My speeding ticket is a confound

By Freud, what have we here!
A confound?
Oh please, go away!
My experiment’s gone awry,
My mission is lost,
I am left with a ticket,
My data is skewed by a thousand,
Now all but lost,
Way past my standard of deviation
And my tiny little alpha.
No tricks of the mind can foil the officer,
No implanted memories,
No misleading methods,
Will lower it to naught.


Freedom through imprisonment

Floating on air, he gazed smiling out the small opening of his prison. Beyond the glass was a world, vast and awe-inspiring. Its tranquility pervaded the open skies, reaching both down to the earth and up to the heavens, seeping into his heart and filling him with joy. He became lost, utterly and peacefully lost in the soft hues that made his vision. Purples, oranges, blues and whites all combined and played to create a great ocean of vistas unimaginable in any other context. He was calm and fair, he had finally escaped.

Ode to the Poet

Look at you,
Standing on your soapbox,
Singing your verses with an eloquent arrogance,
With a voice so full of emotion,
Or the lack thereof.

What makes you believe that your are gifted
Beyond all reality and all humanity?
You are nothing but the same as I,
And the men to your sides.

Your poems are a cry, a lamentation
To a disillusionment felt by all others.
You sit in the center of a semicircle reading your poems
To an eager and sympathetic crowd of liars and fools.

Still, your poetry will amount to nothing,
Be stacked on a bookshelf, if you are even given that honor.
And even if you manage to transcend the annals of time,
Schoolboys will read your poems,
Then burn the books.


The Bee

Why doth the little frantic bee
Scurry so frenetically,
And seek a light which holds no hope
While it loses all its strength?

What will the poor bee feel
When at last leg of night and will,
It must lay itself upon the ground
And succumb to the cold and the dark?


Charity for a fly

Funny stuff here.
I was wandering about the field when I came about a lonely fly,
Flitting about looking for food.
There were, unfortunately, no corpses on which it might alight,
So taking pity I laid myself upon the nearest patch of posies and set about dying.
I hope the fly had a decent feast, thereafter.

Oh dear sir, you have been so kind
To lay upon the swollen earth
And set yourself to die.

You are truly magnificent
In your humor and your charity,
For not many a beast would allow oneself
The pleasure of self-deceasement.

Your selfless valor and kindness
Has brought me new joy and fervor,
How I might repay you
Is entirely beyond my meager abilities.

Perhaps in laying a few soft eggs
In your decaying corpse,
My new temple amid a rotting world,
I can finally pay homage to you and your kind.

Please take my humble gift,
Accept it as the greatest honor one may bestow,
And set out on your next journey
With a wink and a smile.

Yours truly,
That lonely fly.

Beyond tranquility

A line, infinite, steady and straight flows across a plane, three dimensional and soft, with no true horizon. The line,

black as night, moving without moving, collides with itself, or is it another? A mass of squiggles

erupts, chaotic but oddly comforting, and then once again the line bursts forth, or is it another? This line disappears

out of my field of vision, but I’m calm. I see the planes horizon, which is not a

horizon, soft and nearly fuzzy. A sense of tranquility envelopes me, invades me, infects me. In those fleeting

moments I know truth, truth without meaning, without reason. Truth without

truth. Inescapable. But I do not wish to escape, I wish to stay, to wander, to wonder.

This is all, incomprehensible but still so simple, so pure. A world, a plane, a line. Black, white. Then I, the

only color, devoid of color, I see myself while I am myself, watching, seeing,

experiencing, knowing and not knowing, wishing it not to end. But it must, it does, lost in my

void. Such is my dream.


Frantic state of mind

Rambling… rambling… rambling… incessant rambling. The thoughts race through my head, recurring again and again, yelling why? Why? How could you? My world is crashing down out of an instant, falling apart in every which direction, leaving me suspended, buoyed, bouncing around in the void. The world outside, it’s untouchable. They see me. But they don’t really see me. They see something of me, a part of me, a part that I cannot see. I know it’s there, I know it exists, but I just can’t see it. It’s their perspective, their eyes, their minds. Their method of transcription, of translation. I don’t think I can affect it. No. I don’t know how to affect it. I am just here, in this void. Suspended. Buoyed. Bouncing. My world reintegrates. I am solid once again. No. My world seems solid once again. Yes. I feel angry winds. What have I done? I know not what I do. Please. Forgive me. Forgive my ignorance. My inabilities. I know not. I know. But I not. I cannot. I am afraid. I do not wish to return, but I do. Always but. Always continue. Always feel and be confused. Always not understand. Always shudder at myself. Always think too much. Think thoughtless thoughts. Repeat. Repeat and repeat. Stop it. I can’t. They won’t stop. Thoughts, they are incessant. They don’t give me time to transcribe. They’re too fast. Here one moment. Gone the next. A wisp. Ephemeral. I want them. I want them. Please slow down, please calm down. Everything may not be all right, but who cares. Should I care? Am I right to care? Who am I? Does it matter? Who am I supposed to be? Should it matter? Where do I go? Why can I not go? Let me go. Let myself go. I cannot. I am trapped. I have trapped myself. Where am I? What am I? What do I do?


For the Intermittent Writer


Short books about albums. Published by Bloomsbury.

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