Self-Abused?

A day like any other
But lived as a series of minute tragedies…
The sum greater than any single  part
Yet I demand of myself to know…
Yes I demand to know why!
By what right were these existential
Horrors visited upon me?!
What of this conspiracy of karma?
Fearsome, naive, being--pitifully  unknowing of my deservedness.
What sick joke of gods destined this to me?
Where great illness and poverty did not suffice,
These tiny tortures pick at the  soul,
Leaving invisible scars of repeated abuse.
Scars others will no doubt call self-abuse.
Ha!

After Day After Day

I, so worthless and full of hate
Did stare in an angry mirror
And recite a list of my mistakes.

Mistakes easily found with haste
Like toys half-buried in wet sand
Where I found failure's salty taste.

I, robbed of purpose or useful life
Sat a while in sun-bleached hate
And simply raged to a silent sky.

I, so worthless and full of hate
Too cowardly to walk away...
And performed the ritual day after day.

Reading The Frog Poem

Today, I made a brief study of 17th century Japanese monk, philosopher, and poet, Matsuo Basho. Around 1681, Basho composed perhaps the most well-known haiku of all time: Frog Poem or The Old Pond. There are countless versions of the haiku, with numerous English language renderings--including one by Howl poet Allen Ginsberg. Many of these haiku are available on a
Wikimedia page for the poem:
https://en.m.wikisource.org/wiki/Frog_Poem

The version of the poem given in the video on Basho was as follows:

Old pond
A frog leaps in
Water’s sound

The main concept underlying Basho’s philosophy and work is wabi-sabi. Wabi-sabi refers to Japanese ideas about accepting the impermanence and imperfection inherent in life and finding the beauty in life within this context of imperfection. The concept in
Japanese culture originates within the three marks of existence of Buddhist teaching: impermanence, suffering, and emptiness.

Another beautiful illustration of this concept is in the Japanese practice of kintsugi, the repair of broken ceramics with lacquer mixed with precious material such as gold. The artisan makes no attempt to hide the damage to the piece, this becomes part of its
essential beauty. By learning this practice, we can learn to better value ourselves and our own shattered lives.

I learned about Matsuo Basho from the YouTube channel and companion Web site "The School of Life," which has hundreds of short educational videos on hundreds of different topics. They have developed an essential curriculum for all who are interested to learn for free at one’s own pace and according to one’s own curiosity. The Basho video can be accessed at
https://youtu.be/90-2Dg2CJdw which will also provide a link to the larger channel if one so desires. Thanks!

An Elegant Suspicion

It's an elegant suspicion
That holds me back again
I feel like I'm being lied to
By the dearest of friends.

Maybe Sigmund had it right
Or maybe someone else
But how can I know you
When I don't even know myself?

It's an elegant suspicion
That undermines my dreams
I can see that the world is
Seldom what it seems.

It's an elegant suspicion
That finds weaknesses unseen
And topples the illusions
To fall down at your feet.

Maybe Mr. K was right
To be paranoid and scared
How can I be right here
When my mind's everywhere?

And I can't go back again.
No, I can't wear that mask.
Sometimes the world is changed,
By the questions you've asked.

So it's an elegant suspicion
That undermines my dreams
I can see that the world is
Seldom what it seems.

I can see everything
Is seldom as it seems.

Marv Albert

What was it that I was supposed to be thinking?

Was it one of these overlapping voices in my head?

Well I tried the differential calculus and could not

Find the derivative of sanity with respect to my mind.

And what is that feeling angry, bitter within my gut?

Like a fist clenched tightly around my insides.

Such shame. Like a stifled laugh from a belligerent joke,

Fermented among a long-delinquent sense of humor.  

What am I to make of this desperate self-indulgence?

These sad, shaking hands scribbling mindlessly…

Illegibly--

Indiscriminately--  

With no regard for human life.

Poem for Rachel

Love is a word,

And only a word

A stand-in for an idea

A reference to a feeling.

It could not possibly be

Adequate for us, for you...

A word could not hold

The energy to race my heart.

It couldn’t express the fracture

I feel when we’re apart.

It is a pale shadow,

And a distant echo,

Of the thousands of touches,

Kisses and stolen glances...

Or the hard-learned lessons

Of being one soul.

Yet the word “love”

Is the best that we have

While our two hearts

Author something better.

In Search of Laundry Room on Record Store Day

We searched in vain
For the prize of the day
But around every bend
Was another dead end

We tried different places
Asked many vacant faces
But each glimmer of hope
Was a mirage where we'd go

And at the end of failed plans
We finally washed our hands
And bitterly realized
There would be no prize.

Not today.