Some Grumpy's Nordeast Haiku

retro tee with vintage breasts
she slurs about carbon-based life
her jeans, the future of man

The next generation

denied at first becomes the future

old guard

father-son heart-to-heart
advice from the era of depression
save some for yourself

aging nordeast nights
seem like the tectonic version of fate
it is okay to change

on writing

Lucidity vs. Sincerity

"I'm interested in lucidity, not sincerity." ~Paul Valery to Andre Malraux (from Anti-Memoirs)

One immediately hears the record's hiss reading Valery's quote on Gide. This circular sarcasm lives just outside the music of his sentiment. For lucidity is the proposed aim of many a writer (and artist), though not at the vulgar expense of sincerity. They are not inviolate twins, but rather incestuous cousins who know all too well the circumstances of their bith. They do not show up randomly at the same parties, but rather find themselves drawn together by the nature of their features, however Photoshopped by semantics.

For me 'sincerity' speaks to a backhanded complement to the lucid. To see through the core yet present what is encountered within a soundtrack of earnestness. Translation for the naked truth. A marketing pitch to ensure the purchase is made and desired emotional investment is secured to reject the notion of return.

Sincerity, as Malraux goes on to comment, has taken a seat on the bridge of literature, as prose and poetry alike very often seem to require a caveat or affirmation of validity via the aura of good will, the assurance that the work in question is no accident and that any resulting consequences make the world a different, if not better, place.

The ambiance of Valery's remark must be enjoyed, as well. It is the kind of line one delivers in the presence of others. It resonates not in the head, not merely within the silent spaces we reserve for guilt, fear, the vagaries of love. It requires an echo off the culture at large, the individual to whom such a shot across the bow is launched for effect. Such a line is destined for memoirs and for random and invisible discussions such as this.

Just some thoughts on a line...

Enlightenment vs. Decay

Things that build up if left unattended. Books. Feelings. Chores. Fears. Dreams. Like stacks of produce that decay over time. But my fear of what they mean or bring is waning.

I am beginning to realize the strength of letting go and simply acting.

Appetites are in the hinterland, watching like cautious animals. Almost realizing incarceration as the world's response to abandon.

Letter Picked Up, Read, Shown

http://clutchingatstraws.wordpress.com/2010/07/22/letter-to-you/

dis intega tion looped

I imagined knocking over each of these facades, now cardboard and wood,
leaving me standing in a wide-open courtyard with no statues or objects
of any kind to consider or use to orient myself to size and
proximity. Judgment begins to flounder like the single pupil
determining distance without the aid of another. In this minimal
landscape I

am theonly point of ref

erencethe only point

to be

referenced. That's a tough role. I cannot help but think about the f
ace of my grandfather's horse
when you fed him. Like God somehow confident
in his sustainability through the small offerings
he knows will be given. I only
rode him once before we
both got old. In terms
of being broken, you could say we went our separate ways.

How wonderful this feeling, if it can be
called

that,
of power and freedom, and this is exactly what I tell
myself myself as fear starts to set in and
I drop to the level beneath me

to let all my
pieces go

dis integra tion

It was while drinking an ice-cold glass of lemonade and staring out the open doorway into the street that I realized how easy it would be to just let go. Let go of everything and go crazy. I must have stared out that doorway ten minutes - listening to the crunchy ambiance of the winded leaves, the Brownian movement of birds on branches, ground and air - before the flash of a Caddy snapped me awake. Then. In that awkward moment of waking. The constructs of normalcy struck me, one by one, as strange props erected of math and color and idiomatic speech to lull me into acceptance. But now, with this dumbstruck state, I looked upon them anew, and they seemed nothing short of a malicious suitcase of lies.

I realized something else. In conjunction with this, I was suddenly floating in open water with no landmarks to guide me. Almost immediately I cycled through buoys of the old routine, the same old ciphers that reinforce the fundamental construct onto which the rest are placed like children's blocks. Now, however, they seemed like the cut-out dance steps of a ritual and stilted waltz. Frustration. Fear. I wanted to be dancing, not thinking. I tried to UNthink, to pretend I wasn't being carried down this current of disintegration. But all attempts found me carried faster, sinking deeper into the concentric spiral. They say quicksand takes you faster the more you struggle.