Cuckoo Dadoo

I like the sand & sun & sea
but I'm a forest and love my creeks
I like to splash and swim so free
I like the water to swim inside of me
And come out pee...

[heeheehee...]

Yeah, I just wrote that earlier this year.  THAT happened.  And so, to comparatively commemorate resuming my cavort with written word online, I put a silly little ditty from which  (I pray godspeed), I can only get better.  Oh, the rust.... it hurts.  And makes me giggle.


-Decaterfolly. iFDim.CS.2015     (loves Specsverde)

I'm not looking for answers...

I'm looking for the person with the questions
To mirror my own

Curiosity to conceive...

Insight to ask...
Conviction to give a damn about the outcome, and
Courage to inquire regardless of it...

Infinitely

dark grey metal chocolate

All the brittle, shining facets of my life-lived past now gone-- these memories of fleeting exhilaration and brilliant truths that fuel my hope and faith of what’s to come-- at times feels only like a baroque-bludgeoning… an endless, recurring soul-bone bloodless death by bittersweet.  

I feel trapped within a file cabinet of perpetual possibility steeped solely from intuition’s eye, confused and distracted by the plausible machinations of my inner mind, driven wild by subtle vein-visions that can never be attracted or attained.   

And it saddens me, to think that my real life holds very few actual moments of poignant joyful substance, that the only tangible, rejuvenating happiness I feel is through an illusory dream-state, induced and seduced by something I feel and know exists but can never taste, yet somehow recall ingesting.  

 A dessert-ghost haunts the shell of my conceptual existence, reducing my experiential palate to nothing more than a muddled blur of dark grey metal chocolate.  An intoxicating cognitive bane...the blight of being...the dusk of becoming...the limpness of light in the lull of love.

Mere residue lines these licked-clean infinite storage capsules in my mind. Resin for inspiring the bow that loosely holds my chords of sanity intact, until the melody of the sirens' call begins again its dance. 

And I’m entranced.

The beginning of the end of The beginning

It was a brief affair.  That spring the weather was refreshing, a sudden and welcomed break from the torrid ice storm that shut down everything in the area for 2 weeks, forcing everyone into hotels, or into barrack semblances of their everyday leisurely existences.  I'd decided to meet a friend at a local bar after being holed up for over a week, had gone outside for a smoke, and turned around to see him-- an acquaintance from an ex of my past.  The contagious smile caught my attention, our eyes collided simultaneous with mutual recognition, and we spent the rest of the night inseparable, talking nonstop,  and danced and laughed until dawn, when we both fell down exhausted and slept finally overcame us.

There was some bumpy resistance on both our parts, but despite our good intentions to heed those cliched social mores regarding exes of friends and friends of exes, we fell hard and fast anyway.  There was a sweet naivety about it all, and a charged sexuality to even it out, and it took us both by surprise.  One evening, after dusk-- when the night is dark and clear and the stars are just lighting the sky with their brightest flames-- he leaned into my ear, as the wind whipped through the trees around us, and I drew in a deep breath.  "One day I'll teach you how to listen to the wind, to hear what it says..." I smiled and settled back into him, looking upwards back into his face and those deep blue eyes, and said " I'd like that."

Not too much later, we parted ways.  It was hard for me at the time, although I knew we had different priorities, knew I needed more than he could ever give, knew I had so much more to give than he could ever grasp or use.  I suppose it was rather hard for him too at the time.  But such is life.  Sure, a lot more fun could have been had, perhaps a few more lessons learned, or insights shared, but not enough to prolong the inevitable fork in the road calling our names, in divergent paths.

On the last night that we met, once again upon his back deck, I looked at him, filled with the bittersweet rue of things left undone.  "You never showed me how to listen to the wind," I said, and he pulled me back into him, wrapping me in his arms, a moment just as pure and strong as the first night he brought it up. Tucking a strand of my hair behind me ear, he turned me around to face him and looked into my eyes.  "Ah, Charity," he sighed tenderly with a bittersweet smile of his own.  "But you already know how, darling..." I looked back into those blue eyes rivaling the clear spring night sky, and smiled, realizing what he spoke was the truth-- and moreso-- one I had known all along.  There was nothing more he could show me, and he had not the scope to see all the many mores I could show him.

I looked back up into the sky, and we danced a little spin and twirl, just as we'd done the first night we became more than acquaintances.  And then he released his grasp, and I spread my arms wide, as the winds whipped and swirled around me, and twirled slowly, becoming one with the fluency of the breeze.  The trees whispered, as if in response and attuned to my breath, and I kept twirling, twirling, until I stopped and opened my eyes upward to take in the night sky, just in time to see the tail end of a star shooting across the dark blue unknown.  I smiled, accepting confirmation that the beginning of the end was indeed over.  Then I took his hand, and he lifted me up, as I wrapped my legs around his waist-- our signature routine-- and we went inside to bed. Before the sliding door closed, I heard the winds call to me: 'Good night, love, we'll see you in the dawn.'

And the next morning, the sun was brighter and clearer than it had been the entire time of our affair. It was end of a new beginning.  A beginning long in the making, Atam, although it would yet be a few linear months until our official meeting in this world.  I just had to make a pit stop first. And you had to wake up and make the call.

A Spell of Seconds

A spell of seconds,
sweet-sweet sweat,
the taste of skin, the smell of tongue,
his gaze consumed
- intent and will – his eyes,
a deep dark wet become
he starts out sweet then marks
his kill.

I may be dinner or his pet...
but either way we get our fill, though death,
may be our final thrill.

I know not,
what fuels this visceral silent rage--
what built this impermeable cage,
what kindles unspoken desire--
our inexplicable Fire smolders my will
to resist, and gives me
chills.

Our lyrics strike
odd harmony,
disjointed on a scale of harshly-soothing notes,
a melody of alligator daffodils and shredded pantyhose,
tangled sheets on broken glass,
arrhythmic rugburns,
scented sunshine and
a hint of ash.

We refrain--
in syncopated pulsing--
from Promises never made but
understood
Muting logic tossed
aside amidst the rush and throe of water-
falls,
anointing tall, moist, softly-
sharpened
blades of grass.

Dark Days, Light Waves

We've all thought about the enigma called life, it's purpose, its point(lessness.)  Perhaps we've even wallowed in ennui. And some of us have been carried away completely by the currents of our despair.

Some of us wash ashore, and awaken, with the grit of sand in our mouth, and the taste of blood on our tongue as a reminder.  For some it's a trip taken many times. And then there are those that never make it back to land, and instead relinguish their will to the ocean's refuge.  But I've no place or right or even knowledge to judge that decision or its outcome. 

Only one day can I remember being close to that point, but ironically the catalyst was not from any earthly plight, but rather from a detachment from it.  At the time-- aptly reduced to date-year 911 -- I was so far removed from 3rd dimensional perspective at the time, that I didn't see a difference in ending this lifegame to rejoin the universal energy, if this one-- given the enlightenment I'd reached-- offered no real outlet to play out the reason I knew I was supposed to be here. 

I won't forget that day, because I was without a car and a workmate drove me home.  Dark clouds were swirling in the sky, and I vaguely remember him telling me they were shelf clouds and could lead to tornadoes or other such disasters.  I half thought to myself- 'bring it on, then,' and took the picture above.  I got home as the wind started to blow hard and angry, uttered a genuine but weak appreciation for the ride, and stumbled into the house in a numb stupor ready for this existence to be over, and at peace with it. 

Truth be told, I was far too exhausted to remotely have been able to actually harm myself in a corporeal manner on that day, but my mental state and its spiritual attachment to earthly continuance was as far removed as my physical desire to breathe one breath more: moreso than I can recall it ever being before or since.  Hell, I may have been close to spontaneously combusting for all I know.  But something held me back. 

I could say it was a call I received almost immediately when I closed my front door.  A call, not surprisingly, from my cosmic twin/higher self-- or whatever the hell he is or I am to him, for we oscillate in purpose and roles-- and for that I suppose I graciously thank him.  Or I could say it was my inner light smacking some sense into me, or perhaps it was the antithesis... the sick dark side of me wondering just how much worse it could get, tempting my inner cat to extend one more paw into the cauldron of curiosity's lure.  I don't think I'll ever really know. 

I'm still here though, and thankfully more balanced and grounded between all dimensions.  I doubt I'll revisit that place again however, but I can say I've seen the edge, felt it blur, and almost became one with it.  Surprisingly without fear or regret or shame.

I think about that now, because recently I received news that an old schoolmate had died, purportedly of suicide, and it has deeply impacted myself and several people I consider my soul family-- as well as others.  These people, including myself, are artists of various trades, mostly poets and writers at the core, and we all admit to battling the black disease of thinking and feeling too much, teetering the high-wire between the dark and the light, compelled to understand the reason behind the seemingly irrational, and finally merge the duality that constantly threatens to drive us insane. 

For it is indeed a mystery zone we traverse throughout this life journey-- despite our (mostly) normal clothes and normal lives.  Yet we're slave to sleuthing it nonetheless, despite futility in finding any real solutions, the probability that there exists no answers to the unanswerable we seek, and even more frustrating, no tangible questions left to our disposal to ask.  Only silences.

And so, with these recent events, we've been discussing the poet's curse:  what it means to each of us, what it means in light of recent events, what relevance it has at all for that matter... in the grander scheme of things.  What is it that drives a person to the edge, and convinces them the best alternative is to succumb to its lure, bleed into it, become one with it?  Some may say disillusionment, others' claim freedom from pain, and I would posit, for some, it stems from achieving a certain state of enlightened objectivity regarding our corporeal existence in the cosmic whole. 

Regardless, we're trapped for now in our earthly minds and hearts, connected only through our spirits and energy to try and understand the impacts of the now, the then, the hereafter, and the complete inanity of time in general. I wish I had an answer to give them, not to mention to give myself. But I do know this in regards to my own version of the poet's curse.

I've indubitably had many dark, dark, thoughts throughout my days, and only one real compulsory occurrence to actually do something about it, but I think the sick curiousity of what the next day (or even moment) might bring keeps me from succumbing full-on to the thanatos urge. I'd like to call it hope, or faith in that complementary eros factor which comprises my very name and nature, and for the most part I'm sure all of those are strong drivers behind my tenacity to stick this life out no matter what nasty little shits, grins, and twists are thrown my way.  

But at times I think my persistence stems from a morbid fascination to see just how far down the abyss can go, whether there really is a rock bottom, and what resides there, if so. To see if I can flip that bottom upside down and make it top, like an hourglass.  And if I can't, to see if I can succeed in climbing out of that abominable pit stronger, wiser, purer, truer, and more attuned with all that is. To discover that perhaps heaven is hell and hell is heaven; or perhaps they are one and the same. I wish I had a lighter feel-good answer than that, but I can at least say at this point it's a sincere and authentic one.

Either way, it keeps me keeping on. If for no other reason, to tell more stories. And I guess I consider my inexplicable draw to the dark and to the light a twisted kind of blessing; one that allows me to understand the good, the bad, the ugly, and the beautiful in the diverse spectrum we call human existence; and hopefully--someday, somewhere, somehow-- I can transcend the dichotomy through experiencing all of it, and help others reconcile their own.

So perhaps, ironically, my version of the poet's curse is also my saving grace.

5.7.1972 ~ 8.10.2009 ~ 6.29.2010

It’s not the outcomes that I’m scared of

But the truth that will not cease

There's no chance in the forgetting

Cause the truth don’t bring you peace

For how can you unknow it, when it’s there but doesn’t speak

And how can you unlove it, when you feel its every beat

The only remedy to memory

Is to pray to never think

The only hope to stop the knowing

Is to kill what you believe

No,

it’s not the answers that I’m scared of

But the truth that won’t un-be

And a million fears and wishes

Will not set the bastard free.