Any more than the scribe was forced to write it.
Some of us are drawn to destinies beyond our original reckoning.
* * * *
A few thoughts, written for what future may come.
* * * *
Have you ever read this one before,
Or is all this silly patter blurring together?
It certainly has for this Sisyphus in the daily toil,
Wrestling the rock of vanity up the hill.
And still they bubble, bubble
From mind to paper,
Each unique in its own little way.
An inexplicable calling, a mystery, indeed.
* * * *
No longer a garden to which you would ever choose to return.
* * * *
Do not look for continuity here.
A mishmash from the get-go.
* * * *
Gistmeister.
* * * *
Witness,
Observer, spectator,
Passenger, onlooker, eyewitness,
Viewer, watcher, bystander, beholder, voyeur,
Looker-on, fly on the wall, rubberneck,
Commentator, reporter, monitor,
Journalist, correspondent,
Passerby, sightseer
Hack, stringer,
All the same That I Am.
* * * *
Nobody’s king, nobody’s slave, just another monkey swinging
through Eden.
* * * *
These many thoughts,
Born of this mind’s brief dream,
Are the best I can do for you
Who seek the truth of You.
* * * *
Running out of steam for this world, or any other.
Another universe, another tour of samsara, almost done.
Another mortal adventure through manifest time
Ready to disincorporate into oblivion.
* * * *
May as well throw all this gibberish away
For all the interest it is drawing
And good it’s doing.
Missing out
On some fine walks.
* * * *
Prove me wrong if you can.
* * * *
From a very small, quiet corner of the world stage,
The nondescript reality once again comes to light.
* * * *
Please, please, please, do not make this
Into yet another ridiculously bothersome dogma.
See if you can own it without brokering yet another inanity.
* * * *
For all these thoughts,
The scribe does suffer.
Was such a fool ever born?
* * * *
The pitter-patter of a body-mind giving itself over to
awareness.
* * * *
The never-ending conundrum of the human spectacle,
With all its ceaselessly inane and insane problems and
absurdities,
Has finally grown too pointless to give such daily focus.
In whatever time remains in the given dream,
This coffee shop philosopher-mystic
Is at last, finally, all but done.
* * * *
In any given facet of any day-to-day,
These many thoughts over time came to mind.
With a disciplined pen in hand, and notebook at the ready,
The I Am known as Michael wrote them down,
Shaped them into digital transcription.
All done with good intentions
And best wishes.
* * * *
Another day of scribing begins,
Just breathing in the streaming.
* * * *
All those voices in your head,
Well, my fine pretty, I’m one of them.
Bwahahahaha …
* * * *
The eternal historian.
* * * *
Please, please, please,
Do not make this into any sort of dogma.
All the opinions in all this are no different than anyone
else’s.
Ultimately, squat.
It is really mostly about
Waking up to what you really are.
* * * *
Among the many who set this mind upon its course,
‘Twas Gina Vance called to turn the final card.
* * * *
Who knows what I’m talking about, anyway?
* * * *
Not too many people interested in you,
And you, less and less in them, as well.
Nobody’s answer to anything, indeed.
* * * *
Just putting a few thoughts out into the cacophony,
On the off and very improbably chance
They might someday take root,
Perhaps even bear fruit,
In the unfolding dystopian times,
Already bearing down side of the horizon.
For better or worse, wither or blossom, here they are.
* * * *
A collection earnest observations and thoughts,
A gift for any who care to ponder such things.
* * * *
Sorry, ladies and gents, just cannot seem to help my Self,
Life and times has fashioned me into something
Of a mirthy, curmudgeony-kind-a-guy.
There are, indeed, limitations
That detain all of us.
Oh well.
* * * *
An aphoristic treatise with no need of an audience.
* * * *
In every venue of this wandering existence,
These many thoughts have come to mind,
Etched by pen onto the paper at hand,
Without effort, with little rhyme or reason.
* * * *
A work you will never finish, and could never begin again.
* * * *
El Escribano.
* * * *
Everything that came to mind,
Captured by pen and paper in hand,
Into this meandering, esoteric, nebulous work.
* * * *
Just leaving behind what mind I had before I lost it all.
* * * *
How many thoughts do scamper and frolic upon paper this day.
What a hodgepodge of thoughts have been journaled
These last score-and-counting turns of sun.
Clear enough by all reckonings
If I do say so, my Self.
* * * *
Reflections, that’s all they are is reflections.
Do with them what you will.
* * * *
Please note that, in this work, in all these many thoughts,
That there are no claims to some higher connection
Being made, that are not yours to own, as well.
* * * *
Into history, I Am, once again.
* * * *
Toying with human history’s future-past,
A verbose back-burn, so to speak,
For what dreams may come.
* * * *
Editorial comment strewn across every page.
* * * *
If you think some of these ponders are a-kilter,
Just realize even the scribe looks askance
At more than a few of them sometimes.
Must have meant something at some point.
* * * *
Passed it out randomly, indiscriminately, to see all the
reactions,
To see how it plays out, this gambit with the history of
humankind.
* * * *
Another reflection in which many others
– Family, friends, acquaintances, strangers,
Creature great and small, things and events –
Played a part, some large, some small.
Nothing is born in isolation.
* * * *
From one of the proudest, least humble of narcissistic
hearts,
These words are set adrift, to what end cannot be known.
* * * *
Those in the times to come
Who discern the Way will perhaps look back
And realize that insights written at the beginning of the Great
Fall
Were written with their best interests in mind
For the times that will follow.
* * * *
Getting too lazy to do much meaningless, bothersome ado
anymore.
* * * *
Toying with history one ditty at a time.
* * * *
Step by step,
Thought by thought,
This trail of aphoristic inquiry,
A creation for all time,
Writes its Self.
* * * *
Waking up to yet another day,
The weary, worn, torn, tattered prizefighter
Staggers out from his enigmatic corner for another round.
* * * *
Mein Kampf
* * * *
Thoughts for a day I will never see.
* * * *
What is left in this weary sack oft flesh and bones,
Still reasonably upright and tolerably aligned,
Let time play out as light and sound divine.
* * * *
Woke up again a few moments ago.
Another ditty before I snooze off again.
* * * *
Spinning minds into another alignment since 1990.
* * * *
What is there for the mystic seer to leave behind
But yet another set of writings examining the inexplicable
In whatever way the given inner vision and linguistic
capacity allow.
* * * *
To have thought, written, transcribed, and edited all this …
Yowza!
* * * *
It being the nature of this epic manifestation,
Somebody was destined to write it,
And in this act, it turned out to be little old moi.
Not anticipated, not planned, not sought, let me assure you.
It just sort of dripped into consciousness.
It just sort of wrote its Self.
* * * *
Odds are that the only reader of any life work will be its
author.
* * * *
Another little ditty for time to do what it will.
Just a solo act who enjoys writing and being relatively
anonymous.
If these many thoughts are ever to become known,
It will be up to others to share it.
* * * *
Sincere words that will likely
Never be heard earnestly enough
To make any real or lasting difference
In the course of human events.
* * * *
These many thoughts
Keep streaming into mind.
I do not know what to do with them
Except to share them freely with any and all
In whom they may find resonance.
* * * *
Bullshit Alert! Bullshit Alert!
Bullshit on Deck! Bullshit on Deck!
Bullshit Alert! Bullshit Alert!
* * * *
An apologist for eternity,
A reluctant prophet, indeed.
* * * *
The amusement of the scribe
Is to have thought, written and read
Everything that came to mind.
* * * *
Dream taster.
Gistmeister.
* * * *
The scribe’s foremost habit in this world
Has been writing the fleeting perceptions
Observed in his stream of consciousness.
Something to do with the journalistic sense
Of the human drama as he has witnessed it.
An idle, somewhat meaningless academic bent
In the mind’s passionate, surrealistic sensory drama,
A journey on the far side if there ever was one.
* * * *
And who else could articulate this vision clearly
But one who has entertained enough possibilities
To discern that the innumerable differences
Are merely fabrications of imagination,
To which pride is the only harbor.
* * * *
Why continue writing this babble?
Because it is amusing, because it is the rutted road
Into which you have mysteriously fallen.
* * * *
Just writing what comes to mind.
No matter if it is never read by a living soul.
Process, punctuated by goals here and there, is all there
is,
So enjoy it as best ye may.
* * * *
What’s the point of writing these many thoughts, anyway?
Who will ever read any more than a few handfuls of them, at
best?
How many better-written things are already published out
there already?
“Why?” you ask.
Because these many thoughts, like pencil sketches to an
artist,
Come unsolicited in the day-to-day wandering walk-about.
And, by golly, it’s just another way to pass the time.
And, frankly, it’s just straight-forward amusing
To tweak a bit with history’s unfolding.
And, no worries if nothing ever comes of it.
* * * *
It writes its Self, you know.
* * * *
Written for a time when humanity’s actions
Have shifted the world into a new level of hell.
Thoughts from a mind that came upon a fountain
From which such thoughts randomly spring.
* * * *
The calling is nearly complete.
So many adventures to reach this point,
This awareness without measure.
* * * *
A personal view, assumption, if you will,
Is that it doesn’t really count
Unless you can do it
Without assistance
In the day-to-day mundane.
* * * *
This would not be written if it were not true
Beyond the farthest shore this mind’s imagination
Could both fathom and articulate in this aphoristic fashion
Anything less would be false.
* * * *
This would not be written
If it did not point to the only truth.
Anything less would be false,
And there is no point
To another lie.
* * * *
In the aphoristic fashion that springs forth from this mind,
The articulation playfully fathoms the unfathomable
Beyond the farthest shores of imagination.
* * * *
How pointless, how absurd to write a body of work
That very few, if any, will ever even attempt to read in
full.
You are a solo act … tinker, tailor, soldier, spy …
From the field beyond all naming.
Mission impossible,
Indeed.
* * * *
Write another day.
* * * *
This forgetful Pan, scribing away the unfolding
rememberings.
* * * *
The world has little need of you,
Nor you of it.
* * * *
A body of work being written one thought at a time.
Indeed, a most wearing journey at times, but, oh well,
Keep on whistling while you work … f you can manage it.
* * * *
You were born to write this, El Escribasimo.
It is your calling, it is your fate, it is your destiny.
* * * *
And the letters crawled and vibrated as they were written.
* * * *
Mad to write all this.
Mad not to.
* * * *
If I was god,
I would want to be me.
Wait a minute,
I am god,
And I am me.
Yowza, imagine that.
* * * *
How else could, why else would
This brand of babble ever be written
But through the endless pain and bother
Inspired by the mortal theater of manifest time?
* * * *
Written for any
In whom what this mind has conjured
Mirrors their own.
* * * *
Much too lengthy a set of writings
To ever publish in its entirety.
So why is it still being written?
Because wordsmithing is so amusing,
And to, perhaps, prod this little theater along, silly.
* * * *
This was written to make things very clear.
In part, for all those limited by their imagination,
But also so I wouldn’t be bothered to come back anymore.
Maybe fins or wings, or perhaps something with four, six, or
eight legs,
But, please, no more of this inane two-legged existence.
It’s just too arduous to watch and participate
In such a madly absurd theater.
* * * *
Almost twenty years
Since this little piece of work
Began to churn into time.
Whoo-hoo, to be sure.
* * * *
Dead man talking, walking, writing.
* * * *
For good or ill,
In the play to come,
It is written.
* * * *
Consciousness has written all this
For whatever purpose, if any, only it knows.
As sages across time and space have left similar thoughts,
So, too, shall these be left to time's reckoning.
* * * *
These writings are adrift
In the abyss of this world's future.
It is too late to reel them in.
Their fate, if any,
Is unknown.
* * * *
These many thoughts were written for Self by Self.
An offering for every vista imagined
In this One’s time
For what time there is to come.
* * * *
Somebody has to write it before it happens.
* * * *
These writings are whatever came to mind.
Please don’t take them so seriously
As to make some sort of inane new drama.
There’s far too much of that in this world already.
* * * *
By one aphorism at a time, the Return to Wonder,
a.k.a. The Stillness Before Time,
Is written.
Each one an insight
Passed on to those who have
The eyes to see and the ears to hear.
For the future, however it rolls.
* * * *
A gift from the Gistmeister,
El Scribe, Yaj Ekim his Self.
* * * *
Not saving anybody here.
Just setting things straight
About the way it really is.
* * * *
Indeed, oh, indeed, I am madness divine,
Divinely pre-ordained, if you will.
* * * *
All these many thoughts,
The pitter-patter of a busy mind
As it groks the life and times,
And gradually grows still.
* * * *
Keep on chipping, Stonecutter.
Rock on, El Scribe.
You go, Yaj.
* * * *
Is the scribe madder than any hatter,
Or is your frame of reference,
Your statistical sample,
Just too small?
* * * *
‘Nuff said (for now).
* * * *
Dear friends of my youth,
And even those met just yesterday,
Just a notice that that Michael died moons ago.
* * * *
It’s all right here, Self-contained.
You don’t need the scribe,
Nor any self-appointed middleman,
Nor any fearful, hand-wringing support group
To discern the truth of it for your Self.
* * * *
What an amusing pastime it has been
To scribe so many thoughts from mind to paper.
An incomprehensible endowment for readers and scribe alike.
* * * *
Every sort of thought is scribed herein.
In play, just in case a paradigm shift does come about.
As unlikely as it seems, you can never quite be sure where
time will go.
* * * *
I do not care what happens to this dreamtime after I am
gone,
But I will scribe my thoughts on it while I am here,
For any to do with them what they will.
* * * *
Yet another eternal scribe of the third kind.
* * * *
These many thoughts
Have been scribed through me,
The me that is in all things, including you.
It is only through this me, the me that is also in you,
That the vast awareness which is eternal,
That which has many names,
Can be discerned.
* * * *
Who scribed all this?
Your guess, your assumption,
Is as good, as true, as meaningful as any.
* * * *
Am I the antichrist, or what?
The Beast is a name, 666 its handle.
Ask Cousin Debbie about a childhood of play.
Ask Allyn, whose pager was amusing access to a friend.
* * * *
The scribe knew enough
To throw together a smattering of words
As defined by the education and existence he was offered.
We are all patterns within the ephemeral matrix
In which the senses play out time.
* * * *
Generic moi.
* * * *
How these words will play out in history’s unfolding,
The scribe can only wonder, but does not pretend to know.
Just a large collection of random thoughts that came
spontaneously
Which he wrote down because the mystery had shaped him into
a witness.
Is it a message of the divine, or just the inanity of a
foolish madman?
You decide, if you have the inclination to traverse the
attempt.
* * * *
The first work, The Stillness Before Time,
Said pretty much everything that needed to be said.
The rest is for scholars and other insatiables,
Those who enjoy the riddle of words
And the play of mind in time.
* * * *
Hope all this does something useful,
But me vital breath is long since expended.
Just drink some cheap whiskey and piss on me grave.
I’ll catch what buzz I can manning the furnaces.
You know how it is, we’re pretty darn busy
Down in the underside of things.
* * * *
All these many thoughts,
They are all just more babble-on.
The central point has already been rendered,
And whatever words are left are just more blah-blah
distraction.
So now, the trick is, will you, the reader, the seeker,
Ever figure what’s really being said?
* * * *
The stillness was enticing even in the youngest daze.
Sounding and breaching like a whale in the deep end of the
public pool,
And letting go, eyes shut, in the bubbling whirlpool of the
falls at the canal across the road.
The innocent do not require the ceasesless confabulations of
any mythology
When Mother Nature speaks truth each and every moment.
* * * *
Human existence is chock-full of philosophers,
And this is just one of who-can-fathom-how-many works.
It is likely not zenith of the hill, but it has been what it
is from this end.
An interesting pastime to scribble down so many of the
thoughts that come to mind.
One can only wonder if anything will come of it in the
dreamtime to come.
* * * *
I think … therefore I think I am.
You think, therefore you think you are.
We all think, therefore we all think we are.
Nothing more than a collusion of human scale.
Likely no deity, nor any creature across the cosmos,
Cares about themselves, much less you or me.
We are at best relatively convenient.
* * * *
Oh, joy, yet another new and absorbing level to endure
In this slippery-slope slide into Meister Grim’s clutches.
* * * *
And then there was John,
Who, whenever he ran into me,
Would say in pseudo-French inflection,
“Endurance, Michael, endurance.”
* * * *
The keyboard is stage enough for this quantum eye.
* * * *
How do I mean nothing?
Let us count the ways.
* * * *
Another day of pretending it all real and important
underway.
Whoo-hoo for what dreams may come magically coming true.
How agreeable it will be to be done with this diminishing
body.
Death will be a release from all this limitation, all this
absurdity.
Entertaining, yes, but no longer necessary, and never was,
really.
* * * *
Trouble is, neither God nor the Devil know what to do with
irreverent skeptics like me.
Puts the Grim Reaper in something of a “What if he wants my
job?” quandary, as well.
* * * *
What will happen to these many words is anybody’s guess.
Time is on their side and not on their side at the same
time.
* * * *
Remarkable to be on such a loquacious level
With that which is prior to consciousness.
A long, unwieldy commentary, indeed.
* * * *
I put up with the world, and it puts up with me.
* * * *
The most effective way to yank anyone off a pedestal is to
pounce on their character.
Well, Jesus probably was not all the propaganda of history
has made him out to be, either.
Two thousand years of dissimulation makes for a nice
handicap in the idolatry games.
* * * *
The riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma
Lingers well beyond the clever scribblings of any scribe.
Pride-filled wings of wax will ever melt in the given sun of
mind.
* * * *
Do not mistakenly believe even for a moment,
That when I say you are the truth, the life, the way,
That I am in any way referring to the imaginary vanity
To which you are in body and mind so attached.
* * * *
Yet another vain legacy cast into the winds of time.
* * * *
To off my Self, or not to off my Self,
Many daze a question to which the answer has so far been
either,
“The day ain’t over” or “Maybe tomorrow.”
* * * *
And there would be even more ditty-festing in this
still-growing compendium
If not for inattentive misstep, technical mishap, or dearth
of pen and paper.
* * * *
Just turning into another grumbly, persnickety old guy in an
achy, worn-out container.
Wondering if he will ever get over this yawn that just does
not seem to want to go away.
* * * *
Dang, the “Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental
Disorders” still ain’t got nothing on me.
Or maybe everything: Is there any label that doesn’t apply
to most everyone once in a while?
* * * *
Once again, too disappointed in humankind to care if it
continues.
* * * *
Welcome to my rabbit hole, Pilgrim.
* * * *
The Dark Side ain’t dark to me.
* * * *
How all these ditties keep coming, each unique in its own
way, I will never know.
* * * *
Just doing what needs doing, as if it matters.
* * * *
Birth may fire up the Holodeck, and death turn off the
switch in its Twilight Zone,
But whether the Matrix plays on forever and ever is known
only to some higher pay grade.
All that can be offered here is the greatest
non-fui-non-sum-non-curo to which this mind has access.
* * * *
This personality, this arbitrary collection of vain
perceptions,
Is as bound to his own universe, his own way, as surely as
any.
* * * *
Signed one book once upon a time, and have hoped ever since
that it was lost or thrown away.
* * * *
Yet again bemoaning the garden’s destiny
When its subjugation and destruction
Has made you and all this possible.
Irony and paradox can mask harsh truth.
* * * *
If you are a thinker, a doubter, a skeptic, a savant,
If you are one who ponders upon all things,
Then, my friend, this may be for you.
* * * *
Saving nothing one vanity at a time.
* * * *
Another ditty lost and gone forever.
The tides of mind are like that.
* * * *
Yet another moment of aphoristic clarity.
* * * *
Do not know more than the nitty-gritties of mathematics,
But how is it that zero is a number, much less a cardinal
one?
No doubt many can illuminate it, but is it a harbor to what is
real?
Is it really more than yet another useful but arbitrary
notion?
* * * *
All these thoughts will change nothing.
They are little more than another set of rantings,
Ventings of yet another mind drifting in the theater of
time.
* * * *
This is my raison d'être, my form, my cadence, my style.
Reckon not with its linguistic nature, but its emancipating
intent.
The Cheshire Cat knows of what I speaketh in its
grin-without-a-cat way.
* * * *
These miscellaneous thoughts are generally for an esoteric
audience of similar temperament,
Of minds on a comparable wavelength, most of whom I will
likely never meet.
All are on a sojourn in a streamtime far different than this
one.
What more can be uttered than fare thee well, best wishes,
rotsa ruck.
* * * *
Woke up again this morning.
Guess oblivion gets to wait a little longer for these tired
old bones.
Another round of rambling about the bell curve.
Whoo-hoo and by golly, too.
* * * *
The world you would save is long since spent.
* * * *
A plebeian with just enough wit to recognize and appreciate
genius across the board.
* * * *
Loyal friend, occasional Samaritan, inadvertent fiend,
itinerant fool.
* * * *
It would be interesting to witness a dissection of this
poor, decrepit body,
To see all the havoc and pain and bother it has endured
during this watch.
* * * *
The echo of “Holshouser!” so often ringing through the air,
“Holtzblowzer” in a variety of shades was how Blane often
uttered it,
For all the brazen, often foolish things said and done by
this still unrepentant wit.
* * * *
Vanity makes it easy to stay small-minded a fair portion of
any given day.
To be in the world and not of it, is not something a busy mind easily allows.
* * * *
A casual bent toward scholarship for this gistmeister.
* * * *
What a wearing thing it is to be an infinite spirit trapped
in a diminishing body.
* * * *
Yet another relatively anonymous sojourn.
Shoots spring into leaves, leaves fall into winter.
All life, born to live, born to die, in this dream undying.
* * * *
Having given myself over to the materialistic urge many
times in many ways,
All I can say is that a some point it all just becomes a
greater and greater weight.
As John Ruskin observed: Every increased possession loads us
with new weariness.
* * * *
Where would these many aphoristic thoughts be,
How would they read, how would they appear, what would they
convey,
Without the aid of spellcheck, a thesaurus, and Wikipedia?
The many things these modern times allow
Is the upshot of the ages.
* * * *
Putting it all together one ditty at a time.
They just keep a-bubbling into mind,
And I ain’t got nothing better to do
In this future-past of all things so it goes.
* * * *
These thoughts might be revolutionary if they had been among
the first,
But early they are not in this Ponzi scheme of history’s
viral outbreak.
* * * *
If I have coincidently, inadvertently, or perhaps even
intentionally,
Duplicated something voiced or written by some other,
Go with whoever thought it first, obviously.
No need for plagiarism the way this mind spews.
* * * *
Parenting is a tough sport.
Would have been too rough for me, that's for sure.
Besides which, I love my kids too much to bring them into
this madhouse.
* * * *
Perhaps everyone does not have to figure it all out anew,
but I have yet to meet one.
* * * *
A natural-born organizer.
A natural-born worker bee.
A natural-born gistmeister.
A natural-born wanderer.
* * * *
Perhaps the best thing about being towards the end of a
sound existence
Is that you are no longer young trying to figure out what to
do with your life.
No more tests, no more papers, no more hawking yourself, no
more so many things.
So many games, so much pretending, all of which now seem
nothing more than tiresome.
* * * *
Who be all players but me one in the same.
* * * *
Taking it all apart, putting it all together, one ditty at a
time.
* * * *
Curious how many aphorisms often change mid-flight
Into something entirely different, entirely unique in their
own right,
Perhaps even cleave into two or more, or combine with some
erstwhile ponder,
The original insight likely forever lost in the filament of
consciousness,
Unless it again at some later juncture happenstances into
mind.
* * * *
If it doesn’t sell itself, why waste time hawking it?
* * * *
As flawed as everyone and everything else is in this realm.
Perfection is the deception of the monkey-mind.
Only the quantum is free of such mania.
* * * *
A timeless journal, of sorts.
* * * *
And yet once again, impulse supersedes rationality,
A new adventure underway: “Hi-yo, Silver, away!”
* * * *
Have always had an amazing knack in any up and coming
adventure
Of finding ways to mess things up in royal hue: Trial by
fucking fire, I calls it.
So scar tissue runs deep in mind and body, and tremors of
trepidation at times resound.
And I endure their inevitability with what “Oh well, deal
with it, and so it goes” can be mustered.
The many salvos this aging mind-body have endured fashion a
stoical weariness at times,
And still I carry on, with whatever face the game calls,
ever the fool playing wise.
* * * *
Just pointing out what seem obvious to this frame of
reference.
* * * *
If it does not matter what I think,
Why would it matter what you think?
Why would it matter what anyone thinks?
Perhaps it does not far more than many or most
Would ever allow their vanity harbor.
* * * *
The agony and ecstasy of existence is the grout between
these many words.
* * * *
The whimsy of political correctness can be sidestepped
When there is no audience to weigh in with yay and nay.
* * * *
Of the dream, for the dream, by the dream.
* * * *
Pretty amazing to be living, much less walking, with all
this body’s been through.
* * * *
Know enough about history to toy with it,
But to change, even modify it, in any meaningful way
Is not highly favored by probability at this late stage in
the game.
* * * *
What is any given ditty but wandering through one experience
or another,
And then writing about it for others to translate as their
given wit allows.
* * * *
Every day I offer thanks to the all-knowing, all-seeing
deity on high
That the genetic lottery cast me as a moderately bright
Caucasian male,
And Roman citizen, within the perimeter of Rome’s prodigious
dronosphere.
An awful lot of people want to off us, but two oceans and a
well-stocked arsenal,
Instead supercalifragilisticexpialidociously enable us to
gradually decay from within.
* * * *
Not a storyteller, sorry, and my story is not all that
interesting
Unless you are a watcher watching the show play however it
plays.
* * * *
Watching the human drama play out with something of an
abstract indifference,
The indoctrination of a temperament established by the
Church of Reason
Long before educational theory was set down from mind to
paper.
* * * *
Little moves me quite the same as curmudgeony thoughts, and
they less and less.
Slowly, slowly, I am
gradually melting into the oblivion I have so earnestly advocated.
* * * *
Zeroes beyond the pale to left of the decimal.
Zeroes beyond the pale to the right of the decimal.
Makes my wee little noggin do the brain-freeze owwie.
* * * *
All this is more enjoyable to write and edit than it is to
read.
* * * *
Even I doubt my Self as often as not.
* * * *
These spontaneous little ditties just keep rolling out
One by one in any given moment, in any given place.
This existence has indeed been an inexplicable voyage.
* * * *
Lot of universe a-happening out there.
I am content let everyone else do most of it.
* * * *
There is still work to do in this Sisyphean tale,
Else I could easily call it good and throw in the cards.
What experience is left that cannot to some degree be
grasped?
That is not already somewhere within the curve of the
statistical sample?
* * * *
A minimalist when there was minimal around and about,
And a hedonist whenever opportunity even softly knocked.
* * * *
You want me to spin what lie, again?
* * * *
Nothing interests me.
* * * *
Am not sure that I have ever really been much of a human
being.
In light of how I have come to see things, that may not be a
bad thing.
* * * *
Best not to ever put me in charge of any future past.
Guillotines would churn 24/7/365 for years to come.
Evil would lament the day I was given such power,
And the Seven Deadly Sins only marginally less so.
I know them too well to abide them in my theater.
Mwahahahaha …
* * * *
Twenty-five-plus years of mind-chatter, and the day ain’t
over.
* * * *
All gibberish, really, fills the time.
* * * *
Does what I have to say have merit in the future unfolding?
Many have it, many enjoy it, but will many pass it on?
The questions any thinker must certainly wonder.
It is a vanity, but alas, oh well, I am vain, too.
* * * *
It is all yours, I do not want to care anymore, rotsa ruck.
* * * *
What effort it sometimes takes to greet the day.
* * * *
A universe too big, and a tongue too small.
* * * *
A somewhat cynical perspective
To those who embrace the optimism of hope.
Most definitely not a cheerleader for this world-o-drama.
* * * *
Paid death and taxes just like everyone else.
* * * *
This is one of them long-haul projects, the only one that
ever really took hold.
* * * *
Just throwing my two bits into the melee of the human epoch.
* * * *
Terribly, wonderfully bored.
* * * *
Many thoughts left for time to do with what it will or will
not.
Sometimes thoughts come into a life of their own,
And sometimes they die on the vine.
* * * *
Bold when need arises; unassuming when not.
* * * *
A dagger for the hearts and minds of consciousness.
* * * *
Stoic on the outside; big whiner on the inside.
* * * *
How weary I am at times playing this human game.
* * * *
Just another batshit crazy trying to get through it without
too much bother.
* * * *
“There is nothing that you are going to do
That I haven’t done, seen done, or thought about doing,”
I once said to a student during my ephemeral tenure as a
teacher of children.
True, but admittedly of bit rough on still somewhat innocent
ears.
Probably a good thing I didn’t have kids of my own.
* * * *
Such an inexplicable thing how this mind has been fashioned
to compose all this.
Quite a process it is
to witness ditty after ditty find their way into manifest reality.
* * * *
Waxing on and on and on:
Effing the ineffable.
* * * *
Kali would find her mate in me.
* * * *
I most definitely am not Jesus,
But if I was, do not even for a second believe
That I would be at all happy with the countless absurd ways
My name and thoughts have been used and abused, twisted and
confused.
Rest assured that it would not be happy camper time for any
self-congratulatory Christians
Were I truly the Son of Santa Claus, and for whatever reason
bothered to return.
Rapture would not be quite what so many believe it is going
to be.
Mwahahahaha …
* * * *
Yet another trite cliché.
It gives the mind something to do,
But sigh, ho-hum, yawn.
* * * *
Yes, I occasionally plagiarize, and leave it to the audience
to know when.
* * * *
In this world at times, and other times not.
Walking both sides of the veil, playing this little part,
In the churning agony-ecstasy of this Shakespearian dreamtime.
* * * *
I do not say there are not ghosts or aliens or dragons or
elves or dwarves or vampires
Or sasquatches or unicorns or tooth fairies or angels or
whatever or whatever,
But I must discern them with my own eyes, my own ears, my
own mind,
Or the minds of others who I perceive harbor a taste for
truth.
I am too much of a scientist, too much of an agnostic,
To accept anything that cannot be verified.
* * * *
“Joe Everyman” Gina once called me.
* * * *
It is all so passé at times.
* * * *
Had I brought children into this asylum,
They would have likely grown weary of me,
As many children no doubt do of their parents.
* * * *
Sure, I have a heart … toasted to a well-burnt crisp,
Safely locked away in some shoebox in a long-forgotten
storage unit,
To which I have long since misplaced the key.
The rent is due, as well.
* * * *
At times into inquiry – chock full of wisdom, opinions,
conjectures, assumptions, delusions –
And other times into the nothingness prior-during-beyond the
veil fabricated by consciousness.
It is bothersome, but somebody had to do it, and it looks
like moi drew the short straw this round.
* * * *
Quite a thing to have no constraints in this existence but
what choice allows.
* * * *
This teensy-weensy slice of eternity is enough for this eye.
* * * *
You would have to ponder every aphorism and essay
To see if any questions have not been given answer.
* * * *
And what would the world think if I really spoke my mind?
* * * *
If you ask what I think will become of all these thoughts,
I would more than likely laugh and reply, “Little to nothing
at all.”
It has been an enjoyable hobby, but to believe it could ever
turn things around
Would be nothing more than vanity having its way with me.
* * * *
Back in the high school graduation awards ceremony,
After being called to the rostrum for the seventh
insignificant recognition,
That little epiphany voice, perhaps for the first time came
to mind as it has many times since,
And spoke in its matter-of-fact, clear, lucid, coherent,
rational way:
“There must be more to life than this.”
* * * *
It must find
its own legs, for mine have grown too weary.
* * * *
Sometimes I have to peruse my own silliness
To clear the head, to reset to default, to reclaim the
sovereign ground,
So as to further spew that which comes of its own accord.
* * * *
When I was
much younger than today,
There was a
recurring nightmare of being smothered,
Of being
trapped in some deep silo, with beans pouring down upon me.
It went away
once I realized it was the conditioning encroaching upon the inherent freedom.
It was the
beginning of a long climb to reclaim that which I truly am,
That which we
and all things truly are.
* * * *
Before Michael
… After Michael.
* * * *
Never a fast
typist – some sort of dyslexic finger thing –
