right channels to watch when you kick the feet up. Yes, this is living, you say – and wave the arms across the expanse of the horizon.

Some can see that wave. They are hidden in the gulch near the mountain that you speak of, and they smile eating their meal of humility and observance in solace.

I do.

I do not need a paper framed on the wall to remind me of the years that have passed, my actions will speak louder than words.

One is not begging for smiles sought only when the eyes wander over a parchment stained with colour, unless he is busy freely painting the path he has chosen with fragments of the blessings that have been and now have become adjective sowings along the walkway.

All of these masterful declarations, and a butterfly net to catch them with.

The issue is complicated, and still so simple.

You will make time to be in the field and be alive. If it is important – you need not label it net utilization time if it is not the case.

Why do you need to “catch” the butterfly, and not enjoy it, and cherish that moment? No reflection and sharing, or the reflection you are sharing is one that will soon be different then the tasted wares of the liquid refractions?

Your life has become that important, on top that mountain. That life has become defined as the mountain, never to crumble to the sea. Never to see the world for what it is.

A giant stave, for music to be played.

You listen to your symphonies, and your black ties will bring you joyful recognition amongst the peers and peasants climbing the swinging ladder to Trump’s balls.

I will be hearing the harmony that comes from a small blade of orange grass, held between the minds eye and the soul.

When the wind cry’s out with a sigh after the meadow performs, the orange sings.

I promise I will always wave, hoping one day those that I knew on the mountains I have travelled, those that have walked on a way, will choose to follow the sound.

The sweet sound of orange grass.

The sweet sound of life.

Orange is the colour of life, and grass is any colour you want it to be.

As long as it is measured, as something that counts.

*abide*

By

Slaves.

“how to keep from going through your comfortable, prosperous, respectable adult life dead, unconscious, a slave to your head and to your natural default setting of being uniquely, completely, imperially alone day in and day out.”

David Foster Wallace

Slaves.

Salvo and sauce
diminutive munitions in charge
colon pesto
lobe olives for the peace.

Bricks of hope surmise
scanning horizons
for paper mines
claws break earth to find triggers.

Hairs.
Softly blowing years away.

Odious skin peels
tears hard to come by
we all age and crack
in some way. So do ensure
that you dry the heels
on the ledge with sun
dried tomato a cousin
but never so wise
as the heel skin
that has walked
days
months
years
a lifetime to be
here.

Bring the peppercorn grinder.
Quick.

The noodle is soft, cooling
micturition approaches
if we are not obliged.

Awareness can not be undone.
Hope can not last forever.
It too will fade.
Replaced by knowledge.
They are different.
Real.

One dies at the expanse.
So grand, and aware.
Calm even.
Reflecting still.

Wills.
Wills, and fields of them.
Flowing in the wind, it too, willed.

There is not any thrill left.

Surely, lacking surety
so close.
No need to press.

Just on.
Ink on to paper
thoughts on to neural
identified fabricated objects
to skin and bone
dredging.

Finding, hope.
Not dead.

(90s)

*abide*