Sundries from Sunday

poems not entirely embarrassed by 3/10/2024

All my burn(s)
“All poets write bad poetry. Bad poets publish them, good poets burn them.”
― Umberto Eco
Con/Jur/d, 3/8/2024


Don’t remember the first one
      	bad enough father became an ambulance
      	driver, they would tell me, pulled long strips
      	of skin off and sucked on them being only
      	3, and my nerves were deadened by the coals

      	The 2nd
is relatively clear, the unseen electric coil
leaning on the 70s stove, chatting about school
women, mother tsks, remember the tsking before
the smell of hot polyester, the glance over flanneled
shoulder, the flames, mom yelling out as I rolled
     	rolled

     	Rolled, loved the MDMA cohort called
     	the wiggling dancing sitting still bliss
     	rolling, and during the peak of this ingesting

In-Jest-ing of our chemical gods
    	lived in fear
    	lived in fear


Of becoming ash
reliving the after effects, because while you're
   	burning, you only burn
  	 
   	The pain unbearable
only after, in the reflection, remember once, under influence
of LSD at a campsite with friends, and two were rolling
and feeling that heart-to-heart to loin-to-loin buzz
deciding to jog down hill and following and veering
    	off the road into a human-free midnight pool

   	Complete with waterfall, swirling animate

breathing liquids, whispering winds, sapient rocks and leaves
  	down deep in the whirlpool compressed
	 
  	No up
  	No down
  	No side to side

Held like you are now by everything and nothing

  	And didn’t know which way to go to breathe
and swam toward

Towards the ash
 	 
    	Toward the ashes

Of all this future poetry.

Your Life is a Divination
3/10/2024, Con/Jur/d


I have problems reading poetry
the best of it cuts me open
leaves my viscera subject to the
celebrations of birds, 
                                   and their auguries

The rest, leaves me with
a taste of suffering looking for
                                   
                                  fulfillment

I have problems writing poetry 
                            I have little interest
in opening

other people's puzzle boxes, though
                        tend to admire
                        them as you do

a need to open mine first,  align the intricate
raised knots and whirls of karma,
                                           the-seamless-dharma
reveal the
endless midnight field
the crossroads, here, at our center

with the problem and bargains, 
                            we can only solve,
                                                        deal with
together        (the giving and taking of offerings)

Here, where we are revealed  as stars navigating stars
as trees unrooted, better to hold each other         ground
in  stable orbits, gales and breezes our breath
cosmic rays                and                         gravity waves 
strengthening and
breaking our hearts and bones

Growing together,
                              into this moment 
                                                         of problemlessness, 

whose only precedence (like)
a storms center
                   birds (carrion, raptors, mostly song)
calmly,  and silently spiraling overhead, 
                                                               over
                                                                   flowing&
                                                                 flowering
with divinatory grace.

Longer Towards, What?
3/9/2024

regardless of when
  or of how much we attempt 
                                  to document

We’ll just stop
              
         And later,  a future incident
we’ll read or hear something

And know, 
as if we had said it ourselves

Yes,

this is how it is.

Much love,

Con/Jur/d, 3/10/2024