Casually Distracted

One thousand eyes
looking
one thousand directions.
To each a thread
affixed to the brain
stretching attention
this way and that
until deformation.
Triage is a tornado
tossing each around the day
and hoping nothing falls.
And the constant discontent
of being unable
to fully commit
to all but the minimum,
with the knowledge of being able to do better,
yet unable
now.

Worse still
is the ooze
coating leisure.
Moments of stillness
unallowed
by the remaining threads.
Disassociation is an effort itself;
the tornado does not rest.
Have I mentioned lately
how much I hate
the wind?

Today is a good day to make bread.

Photosynthesis

It begins with a seed
placed
where it may succeed.
In a moment
it decides,
"Yes, here I can grow
until I die."
The ultimate decision;
finality
decided at onset.
A whole life
rooted
here.
No knowledge of possibility.
No possibility of change.
Trust
seeded
with impossibility
of regret.
And to take that chosen spot
and bring as much beauty
as potential allows.

I suspect
we are more plant
than we pretend.
The momentum of birth
is a powerful seed.
Although legged
and not rooted,
diaspora carries history
of inception
no matter our legs,
and no matter
how much we try.
And despite the regret
we must,
as our plant-likeness demands,
make as much beauty
right here
as potential allows.

Hiatus (In need of practice)

Illness,
such as it is,
has been a muse
if nothing else.
Though there is a line
where past
even impassioned desire 
falters.
I found it.
Finally, I'm feeling more myself
and can return
to this.

I feel the yin yang's
curse.
Overwhelming blessing
tempered
with persistent reminders
of mortality.
It seems I am unable
to have one
without
the other.
"Such is the way,
such is the truth,"
it is said.
I've never put faith
in such superstition,
though it feels hard to deny lately.
I scream into the void.

What is a life without problems to solve?

It’s probably just the moon

A particular brand of melancholy
follows
occasionally.
I've never figured out
if it is internal
or external.
It comes
and goes
like the moon.
Perhaps it is
the moon?
I think of those
people
that say things like,
"retrograde"
and so on.
They have decided
that it isn't
internal
so they look elsewhere.
Up.
I don't suppose I can blame them.
I don't particularly want to be blamed
for myself.
The ego dislikes.
Should I, too, look
up
for blame?
I don't think I can do it.
The unknown
holds too much respect
from me.
It would be arrogant to blame
up.

Alas the melancholy is there
regardless of blame.
Like a visitor
unwelcome
though known.
And we sit together
quietly;
the weight between.
Living in molasses.
Slow and tired
without reason, 
but for the company.
The worst is the feeling of ineptitude,
of inadequacy.
Like I know that I can be more,
that I am more,
though I don't feel it now.
At least it is familiar to me,
and I know I will return
before too long
melancholy departs.
Until we meet again.

I believe in purpose
though unknown
and regularly unknowable.
What purpose does this
feeling hold?
If nothing more
than muse
to mediocre poetry.
I expect that's 
not 
quite
it.
I do notice
a different lens.
And an uneventful peace.
They are both at odds
with the norm;
I should be thankful for that.
An unearned shifting framework
could be a gift
if not otherwise accompanied
by a lack of desire
to do anything with it.
I'll reflect on that
day by day;
it seems to be one of those things
difficult
to know while in the middle.
That could be a cop out
so I don't need to work
to actually figure it out.
But if it's just the moon
then I'd be sitting here 
forever
anyway.
I'll take the out.

An ode to morning

Did you ever hear
Sum41
back in the day?
"Waking up is hard to do."
It was never my favorite
but the message
is timeless.
I wake
regularly
in pain.
Clawing, 
pressure,
overwhelming brightness.
It's not
just hard to do.
If I am lucky
it is normal
sleep inertia;
tireness
and sadness
to leave the comfort.
Instead,
pain.

But

the ultimate juxtaposition
to hear
naked steps
on the stair
wishing good mornings.
Slender leaning 
across
to let in the light.
I reach
a soft grasp
to smooth skin.
Flowers
at fingertips
and for a moment
I forget.
My strained eyes
bathe.
A fresh embrace,
cold ringlets
prickle me awake;
a springtime.
Another awakening.

[Im]perfect

People want
a perfect solution;
one 
to rule them all.
I want
a perfect solution;
one ring.
There's a simple
elegance
to this.
But the world,
the human world
is rarely so
elegant.
Instead
it is a mirage,
beautiful
from afar; yet nearer,
so many 
tiny 
sand
grains
slip through 
fingers
like so many
tiny 
failed 
pills.

The day still moves
perfect or otherwise.
My bread rises
with the day's
concerning heat
as the dog
[im]patiently
reminds me
that it's time
to worry
no more, outside.
I've proposed
and accepted
less than perfect
solutions today.
There is peace
in small progress.

Spring Practice

Sun blinding
snows promise
damp trails
for our muddy paws.
It looks warmer 
than it is;
still slick
demanding patience.
Yet
the flowers inside
bloomed all winter.

Through the window
spying something,
perhaps nothing
though worth a look.
Fresh movements, as
smaller birds
return.
Friends of Jayrry?
Likely!

Filaments,
rivulets trickle
the first sounds
of my favorite sounds;
springs' birth.
The days angle higher,
a simple pleasure
to play tonight
in the light.

Winter's test passed
again, again
each more challenging
than the last.
Through seasons' new pains
new strength
renews
spring seeds.
A painless day's optimism.

Soft Commitment

In response to a particular musing, “Why do I only write depressing things?” It is, mayhap, because I lack the skill to do otherwise. Among my many abilities, however, is the one from which I take no small amount of pride: learning. So here we plant a flag to commit to learning otherwise, however the fuck; I feel like I used to know, but my memory isn’t great.

I’ll remind myself to be patient; my most recent loaf of bread was my best.