Jews, Forgotten, and 3 couplets on my pending tour around Lake Michigan

I creak out psalms from my Bible,

Of my wandering People...

I am a Jew.

The Mana of God the Well of Miriam the Guidance of Moses

Our Prophets

Our Customs

Our Communities

We Live Longer than Politics.

Tradition is without borders.

.

The ridges of a stamp

the calcium-sheen of the mouth gates.

The double takes

and neck breaks.

Limp Snakes.

Headaches.

I'm sorry to this Girl who I went to School with

She is familiar

But so lukewarm...

Never before have I...

ransacked my mind and failed to find...

her name.

and not only

But clarity of her character

or any incident of...

notice...just a lukewarm splotched-white face--

Short cropped blonde hair...

I'm sorry, but I never noticed you, and can't remember you or who you are.

Your memory is still lukewarm, however.

Not all molecules of air must collide in a thunderclap after a lightningstrike.

.

Eagles are to be seen and lakes and a Moving Earth

Trembling at the finger tips' adventures.

.

I will be unkept and smelly yet clean

My palms well worn and my mind well occupied.

.

Plans made, roads paved

Only Possibility awaits.

.

I Wait for You--A Triptych of Reflection and Observing Ego--

I try and write

With this conception of me writing the words I write

All in my head

In no such way does this work...

Though tendrils leach through...

Ferrous oxide and Peacock Rock

Oxidizing ideas and my plays on words...

Rusing the emotions I still hold for...

You. Only under the light of my attempts at art

Only then can I hear you, rather your voice,

Under a scamper of contending thoughts...

.

Little slippery ones...colored like on some

Saturday Morning Kid's Show.

All magenta's and mustard yellows' and blues...

Scampering around you like rats...

Mean urban ones with Battle Scars...

Scampering around you under that street light

...that backlight egg-yolk...

That gives you the queen's corona

That light which reaffirms my affair with you...

Or rather the idea of you...

I'm swooning.

Drunk in words and weed and you...

Sincerity I sincerely oblige...

I'm just a scribe...

.

My TRIBE is NOT of YOURS...

Your Celts, and your Romans,

And MINE, the Accountants to yours...

Your Policeman, and your Mobsters,

And MINE, the Lawyers to yours...

Hunched over,

Bent and Brooding

About what? I'll see

What to bring

But there's nothing more that I can't find

I'm sorry to myself for saying sorry to myself in a reflection

The Chicago Skyline projected sideways over a magenta night sky

Light-Polluted

Not Light-Pollution.

But I'm the oxymoron.

I'm the hobbit with the confidence.

I'm the one who runs around in his mind painting circles.

Purple circles with this Big Viscous Paint.

It bubbles and the bubbles dry in it's self.

It's about a quarter inch thick when it's dry.

From an ant's view...

Well they see this Purple Python snaking across the dusty linoleum floors of a boy's brain.

A gymnasium...where heavy-set children in thick cotton white-tee shirts and blue cotten shorts

Dribble my basketball Ideas.

I shoot, the hoop not much larger than the ball...

My inner right arm and the left side of my neck hot with sweat...

No idea is ever a 'slam dunk'.

I miss her and my conception of her...

Which matured as we grew distant...

All of them, all of those innocent embers of desire...

Smoldering in some primitive depths in my skull...

A cave even...A cave with Cro-Magnon's roasting flanks of Mastodon Meat

Over them...

Because my childish Wants I'm much too grown out of now...

Much more mature.

Everything there is to know, I've either learned it or wouldn't have a problem understanding it.

Yes indeed.

Yet I'm just knowing and being a few molecules on the outermost edge

Of The Vast Expanse of The Universe of Knowlege and Being...

That is our perception and introspection.

Not our self projection.

Never are we entirely who we want to be.

Never is that seen by others, despite our efforts...

Especially when we think it's working...

That they see past the short-wisp-jew...

An androgynous Anne Frank

Who writes in diaries.

But I'm alright.

I've got my pen I've got my paper I've got my few molecules

Of knowing and Being

On the outermost edge

Of the vastness that is The Universe of Knowledge and Being...

Hopefully I see past this step on my staircase of my life

Where I type on my computer---A once-white keyboard

Dirtied by hairy palms...

Typing away droning Nothings.

Onto a screen.

A pathetic attempt at being bold and deep.

But I write these disparities to put myself at ease.

For the doubt that rests on my shoulder reaffirming me.

That I'm set for stardom and proliferation and a fulfilling life.

Ayn Rand sneaks up on me, and I understand her point of view.

But nothing I've written still has not made myself my favorite author.

And I thought 'Fountainhead' wasn't my favorite either...

Writing this on an unremarkable night in the summer between High School and College.

It should be a time of fulfillment and planning and sex.

Sex. Where is this in my existence?

I don't have the molecules of knowing and being in terms of sex...

I know none of it

I haven't been...

With another

In that Act that I put up with myself I see kernels of though popping

Kernels of exploding doubt that reassures me...

That I am attractive enough to spring a mate.

I am just a penguin drifting off on a broken iceberg fragment

Away from my family,

Alone,

Smoothing my suit-skin coat

With the crook of my wing in a mirror.

My desmise is woeful,

But I still look so Damn Good.

Here I am,

There,

Propped on that Chair,

Staring at that girl

with that Hair

Behind the electric swirl

Of that screen,

holding her from my true sight

That flair

That goes off as two electrodes corrode and accidently explode

When the notion in the brain synapse is impossible to ignore.

She's there, she just doesn't see it.

Behind that screen,

Her eyes beam.

Through that electronic scream

of blue background and pale blue glow.

Don't worry,

I know.

I won't make things weird.

Even though I'm a standoffish hobbit.

Even though I chew my nails and spin my pens

And sometimes mostofthetimes I'm on a frequency

Far too high or far too low

And most of the times, peoples true reactions I don't know.

My brain won't explode

At the first sight of them,

I ignore them.

Because they aren't you.

Veiled but beneath true

Expressive complex and taking breath

I think of you,

Delicately, like something will crumble when touched,

Not that your weak, not that in the least.

Delicate like that me being near to you is such a weak bond,

For sometimes I don't see what people think.

A bond weaker than I feel I feel is felt toward me by you...

So therefore the though of you made by me is a delicately

posed idea, a precarious arranged object,

and I'm just watching this russian tea cups teetering over the dressers edge...

Waiting for it to shatter,

It's so inevitable that I don't hold my breath,

Because it's already been taken away

By the idea of me, you

Together, I'm fragile, and the agility of your dynamism in face of my

Dymaxion struggle.

I rattle of Buckminster Fuller quotes

and storyboards for post-apocolyptic graphic novels...

And you listen and put up with this...

You're cryptic,

Delicate,

Intricate,

And still you're there

That Girl

With That Hair

That makes my mind explode

And my breath to be stolen

And my pen to scratch page

To punch keyboard.

I will still be quietly hoping.

Anxiety

Stomach's lurch

Caused by nothing.

Nothing caused by doing the former.

Stomach lurching,

I need a drink of water.

I need to shit in water.

I need to bathe in water.

I'm doing nothing and wasting away,

listening to the tunes of my stomach eat myself.

Twanging to a Rush and a Wind at Night.

Twanging strings

Playing to the Wind Rush and Summer Rain

Seen through mesh and glass frames, pushed upwards

So just through mesh

The upper part of the window now double thick with panes,

But through the mesh,

Seen through the mesh, is night.

Night that unblinkingly stares back

At the naked boy bathed in fluorescent overhead light,

Back hunched over a guitar, twanging strings,

Night offers only Wind Rush and Summer Rain,

A droning response to a droning performance.

But the boy doesn't blink either,

He is flattered by the patter of the rain in summer and rush of the wind.

Buckminster Fuller and the Cave

A Door's outline of light intensifies 

As the darkness it faces

Increases, with each new experience

That is innocent.

Pure and important.

It will mean more,

If we have seen less.

The Door hides this light,

which isn't as intense, isn't as profound

When the Door opens, when the room 

becomes semi-lit

But without polarity, The Door

would be lost to the darkness,

lost without a frame,

An existence of darkness,

Social Darwinism and Conservatism 

And Thomas Malthus

Equate to extremes, woes, chance

And Good and Bad.

An in and out, a right and wrong.

Can we live in a room which is Dark?

Can we live in a room where we don't know where the Door is?

Can our existence be determined

Determined by something other than Fear?