Not noticing the sunburn... (Terranauts)

(Reddit paintings by u/Spadoynkal & u/Illuhstraighter)

Barely noticing the sun,

brushing it away like a passing fly,

I focused on the waves with you

while fog-under-fire vaporized.

Not noticing the rocks, until

a wave threw them at your ankle bones,

you stood where sea swells flopped

out flat, and skipped imperfect stones.

Late noticing the wind's intent,

I wondered how your leg hairs raised,

covered in light and salt and sand,

As we watched high white shapes graze.

Unnoticing that we were grown,

you point: “that cloud is a swimmer with—

a dog he's rescued? On his back.” And

they were worth laughing for, myth on myth.

“Don't blame the rock! It's your hand that threw.”

“Well, sometimes it's the rock that decides.”

Or the water, layered on itself, or the

matching of lungs with the tide.

“Ever been weightless before?” you ask.

I murb “Just as a dreaming afterthought.”

“Oh really?!” you shout, off a globe without

a stand, “Can't we both be terranauts?”

Comparatively ...

                                                                         That moment 

                                                                                            when 

                                                           You finish    a good book, and

                                                       Realize      how few books on your

                                                    Shelf                 are      worth keeping;

                                                   When             you   watch a movie that

                                                  Makes       you feel     like dumping out

                                                   Most     of                        your DVDs—

                                                     That  moment       when you realize

                                                       What words were invented for;

                                                          How ending credits can be

                                                          The start of a night spent

                                                          On     your knees

                                                    writing

                                         out ideas

                                   and

                          talking

                    out

     feelings,

spreading

notes

across

floor tiles

             and

                    staring

                               at the

                                      ceiling.

                             That     moment.

                     When      someone sees

              You            more deeply than

          Even              you noticed inside

       yourself;         when you recognize

     That                 YOU are a story still

    Being                 told—and all those

    People                  whose gaze you

    Hold?                  You are being               

     Placed                 upon their 

      Precious   shelf.

After Words...

Reddit artworks by 
u/AshamedTap4567, u/Sketch_Study, u/3eyedsloth, u/juliaockert, and u/Reltish 2022

We caught up over cold drinks.

A soda and a beer.

He blew on his bottle like a flute;

I chewed my ice—from white to clear.

We talked about our weekends

And then back through our weeks;

We laughed-and-questioned our fresh

stories out. And then we didn't speak.

I looked to the table (more curious

on my face than in my heart).

He looked to a waitress's tight black shirt.

When she looked back, he turned with a start:

“SOooo—,” he said. “Um, so!” I said,

“There's a new movie out. It looks good.”

“Is it playing around here?” He had life-rings for eyes.

“I'll treat you.” We both understood.

For five peaceful years we'd been roommates,

trading stove-time and fridge-space and coughs.

But falling onto that quiet, after years, is strange—

like brushing someone's hand after the lights go off.

The Next Star (Persistence)...

Light.

           What the tree doesn't catch,

                                  Floods over the fence,

                                        Cuts through the window dust,

                                                         Grates on the lampshade,

                                                             Edges past the bookshelf

                                                     And sets into my 

                                         jelly-eye:

               For a minute,

    A day-end darkened room

turns gold and glimmering; 

 a gas-fire

           flung through a clear expanse—

                                  behind the sum of every 

                                           glare-fanning horizon tip

                                    I've ever sprinted toward—

                                           comes to dance

                    in the mirrored curves 

          of my cornea,

down a pupil's hole. 

For a moment.

Then our sun turns far

beyond the high-edge I see

                of earth, continuing

                 true and boundless

         (cutting blockades

      and nightfalls)

as insists

its soul.

*

When our sun dies,

Will other stars 

roll in, bright?

No—

so the sun 

persists. 

And

our day-hours 

stay light

(though, to the sun,

always a dim blue

face in an endless black):

Your deeds 

and mine

may seem lost 

where we launch them off—

but they crawl 

          warm and 

                        cut 

                  bright

                through 

                        every 

                                 open 

                               crack.

Freeway...

I saw half your face on the freeway.

I mean, in a car, not like roadkill (ew).

I saw half your face next to me (hey!),

and the other half hidden from view.

I liked half your face, so I wondered,

“Does the other side look just the same?

     Or is half your mouth smiling,

     while the left side is squinting

at the sun slicing down on your lane?”

I watched, glimpse-and-glance, with my left eye,

keeping most of my right on the bumper ahead.

     But I perked up when we slowed,

     every jam in the road,

(“Keep your coool, man...”) when the tail-lights flashed red.

I passed a hundred half-faces this weekend.

All looking the same way, all going, all gone.

     And I passed yours as well;

     not much more to tell,

just to wonder as I walk up the lawn:

“Did you park by a hydrant, in a driveway,

down a ramp, through a gray steel maze?

     Where and why did you go?”

     Have a lawn? I don't know

(And that traffic line stretched on for days).

I'll eat dinner alone by the ant tree.

I'll look up (sky like windshield glass).

I'll peek under my fried egg, my plate,

And my chair, like, “my god! every side has a back.”

12 steps for troubleshooting stress...

Lie down.

(stop moving       —toe-tapping, finger-biting, 

              skin-picking, face-scrunching, 

floor-pacing— just for a moment, 

                                                                          and be still.)

Close your eyes.

(stop moving—all that flutter                     behind my                                         vision: 

     racing worries        about joy           I imagine           others having without me, 

                words that                         others                       might say about me, 

                 layers of this-and-that thing               not done and needing doing 

             to make                     my life                                better-than-here—

        all those inventions             in                                          my brain.

    Nothing “needs”              doing                             in this universe, 

    where things                       just                                               are, 

     and naturally                       will                       continue being. 

                                    So be still.)

Breathe in, and out.

(feel how refreshing       this is —          to be full;     

             so full I can let go. 

                  To let go     so far that   I can 

                                  be still 

               and breathless. 

             To feel that emptied         space     and fill it up again.     Without even thinking. 

 Thinking is overrated;      wanting is overrated.     

I  have enough,     I  am enough—

           in 

      this 

  moment.)

                                                           . * .

                                                          /  | |  \

                                                            /  \

Let go the idea of “normal.”

(Name what I am pretending          I   lack.                       Think back: 

               Someone told  me          I                           was lacking that. 

 That  I should want                                       that     accomplishment, 

 and that ability,                                        and                those friends,     

and                                                     that                         appearance.

Someone  gave  me                 a scale                   for good,       right,      

successful,                        happy. 

                                 And so,                            where I  am  different    

from                     that,                                                             I   feel:

less-         than                                                       {Good / Winning} 

and not {Normal                                                                  / Happy}. 

But this feeling                                                                 of distance 

is not between                                   me                     and Everyone; 

it is between                                   me and                         the Scale 

I'm wearing—                              which was not                      made 

                                                   for me. 

Name                                  "what is my scale?"               What feels 

most right                         in me?

Learn                            "what am I?" 

accept                          "I am just so,"                                          and 

choose                                                     "what feels right and good 

to do with that        I-am                                                         being?" 

I am   everything I am, 

                                                        and that is good enough for life. 

I fill my space with myself, 

and nothing else—

                no                                                                             crutch, 

              no                                                                                mask, 

           no                                                                   measuring stick 

         but my own    natural             proportions.)

Let go the idea of “owning.”

(What am I chasing? 

                                     I "own" only those things I connect with, 

                           and only as long as                          we are connected: 

                   my food, home, friends,   clothes,  lovers,  feelings,   thoughts. 

            Money secures nothing—  only          gives me             legal permission 

          to walk     away      with things         that used to      be near              others. 

      Now        they are      by me.          But    as soon as            I walk              away—

     those things              are no longer                                             my                  own. 

    Come a thief,          they're                                                         the                  thief's; 

    come a fire,           they are                                                     the                       fire's; 

    come dust and disuse, they are                                          the                       dust's—

     I have only that              which is                       with me,                             now. 

         As a being,       I own—I extend into—       the stretch of trail   I am on, 

               the air         I am              drawing off     the trees, 

                  the clothes I feel  against my            skin, 

                         the friend  I'm trading gazes with, 

                                    the sunlight my skin is drinking in. 

                                                                     Being connected, 

                                                I own everything 

                                                             I 

                                                          need.)

                                                                . * .

                                                               /  | |  \

                                                                 /  \

Dissolve the wall between “good | bad”

(I know, I encouraged you           to make your own scale                for what is good. 

                                               And you worked so long on that! ...

                                                      Now open that scale 

                                                       to let in the reality 

                                                          that every life 

                                                            has its own 

                                                                scale. 

          Each unique,                  and all at various stages                      of growing. 

                                                               Think 

                                                      about how much 

                                                    you have destroyed, 

                                           in becoming what you are now; 

             how much violence           you have let in,                   and joined in:

                   physical—

                     living things you have crushed with your teeth, 

                                                          emotional—

                               pain you have thrashed roaring onto others, 

                                                                                                spiritual—

                                                        peaceful moments in yourself 

                                         that you have shaken apart 

                                                 with buzzing agitation. 

                                         This inevitable waste of growing, 

                                                 we are all complicit in, 

                                                           by nature;    

                                                            by being. 

                                        There is no nook for carrying guilt, 

                                       no pitcher for pouring out judgment, 

                                                  in a single individual;    

                                    all of us—commonly, collectively—are.)

Dissolve the wall between “me | you”

(I know, I said “me” and “you,” 

but this was              when I thought 

  we were                        separate—

    in accuracy,         these are not 

       my words, 

        nor my thoughts 

                    and feelings: 

                           they are ours. 

           We are                    creating                            

      this language                 now, by trading 

    "words" and                    sensing meanings. 

We are looking                       at objects and 

 experiencing                         "life" and 

      negotiating                      our very 

            similar hungers 

                    and contentments 

                                 in this place. 

             This place                 has no permanent 

          wall or                                          boundary: 

       we absorb                                          and spill—

          my in-breathe,                       your out-breathe; 

              your sweat, my rain; 

                                  your effort, my              

                                   "archeological finding"; 

                           my                     folly, your pain. 

                    Likewise                      it goes between 

               you and me,                      between us and 

                them, 

                   among every               living class and 

                      kingdom, through             every 

                               existing space 

                                       and moment. 

                         "We" are—    from birth 

                     until death—        trading and 

                   sharing so                 intimately 

                   and continuously 

                        that there is no 

                                         real line. 

                                Look in my eyes: 

                                  even my existence 

                                                           is yours

                                                                     .)

                                                                     . * .

                                                                    /  | |  \

                                                                      /  \

Feel this time as the first time.

(We grow. But the past 

          is a story 

              we 

             tell;              the future 

                                 is a story 

                                      we 

                                   dream. 

   Only now 

     ever is. 

        No matter    how 

                  our 

                       mind 

               blends 

                    these

                     .

                         . 

                       .

                      .)

Cherish this time as the last time.

(...  And what is 

             now, 

   had never 

          been, 

    and never 

             will be 

              that/same 

                         again.)

Experience the overwhelming present.

(  ... Now is full and all-containing. 

                                           A moment. 

       child of an infinite wave of moments, 

    becoming footholds for ongoing presence, 

that sharp moment itself containing everything: 

                                                       all echoing past 

                                                          and nascent future 

                                                            at a pinpoint of time 

                 cradling the immensity of all objects and energies 

                            mixing together. Nothing and no one separate; 

                                     similarly born and mutually consequential.)

                                                                          . * .

                                                                         /  | |  \

                                                                           /  \

Accept the ever-changing mystery of being a presence.

(You are this, now: 

  you are                   in this,  of this,  by this,   and   with this—meaning 

  you are                 

               chemically and motionally 

 created    in      all, 

      inherently part  of  all, 

          persistently shaped by all,     and     

               continuously negotiating  with     all 

                        in ways that move and shape what becomes of all. 

                          Where now goes, 

                depends on how all moves—

       every part,     in relations close or far                                                  / 

    soon or eventual /                     bold or subtle                                      ,

 with every other part        that          it-they-you-I-we               extends into —

and the only sure outcome of this         is that all will be            different.

And new in its details.                              While staying           connected. 

And continuous in its sum.                            So again,           of course, 

“you” is a pointed way of saying                  “us”; in the same way that 

“now” is                          a pointed way                      of saying “all.”)

Dissolve the wall between “this | eternity”

(We are all together. 

     In this existing state, 

             with no real end, 

             no meaningful beginning. 

     Some things simply seem to be and do—

                     like rocks and water, 

                     light and wind. 

     Some things also seem to witness and breathe—

                                  like plants and animals, 

                                  cells and galaxies. 

     What an amazing state to have grown eyes within... 

                                                  Eyes that move 

                                                  and one day grow still; 

                                eyes that dissolve into what they once witnessed; 

                                                                  eyes that grow and drink light to witness. 

                                                                  All together.)

                                                           . * .

                                                          /  | |  \

                                                            /  \

                                                   * * * * * * * *

Extra credit, from here:

(if you would like to do more than just be, peacefully)

Ask "What kind of ripple do I want to send through the universe?" 

(Everything         ||

                I           ||

            face         ||     provides a bumpy

          in               ||                            , uneven 

       this               ||               mirror of what I do 

      world            ||                                    to things 

                           ||                                                in 

                           ||                                              this 

                           ||                                        world. 

   

         So, what effect 

            would I like to have 

                 on things I pass?

                         people and places, 

                                     beings and atmospheres,

                                                          objects and environments...)

Trial-by-experience how to make these waves.

(I observe, 

         wondering 

        "What do I not perceive?" 

I stay present, 

        "Close to 

         my senses," 

         in this 

         concrete moment.

I interact, 

       "Moving around 

        what does not mooove..."

I reflect, 

        noting: 

                  "What actually moved, 

                    in what direction, 

                    by what energy?"

Moment 

by moment,

notice where 

these 

moments 

have patterns, 

        that become 

        familiar,   the

        longer and more

        attentively        I 

        experience  them.)

Refine these motions.

(So I find that     I am refining myself, 

  as a part of   this world. 

                      And that—          

                        if nothing else—

                                 is a fulfilling,       complete experience.

   As 

   opposed to 

    a 

       zombied-yammering

       xenophobic-whining,

       viciously uptight twisted straining,

       rashly quelled, preemptively offended,

       nagging malicious, 

       lethargic kennelled jealous,

       indignantly hampered,

       gorging fearful, egomaniacal

       desperate

       confused

       banal 

       angsty

    stressful one.)

How our truths come out...

Urns for our opinions, is how we see 

new dates (both of us tired of dates),

Facing off  determined smiles, at the far ends of

Shrimp and grits against a Cajun sausage omelet:

                                                       “One family tried radical honesty—

                                                       their kids had trouble getting jobs.”

“That's not from too much honesty, 

I think; just too little tact.”

                                                       “Some people see tact as the polite

                                                         undoing of honesty; omitting what's true

                                                       for not wanting to offend.”

“But those people aren't admitting

that they still pick-and-choose which truths to say:

they don't walk around saying 'That flower's blue,

that old man is thin, this wall is rough and gray.'

Do they?

In the end,

being honest

means telling truth; not telling every truth.”

                                         “Still, I think sometimes people need to

                                        hear hard truths; it helps them grow.”

“I agree. And taking time to think:

'What will help, here and now,

for you to know?'

and

'How to to say that?'

and 'Which part to save

for a later, righter time?'—

That's

kindness,

tact; still open,

still honest—just...”

             “Ahg!! I don't think I'll ever teach:

                    I don't have the patience to

                    wait for that moment;

                  to build that trust.”

              * 

“I really enjoyed this;

I'd like to see you again.”

                         “Okay. If

                     as friends;

                 I'm not 

            attracted to you—

                was that 

                   too 

         much?

    ”

Skill, knowledge, disposition...

(What a small thing, to be a human. – 14 March 2016)

For all my

artistry,

    rocks and minerals

  humble me:

       thin layer,

        slow layer;

                                           free, 

                                  formal, 

                            ancient;

                  more intricate,

                                 daring,

                                      surprising        and 

                                                patient

than my works will ever be.

For all my

    deep breathing,

            wind will always best me

                                          perceiving

                                             coasts 

                                 and plains,

                       high skies 

          and valleys:

seed-transplanting and

    pressure-trading

 more broadly and deeply

than decades spent on 

luggage-lifting 

  and travel tallies.

                                  For all my

                                  adulthood,

                        rivers and seas 

serve humbler, greater good:

                                                                lifting what's light,

                                                   taking in all that sinks,

         spreading currents boundlessly,

while “Spare a dollar?”

Let me think.

“Mmm. If I trusted

you, I would."

Perfecting a Polish Joke...

One day, you will look back 

On all of this {life} as pointless.

And yourself as waste.

One day, you will want

A fresh start for your aging face.

The next day {on a sad-sunk knee},

You will see life again, but differently,

Like a point you don't understand.

And yourself as a still-scratched

lens in a polishing hand.

And that will be the start of

A year of days where you wake

Up every morning—imperfectly—

And LOVE that, for giving your

{glass-powder falling} a reason to be.

Slow poems... (ghosted)

Wanting to have a reliable, enjoyable way of testing whether I'd been ghosted by women online, I invented this approach. Begin with this message: 

"Hope you're okay. I'm going to write you a 4-line poem...slowly. If I hear back from you before it's done-- great! Let's go to the beach. If not, I'll assume I've been ghosted."

Then start improvising your 4-message countdown... by the end, you either have a response, or a new poem. Win-win (and NOTE: the 'win' is almost never a response, so make it a good poem for yourself) 

[Ghost1 – beach girl] 

“I dug my feet in the sand, and a small white crab...

scaled up on my foot, like a mountain's shelf...

I laughed down, 'You're so lovely, it makes me wish...

that I weren't at the beach by myself.”

[Ghost2 – hippie]

“Rosemary, they say, was deodorant…

and garlic was medicine…

back in the day before touch-screens, when touch…

was hands laced, walking barefoot, kissed by wind.”

[Ghost3 – artist] 

“Do you see, in this stroke, how the layers beneath... 

show their skin, where the firm bristles pressed?... 

From a distance, looks smooth/monotone, but lean in... 

here's my soul, between words your gaze missed.”

[Ghost4 – animal-lover] 

“Few things reflect like a calf's dark eyes... 

all the blue light and green stems, as we... 

stand at the center of those rolling pearls... 

and wonder, in vain, what it's like just to be.”

[Ghost5 – philosopher] 

“Words and their opposites, dancing like swords... 

bending themselves on each other, because... 

what is is a moment, so full-up with substance... 

that no word can scrape it by saying 'It was.'”

[Ghost6 – crafter] 

“Wood, you be my Valentine... 

pulp turning to paper, sheets drinking red dye... 

one feeling a rolling ball, inking its line... 

'All the best, darling.' And then going dry.”

When in the Grip...

           John was one of those admirable pricks

          Who, when in the grip of “I've lost my drive,”

              Would somehow put on a plain suit and sit,

              And do things—not great things, by myyyyy...

                        Me, in the grip of “I've lost my drive”—

                  Just wheel-spin wastes the day: I touch

                            my dark work with one finger,

then eat, pace, and temple rub hours away.

And for what? 

       Torture out a dream better or brighter,

More complex than the bullshit John does?

   I never—NOT ONCE—opened Moby Dick!

                                      But I read Stephen King.

                               Why?

                                Be-

                            cause...

                                   Because, my God, his name is on the whole fucking shelf.

                                     While Melville's got his ONE EPIC THING.

                                     And honestly, I'm not so brilliant, but.

                                     I do have a million half-dreams every day.

                                     And if I could just rush out a few, you know what?

                                     I could build up a half-Tower of dreams that way.

                     And alphabetically? 'John Doe's like me come before

                                     'Stephen King | Stephen King | Stephen

                                     King | Stephen King | Stephen

                                     King | Stephen King |

                                     Stephen King's... 

All art is stolen...

My heart is toward you 

Who hummmMmm noises hoping others will hear & nod to you

a——b elonging.

Who think of a (most definite) thing,

then hide it all like hot trash, or bleach it all like laundry.

You who are the silent tragedy of a house pet;

the standardized neglect of a gut-purr.

You who are the late clap in a playhouse;

feeling most deeply, ashamed to be heard.

                   Did you know

                   that “Dear God”

                   was another dude's

                   dream?

                   That “Our song,”

                   … was a waitress's

                   hard night?

                   That thieves lifted

                   your garbage & gray-water feelings

                   in the air,

                   spit-to-clean,

                   caught “

                   The

                   Light”?

There's your brilliance,

Still stored like baggage.

Your truth,

On a shelf.

Twist your rusty, untuned throat loose,

Screech something honest,

And clap for yourself.

Some say... (will it)

Some say lifting weights is

Boring: take a stack of heavy plates 

and send them soaring

                                        To and from, 

                         to and from, 

             to and from … 

                                             (Some see a hand laying bricks,

                                               Not “building a wall” or 

                                               “Making a home.”)

Some say they do work

For money: subjugating their skills

For a portion of someone else's plenty

                                        By hours and pay, 

                         hours and pay, 

             hours and pay … 

                                             (Poor hearts pour out words 

                                               On words, instead of

                                                Walking away.)

Some say offering hopes into the sky 

Is folly: trusting a life's course

And dreams out-calling?

                                        Sounds reasonless, 

                         reasonless, 

             reasonless … 

                                             (Spooked minds inch wide around the

                                               Sick, sad, and low, rather than

                                               Smiling “God bless.”)