Silence, Gravity, Extraterrestrials and Socks

but not necessarily in this order

Maybe a computer algorithm will like this poem
and click “Like” without the person reading it
So that I will pay attention to a person
who feels ignored
So they can get more followers
Would Jesus, or Buddha do this to get followers?
Probably, yes

I am mentally unwell, I don’t use (computer) algorithms

I use Silence, Gravity, Extraterrestrials and Socks

break bread
eat with my family
convivial smile

the loveliness of this
you, her, that I call her
This sounds less than Kipling and more than Keats
Romantic poetry is so entitled
yet I sometimes write verse like this
or maybe even I do all the time
and pass it off as ignes fatui

ig knees fat chu I

“Cut out all these exclamation points.
An exclamation point is like laughing
at your own joke.” 1

I want to use an exclamation point now
and F Scott Fitzgerald whispers in my ear
and says “NO”, and I hate and love him for this
Probably I hate him more than love
but tomorrow I will love him more

I can’t be disgruntle and cynical like
or have the forgivable naiveté of Rimbaud’s age
to over simplify human attributes
in a way that is love
How Rimbaud makes everyone a teenager
no matter what age they are when
they read him

I hate him for this
If this were the 1st century
in Israel, he would be stoned to death
I see myself with a stone in my hand

I do something else when I write
Forgive me if I tell the whole truth

I know the only way to tell someone
a truth is to mix it with fiction

some call fiction a lie
I know its the only way to communicate
to mix fiction with truth

and sometimes
I am terrible at writing, at doing this
F Scott Fitzgerald!

Sometimes I say a whole truth without fiction
Sometimes I say a whole truth
and it becomes a silence

Silent, like an old person
at a retirement home
Who no one visits
No one really looks at
Lets call him Gord

Silence that is a ghost
that people pass on the street

Silence as homologous as the most boring looking person
No one looks at at all, all the time

I see boring people
that no one looks at
less than average looking
less than average clothes
less than average intelligence
less than average everything
and some who are like this know they are this
and are beyond despondent
They have grown to be invisible
Silence! Don’t be cross Fitzgerald

When truth is expressed without
fiction ( a lie) , this silence

How beauty is a fiction that grows old,
I will speak romantic for a moment again
Refer to you in third person
Eyes look at you in second person
Heart feels you in first person
This would be quaint if I were
not unshaven and sitting in my underwear
cross legged on the couch
without socks on

Segue to socks is my political agenda

Socks and feet are not very common in
I have noticed this for three months now
I have been waiting for someone
to bring up the topic of feet and socks in conversation
and it hasn’t yet happened

So, I will
this into conversation, now

Can out grown socks be recycled
socks with holes? What a stupid
question. To ask this is an insult
to intelligence
and I ask this

I cannot stand socks with holes
yet I forget to throw them out
and wash them
Put them on
and then feel hatred towards socks
“Dam you socks!”
I feel momentarily sad to think that
about socks, “Socks forgive me”
the mortality of socks, the elephant
in the room beneath feet
that keep feet warm
with thick elephant skin

Feet an often ignored sinew that binds
the affection of gravity, the love
which never says no
to hold me
against her chest
like eyes that say

“You will look at me
and never not look at me.
Even if you think you will not look at me,
you are still looking at me”

Gravity does this
it holds my feet against
the ground
when I cook
when I sit cross legged
comfortably on the couch
indirect causal gravity that
loves every atom regardless of
sociodemographic,  race, colour or creed
sometimes I forget this

Forgetfulness, an atom I remember
to think of as thought
This is sort of remembering
as only in forgetting does
the novelty of remembering
have meaning
this is how flowers smell

Extraterrestrials visited me last night
they were not interested so much
in my thoughts on gravity
though, they found it fulfilling
and wonderful for three seconds

the Extraterrestriala showed me how to use my
hands to travel through the universe
Christians call them angels
Mystics call them family
I call them the short dudes
who meditate like me

by thinking
by looking
by tasting
by breathing
by being

their feet have less toes
and hands have one less finger
Sometimes one extra

I look at them with my three eyes
the pineal unable to close
and because of this

I dream of fiction to express
to mix with truth
so that silence may occur–after I speak
not during




Quote 1. By F. Scott Fitzgerald

Picture  by Niagra Detroit ,   Niagra Detroit Twitter  C.C. 3.0



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