Tactile (Poem)

Get to Know a Variety of Maple Tree Species


There’s a lot to be said for tactile suggestion

How treading leaves with rubber soles

Is an eternal orientation

Contextualizing roles

The shoe, the man, the fall

Somewhere between specificity and ambiguity

Strange songs begin to call

Like myriad birds

Flitting in their season

Whether in fifths or thirds

They will seduce a novel reason

The sight and prickle of the holly

The wind whips between bare branches

Without melancholy

Yes, due to such stanchions

As the footfall and the dusk

All such touches all of natures kisses

Will breathe life into a husk

For touch is truth that never misses


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Chipping Paint

Related image


Small southern towns that bake beneath a low hanging sun. If you’ve seen them all then you haven’t seen any.

Did you ever sit under Magnolia blossoms, next to a jar of crickets, as your friend’s sister twirled on a tireswing. A tireswing that was just ten minutes walk from a swimming hole?

No, I’m not trying to sell you chewing tobacco or homemade jam.

I’m just wondering if these places are going to stay.

They were sort of our version of indigenous tribes deep in the Amazon. All sleepy in a blanket of humidity and cicada song. As primordial as discarded peach pits that take root.

Do you remember battered banisters, and the highest technology being a superninendo; that you soon abandoned to slide in your socks across a musty woodpanel floor? You know the sort of stuff you’d do as an ancient Sharpee named Midnight watched lazily from his post beneath a shuttered window.

If you don’t I guess it doesn’t much matter.

Cause every sacred rite of passage that a barefoot, cricket hunting, Red Ryder marksman fell into, climbed over, or set on fire is now forever bathed in the witching glow of LCD.

Unfortunately that’s not an illicit substance that will get you closer to nature. It’s mighty uncanny. This disembodied voice that colors every living moment in artificial omniscience.

The oaks are still majestic at the periphery of the pasture. The earth smells sweet. But there’s a tension even here.

The question is am I old. Or are we mad?


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Cager (Poem)

Image result for 19th century man


Overclocked machines

Stuffed to the brim

With numbered

Listlessness so grim

So grimly unencumbered

To trim

Cutting meaning into action

Assembled and compiled

For a smoother traction

Cager faintly smiled

The neatness the precision

How carefree

To live without decision

In the geometric See

The paths are set

Garbage collected

There’s no regret

No life so masterfully

Architected


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Poor Doggo


There were some tumors that I took for skin irritation till they started to bleed. That’s when we took him to the vet. Where a grapefruit sized tumor was found around his spleen. Forutnately, the spleen is not an indispensible organ and it was succesfully removed along with the tumors. Hoping it doesn’t come back.

There were no real signs of the grapefruit sized tumor. The dog behaved normally except for slowing down a bit. Since he is old I thought this was normal. Sometimes he cry howled at night but he’s always done that.

I guess the moral of the story is take your pet for regular checkups because it’s really hard to tell when there’s something wrong.


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Brussel Sprouts vs. Actual Europeans

According to the Romanian EU MP Traian Ungureano Brussels has a rather dim view of Eastern Europeans. I can’t say I’m shocked.

So…

Eastern Europeans are lazy says the organization headed by the nation that started two World Wars. The second having the express intention of enslaving the whole world so that krautloving groupthinkers had more time for their shit fetishes.

Isn’t Belgium also famous for crazy ass antics in the Congo via King Leopold where they cut off hands of locals for not working hard enough?

I hate to ruin a cutting joke by tempering it with: Germans are lovely people generally. But it is the current year and autism is at an all time high.

Not sure about the cutting off hands but there was some fucked up shit that went on and if a bunch tiny dickless Western nations (that were nothing before Rome) that couldn’t achieve anything without subduing weaker peoples are gonna fling shit. I’m gonna fling it right back. Let’s have a chimpout! Come on EU! Flinga da poo poo!

Why so triggered?

I’m American first but I did imigrate from Russia when I was very young. So just like an Englishman or German would recoil at the constant berating of British-ness or German-ness (well ok the Germans are masochists). I guess my point is that a bunch of WASPS that aren’t even Anglo or Protestant are calling Russians and ethnically similar folks Dagos. It’s like 1930’s New York up in this bitch.

This sort of rhetoric. That is dehumanizing rhetoric is often a precursor of war. Is the thousand year reich finally going to come in the robes of its opposition?

Try this on for size:

I’m serious about these savages. If you study the west you find Neanderthal DNA. Their civilization is contingent on Rome. A land to the south and east with refined acquiline facial structures. Not disgusting nordic lantern jaws.

chillin
– Herr Propangdaminister Von Weir

So…was that paragraph pleasant?

Neither is calling an entire country a nation of thieves.

Romanians have little love for Russians. And I have no particular affinity for the kingdom of Tepes.

But speaking of Tepes. It was always the eastern lands that acted as buffers for the lanky, tribalistic, warring untermensch to the West. Holding the Mongol hordes at bay, the caliphate at bay, and crushing those yellow haired Swedish rats calling themselves Vikings. Can a more disgusting animal be conceived than one who slaughters children under the cover of night. Arriving silently from the sea while singing songs of bravery.

You like that? Is it pleasant. No. But one can take something with a dollop of truth and color it in rabbelrousing opiate. This is dehumanization and as I said it is an essential tool of war.

I am merely playing. It’s evident in my theatrics. But when institutions that want continent spanning armies engage in similar rhetoric it becomes a touch alarming.  Especially when its a sneaky policy influencing rhetoric manifesting as an inside joke and metstasizing into nation ruining dictates.

The EU could have worked. If it was at trade Union. But it is incresingly becoming the pet project of milk bar Clauserwitzes.

Again, since it’s the current year I have to drive home the point that many of my best friends are German. That I am entirely western. That I often criticize the East and defend the West from the wiles of my Russophile friends.

I’m optimistic about the future but that doesn’t mean it’s not important to highlight dangerous mindsets. To tease them and show their madness through the lens of their opposite.

 

Da Pacem Domine…. you Papist Swine =)


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Cheesy Medical Drama Yello#5 – Saturday Night Freewrite

Image result for cheese


“The best thing you can do…?”

“I’m telling you what’s the best thing that you can do.”

“You think it’s knowing the signs of a subarachnoidal hematoma?”

“Fuck that.”

“The best thing you can do is tell me what you are!”

“No shutup, shut the fuck up…it’s a rhetorical command…shhh…don’t move those suppositories  ya call lips…fuckin kiss-ass…don’t even think about it…”

“Cause I’ll tell you what you are.”

“You’re worthless, you’re powerless, you’re a fraud, and the sooner you realize that the less people in this death camp disguised as a hospital are gonna croak. ”

“You chinless fucking boy-band reject. Fresh out of Harvard…well whoopdeefuckin doo.”

The chief resident pantomimed a vigorous jerk off session.

“Studied the sages under the seasoned? Yeah, well guess what they know? FUCK ALL.  And the good ones will be the first to tell you. But…hey…that doesn’t matter does it…cause you’re not listening…you weren’t listening then…and you aren’t listening now.”

“I mean Mrs. Bray has pneumonia! Why…? Acute stroke and now pneumonia. She wasn’t presenting any signs before. That means that’s hospital flora in her lungs! And how in the holy fuck did it get there?”

“Ahh uhh ahh uhh ooo….no dipshit it wasn’t you, or the nurse, it was entropy, the real God of this world. And you’d best bend that knee and kiss his ass cause that’s the only hope of salvation. You think these are machines we’re dealing with. You think that because we can reduce certain functions to a handful of variables…that we can control them. CONTROL IS THE FIRST ILLUSION!”


Ok, so I had a rather late start on my WordPressing tonight. This was due to a combination of music practice (I still suck but I realize how much so that’s progress), nerdy ass PHP lessons, weight-training, and dishes. Holy shit do those fuckers stack up fast. I might go back to bankrupting myself with meals at the pub.

Anywho. The above snippet is just something I pulled from my subconscious as I was pondering what to do with the Sketch of Sam Monroe. It’s completely unrelated to that novel but emerged as a sort of overflow from the aforementioned brainstorm session.

I suddenly recalled Antonio Damasio’s books popularizing neurology and his findings in that field. I remembered how he talked about the immense gaps in understanding that we have surrounding consciousness and even less intangible things.

This tied in neatly with thoughts that I’d been having about how we are all still children playing on the shore. The latter concept being something from a poem or something from a something. The source is not as important as the message.

Because it communicates that the world is indeed mysterious and our grasp of it is indeed tenuous. So maybe some reverence is due?

I know that entropy can be overwhelming. That the sense of the loss of control can lead to anxiety and depression.

But just like in Jujitsu sometimes in order to get out of the grip of your opponent you have to get closer.

So the moral of this story is that we should embrace the knowledge of our ignorance and not look to oracles in lab coats. Because the oracles only know a few more tricks than the average schlemiel.

This is not to poo-poo medical professionals and scientists but to merely acknowledge that they’re less magicians and more mountain-climbers who are subject to scrapes, slips, and downright tumbles into the abyss.

So hopefully I left you more entertained this evening than you previously were. And that maybe you found some food for thought in here.

While I’m here I might as well throw a few bones to fellow writers who are thinking about writing an actual medical drama and not just a cheesy writing exercise.

Check out these links I found while looking for realistic medical scenarios to use in fiction.


Medical References for Wirters

https://www.writersdigest.com/writing-articles/by-writing-goal/improve-my-writing/how-to-use-facts-in-your-fiction

https://redwoodsmedicaledge.com/

https://writersforensicsblog.wordpress.com/


P.S. I was listening to Elliot Smith, Jeff Buckley, and Mazzy Star while writing this. All very nineties stuff. The asshole chief resident is based on Dr. Cox from that 90’s acoustic radioshow called Scrubs.

P.P.S. Just to piss of atheists and Jesus simultaneously for using Jesus quotes on this Pascha while remaining a staunch heathen here is a verse that IMO really fits the mood of letting go to gain a profounder wisdom.

25 “For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it; but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it.


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Eyes on the East (Poem)

daffodils


O you voices of wonder….

Pour out your splendour !

All through the hills…

O sweet and tender!

Reedy and ready…

How the wind fills!

Various yet steady…

Eyes on the East!

Shine stars o shine…

From greatest to least!

All down the line…

Herald the dawn!

Impulse for dancing…

Sundays sweet fawn!

Tender is glancing…

Fresh wine is drawn!

O you voice of wonder…

Pour out your splendour!

Cast down your hilts…

Sing that great ardour!

That drones and that lilts…

It’s never harder!

Than at twilight…

But if faith will continue!

The Sun is our sight…

Shine on o shine on true!

Voices of wonder …

Pour out your splendour!

All through the hills…

Curtains are thrust back !

Exploding as Daffodils…



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The Unfamiliar (Poem)

Image result for russian blue


What are you?

O you distant light…

What’s this difference with which you…

Tantalize my sight?

Is it true,

What they say about the might?

That it’s blue.

Blue like indecision peering over a great height?

The sort of hue,

that doesn’t assert right.

Just let’s it hang till true,

releases knuckles painted white.

To give view,

To give way to clearer sight.

Image result for blue space


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The Best Thing about Writing

The best thing about writing is you can get better at it by doing other things. I spent a good portion of the day learning JS and practicing guitar. As I was making a salad just now the thought occurred to me that I managed to squeeze in two poems. I don’t know if they’re the greatest thing in the world but they did happen.

Which got me to thinking. Shouldn’t I be more focused on writing. Shouldn’t I have written, researched, and posted more? Shouldn’t I get more serious about turning what I guess is my primary skill into a career or if I’m being less crassly commercial into a craft?

So I got all these thoughts and I realized that learning JS and other programming languages, nerdy concepts, etc would help me to write more believable characters. It would help me to inform readers of the various mercurial abstractions of just why OOP is such a big mess.

So should I be writing more. Yes. But the beauty of writing is that a lot of it happens in those blank spaces of time where you’re trying to figure out why you chose to learn Java instead of a language that didn’t arise out of an existential crisis.

Michael Crichton was a doctor and a filmmaker. So there. There’s your established example to prove that the best thing about writing is that you can get better at it by doing other things.


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Fatalism (Poem)

mcllelands


A coupla more songs

And its time to die

Same old fatalism

Somethin like two wrongs

Don’t make a try

Raindrop prism

Filters

Same old fatalism

Call it pessimism

Heavy hitters

Put on those tracks

Follow the rails

Again and

A coupla more songs

Draw some links in sand

Mostly longs

In whispers

Made of suggestions

Compulsive vespers

Miss and directions

Researching and

A coupla more songs

And its time to die

And and and same old fatalism

Under a rosy sky

Floating cherry smoke

Epileptic relativism

Gin and coke

And a coupla more songs

and its time to die

Filters parliament

With a heavy sigh

Empty boxes that cement

Every tender why

Same old fatalism

Random assembly

To chase away

Determinism

Determined to stay

Who said what to where and when

Is that destiny? Was that destiny?

I don’t Amen.

It’s hard when you speak in periods you know

Yea it goes something like

A couple more songs that grow

Into a cheap old mic

Maybe one day will glow

Like that same old fatalism

Like a raindrop prism

That arcs double wide

Trailer park philosophies

Theyr’e on our side

That same old fatalism paints symphonies

Come on baby do ya wanna ride?


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