habit and rancor

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GJK, 16MAR2017

from WRIGHT THE BOOK

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‘habit and rancor’

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hello, predictable. hello, habit. hello shitty diner coffee

that i do so love with every fiber of my mortal being, every mote

of the ephemeral essence that is not me, yet, in truth, is entirely

me and you and every living thing that ever was and ever will be (which means nothing because time is a fiction) and because, as we have learned and understood for eternity — time is not real.

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conversely, timelessness is also not real. confusion enters

the mind and sugar is stirred into the ‘brackish black liquid’

and down my gullet it goes and once again i proclaim:

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Sentence structure be damned to the deepest bowels

of the most foul, vile and wicked lake of fire

that sentience itself has ever imagined within

the rancorous confines of earthly existence!

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YAWP! grammar, to hell with thee! freedom, expression, caffeine! exaltation and liberty!

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ignoring all

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i sit contentedly ignoring all that surrounds

and focus only upon the internal realm

of consciousness in all its infinite, formless

and unknowable grandeur.  i am beauty and ugliness,

i am order and entropy, i am all

and i am nothing.

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i laugh aloud and startle my neighbors in this common room

of this public house.  i alight from my overstuffed chair

and exit abruptly to smoke that cigarette

that awaits me in the shotgun seat of my own truck

and damn it is wonderful.

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the sun shines on the smoke

and i disappear

completely.

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GJK

9MAR17

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i type with four fingers

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and that is enough.

the others work well enough,

but with four my mind has time to float

a bit

yet remained tempered by focus

as sharp as a bushido blade.

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GJK

3JAN17

12:24am

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phased

digging thru the archive…

poems by GJK

 

stupor abated

inferno horizon swells

unadulterated reason denied

flies behind torpid wings of dawn.

demechanization of language

is preferable to these contortions.

the raucousness of drunk

is hid within the consciousness

of drink and each taste loosens

the strings.

this frail rage easily foiled

fails

demonstrative wit

withers

ethereal skin sings

nothingness sustains.

　

　

GJK

24NOV06

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worship

—

mighty Orion

strides lithely with graceful light

and magnificence –

—

his deft hands bring death;

with arrows of righteousness

evil’s heart is cleft.

—

the moon howls havoc;

drear Oktober brings him near

to mortal hunters

—

beseeching his blessing

worshipping his grandeur.

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GJK

1OCT14

—

Humans

—

—

I.

—

—

O! what drear, bleak, wretched savagery

of image or solidity

entombed

in the Womb of Night,

in the Grave of Day.

—

what life living unto living’s own

deathly way; scourge of man and woman

to shuffle, dim, alight, and strive to raise up

monuments of Divinity

rather than let the Divine live in

and through them,

but Time does crash and swell,

crush, surge, and purge intention

’til life does become bound and blinded

and action flails impotently

without desire or design.

—

the Masters of humankind,

the governors, the generals, the clergy,

do enshrine themselves in statues of stone

and brass and they shape their plaster walls

and wooden coffins to point precicely

to Martyrdom;

they rise up vulture-like to erect monoliths

of excrement that they would have us deify.

—

but O!  the masses scramble in rat-hole streets

burning to live one moment as humans,

but they are bent, brittle, spent,

beasts of burden for ideological-economic-fallacious machinery

while their infants weep

on soiled sheets

in shoddy cribs of splintered sticks

eating porridge from lead-poisoned spoons

as mothers make salt-soup with their own tears.

—

the tragic skylines of the world!

steel and glass pierce the clouds

edifices fling light wildly

obscuring the story-myths that are written there

every night and every season in the inky void.

these buildings assume majesty

but humanity chokes on the smoke

that billows all around these ant-hill-cities

that destroy truth and beauty of the

simplest and purest forms.

—

the horror!  great bridges spanning

churning polluted waters

and how many dead are there?  workers

forever entombed in concrete,

bodies without names, graves whose headstones

are the hood ornaments of a million brash, shiny cars

hurtling forward thoughtlessly,

cars with drivers that irreverently roar

and stomp upon the forsaken dead bones below them;

there are ghosts in the pavement beneath their wheels

and they have not a thought

for their repeated desecrations.

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II.

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O nameless demon that doth curse

our infinite strivings,

taint our pure and innocent yearnings,

what blackened wings will next overshadow

our small intentions,

our elemental living,

our inventions of mental contortion

that allow slivers of prayerful hope

as we languish in the chains of Time?

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what bird of terror will again tear at our livers,

spilling our shimmering viscera on burning sand?

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war-machines and politics, border skirmishes,

imperial hubris and outright hatred,

disputed thought-systems that control the money-flow

disguised as arguments over Gods

and morals of archaic religions.

—

all of this is ultimately absurd.

a plague of ignorant violence

leads humanity toward an atomic death,

mushroom clouds and desolation will remain;

dominion over the earth passes then

to the beetles, until they too

develop the malicious intelligence

to annihilate themselves.

—

 

GJK

31AUG02, 1SEP02, 16SEP14

—

 

 

no end

—

beat.

dragged out, wasted,

spent.

it’s seven in the morning

with twenty-four hours left

before her first day on the job,

a new job in a new town.

—

and me,

the manic-depressive-drunken-zen-lunatic,

must be her driver through the crumbling streets

of mill-town and tosa and the god-forsaken burbs –

i must be at my best

shiny and fresh

when next the sun rises,

must be responsible,

must be

sharp

attentive

ON TIME

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so today i am screwed.

—

cannot shake the vampire life

the graveyard shift.

been awake since yesterday,

eighteen hours or so,

and have not the luxury of slumber

for at least another twelve.

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thirty hours.

thirty hours awake

to prevent the ruin

of two lives.

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heavy eyelids

weary brain

tattered spirit flags

—

i waste time with the nullity of television

i pop pills to kill the backache

i suffer tinnitus

hayfever

cigarette withdrawals

no end to troubles

no end in sight

no end at all

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i am nothing, nobody.

—

perhaps i am doing something right.

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GJK

20MAY12

journal entry, 30 April 2004

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at a certain point, the mind begins to rebel

against input… there comes a time

when the mind is apparently saturated

and will not absorb anything not yet residing

within its confines.

new information does not stick.

fresh paths do not open.

the circuitry is muddled; it loses its integral beauty…

the mind begins to tell itself

I CANNOT LEARN ANYTHING MORE

and the fear of death, or rather, the fear of finite experience,

begins to resonate in the frigid bowels

of distraction and doubt that permeates

the subconsciouss, bleeding thru into front-mind

moments of lethargy prolonged and

ponderously dominating all vectors

of perception.

—

GJK

30APR04

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muddy fields

—

—

passing time

in the killing fields of earth –

decay in every speck of molecular substance.

—

killing time

in autumn’s blowing mist,

killing time

passing the day in sickness

—

decay in the teeth and lungs and heart

we are all dying from that first moment –

that first spark of conception

is purity unsurpassed…

—

ragged vagabond clouds press down

suppressing summer’s openness –

heaven hides behind a veil

as the hunter

strings his bow.

—

Orion’s cartwheel dance

blurs galactic star-shine.

—

passing time

in the muddy fields of harvest –

plants disintegrate, molt to soil.

—

killing time

in solace of rain,

and subsequent soak of skin

renders dim delinquent desire.

 

 

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GJK  Oktober 2001

doom-ku (we’re all gonna die)

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1.

 

now ’tis supper-time

slate-grey dawn shatters golden —

terror-sun looms mute.

 

—

 

2.

 

gloom swells the unknown

doom is certain so we dance,

obliquely hopeful.

 

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GJK

2APR12