Tuesday, December 17, 2019

Closing time




"The sea speaks more honestly to those willing to drown.”

It seems like I’ve been in this room, in this house, forever. With the sun now down, the lighting has shifted and the shadows have gathered into the black and whites of washed out bulbs and dusty furniture, all unremarked upon for its averageness, like a worn-out color TV showing Over the Rainbow to yet another set of kids, again.

It’s time to go, last call has come several times – the warnings increasingly clear with a documentational authority tonified to the sacred movement, vague only to me because I’m alive and things are going on. I’m busy filling out the space around me, while anticipating other things that will stylishly pop into existence from nothing at all – maybe this time dragons or God.

Suddenly, nothing will come all at once -- the fuel, the fire gone, only dry wood left to warm by and a fading trace of DNA’D memories scatted willy-nilly over and around a waiting room that we don’t wait in – we don’t wait in  because we are scared to death to imagine what’s outside the door, to imagine the nothingness of the next.

And as we don’t wait, smoking opium in fancy pipes while telling stories to each other that are not true –eating corn from cans in a darkened theatre debating whether we want to take the chance of missing something, or just to hold our pee until the end -- we save our rationality and reason to make better pipes as we funnel  the disgruntled into making grand distractional architecture so the elite can tell us lies backed with the heaviness of stone. 

We surrender to appease those who despise us. We do what’s convenient, then repent, our happiness just a thicker form of numbness, afraid that death is nothing,all at once.

Monday, November 18, 2019

A note from my father


A Note from my Father


Son

Your mother’s crazy.

She’s dressed and on the couch.

Come get her.

I’m going out to buy cigarettes’

And might be gone a bit,

Or longer.

Dad


By Michael S. Brady

Friday, September 06, 2019

Explain nothing, except your self


Explain nothing, except your self.


I feel like the last of a tribe struggling to keep my identity a secret from the mob, one step ahead at best, reduced to hiding in bushes from the monsters waiting to snag and devour me.
Sort of a delicacy and a poison – a non-specific drug that exudes memes instead of hormones and physical highs – subconscious, primitive analog get-off-ness apparently responsible for some weird competitive advantage consolidating over geological time out of our mixed genus ancestors, or maybe Texans.

At the same time, I feel like spasmed dots from gods own printer cartridge ejaculated onto the canvas of a great emptiness, the thought of which is expressed in the three-dimensional representation of the position I’m braced into while doing the splatting -- all hologram like but only juicier and used -- like an in and out burger wrapper chewed on by a trashcan opossum.

Or better, a goat in a pickup heading for a quinceanera debating Schrödinger with the driver while everyone at the waiting barbeque has already mentally opened the box and are just waiting for the tooth pick to come out clean.

It has been written and all in the book, as the Rasta know and love to hide behind. (It’s hard to imagine a worse wisdom choice than Haile Selassie to follow, except all the others.)

And that’s how I feel – like I’m running out a predetermined race that’s already been won or lost, and I’m the only one that doesn’t know it. Fear the fuel, meat the engine, and mind the arena – all watched by the voices that guide me.

 I ask again, “Who are they talking to?”

Friday, July 26, 2019

I love this poem 
Tadeusz Dąbrowski “Sentence”

It’s as if you’d woken in a locked cell and found
in your pocket a slip of paper, and on it a single sentence
in a language you don’t know.
And you’d be sure this sentence was the key to your
life. Also to this cell.
And you’d spend years trying to decipher the sentence,
until finally you’d understand it. But after a while
you’d realize you got it wrong, and the sentence meant
something else entirely. And so you’d have two sentences.
Then three, and four, and ten, until you’d created a new language.
And in that language you’d write the novel of your life.
And once you’d reached old age you’d notice the door of the cell
was open. You’d go out into the world. You’d walk the length and breadth of it,
until in the shade of a massive tree you’d yearn
for that one single sentence in a language you don’t know. 

Wednesday, May 08, 2019

Julian of Byzantium


Julian of Byzantium

Upon the announcement of the death of the Apostate,
Once he was seen to be surely felled and toppled on his side,
They chiseled his face from the bones of the stone
and removed him from the myths of the remembered.

Michael S Brady

Wednesday, February 20, 2019

One thing to another


Sure, you hate me, but who are you?



Well into winter, no hint of warmth or light from the sun, only the precise metronome stillness of a hard rain.

It’s hard to remember the last day of whatever -- the tides of time slide by without any sound – just relational crap until you map it out and find some kind of human sense in the disordered movements, usually by tying them into loose sheaves of something both explainable and real enough to fool the casual.

All just marks on a stick, and who has time for that?

I remember lighting my cigarette on a gas stove, hair held back with one hand, black light staggers around a Hawaiian kitchen and the belief I’d never die. I remember it like it was yesterday, just like I remember yesterday in the spotty sunshine as the same old music reflected off a dashboard as I sat alone in a work truck waiting for time to pass.

I remember the click of avocados as they separated from the tree over my bedroom. I remember counting the seconds until they exploded on the thin tin roof.  I still remember waiting for the next click as they detached from stem to meat – I’m still waiting in some ways, I’ve always been waiting in others.

I listen for the light, but reality comes in the thunder.

I miss the tin roof and I miss the falling.

Sometimes just the falling -- at times I think that’s all there is, one long fall grasping at things as they pass by.

What’s not left of any of it is the when – the general time of it – I only remember the moments of its passing, and the waiting for the what came next. I can contextualize the past with points from start to finish, and can even tell you the thoughts as they occurred, but what’s missing is the time in which it happened and the energy involved in the movement of my life as it passed from one spot to the next.

On what day did the summer end and the fall begin, and how does the spring come out of winter?






Satoshi Nakamoto claim

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