A breeze of perfume,
suggestion of age,
entrances the senses,
clearing haze from dog days.

First shadows of fall,
opens dimensions,
allowing the soul to
catch up on reflection.

Fading of life,
crescendo of passion,
To feel more alive,
as a form of regression.

Herein the golden leaves
hold their cotillion,
catching the last light
while waiting for snow;
spirits phase into
a vast celebration,
while Hecate smiles
and sways to and fro.



I think  I may have lost the spark to write poetry. : / I mean, I already knew I wouldn't be doing much with it, but I can't grasp why I suddenly feel out of inspiration. Am I tired? Too busy? That never seemed to bug me before. Although, after my laptop went out, I've been very worried about the small collection of poems I had been forming over some time. I had about thirty at the time, and now I don't know if I can recover them. A good portion of them exist in different parts of the internet, so that's relieving as long as I don't get hacked, but at least 5 or 6 may never reach my eyes again. And they're not necessarily things I have memorized. I know I wrote one bit of prose about the tragic and short tale of a frog and a baby bird. I know I won't remember exactly how I wrote it, and that really upsets me, nor will I attempt to write it again. Perhaps my universe is merely shrinking. It seems I am missing my wonderings about life; uncertainties have been replaced by mute facts indifferent to hopes of the future and past. I suppose my mind is settled on matters of business recently, and  I would rather complete tasks as I have time to complete them, and creative thought patterns sometimes require more effort than I have energy left for.
On a separate note, I hope visiting back up here is short. I'm already having allergy symptoms. Damned dryness. I want to be back in reasonably humid Sacramento.


Carry me...

There are times, I fear, that I suffer an odd affliction. Only a sensation, oddly; yet it that it should disturb me more than any illness I scarcely know why. The consciousness quakes, even for the simple cause of such a sensation. Though I mostly dare not speak of it, lest I be considered vain or fanciful. I have discovered it near impossible to watch acts of physical torture without reflecting a sensation of torture myself. The condition has improved, however slightly; for years I could not even bear to see such material in writing. Yet even today such a  physical response would arise in my flesh that it was at times unfathomable, as if my corpse were trying to unsuccessfully attempt severe agony, and instead relinquish to throes of sickness. The tremors which seem to imitate rushing blood under the skin of my bony wrists; they disgust me for their lack of disguise for I know my heart has not increased in tempo. The quiver of flesh falls shy to the sensation of rending, yet it persists until I desire to rend with my own human claws. There have been moments when the affected locale extends to other areas of my body represented in film. Thus it becomes even more of a torment than I am able to comprehend. I never scream for fear of embarrassment and ridicule. My plan usually consists of no more than averting my gaze from the picture, and applying pressure to stop the rushing. I still cannot say why exactly I experience the affliction, only theorize. Perhaps it is a psychosomatic symptom relating to a different matter regarding my psyche; perhaps it is my device to never allow my  own desensitization towards humanity, or even far-lost memories acquired from long before my infancy. Whatever the cause, the only option is to try and live reasonably. My only fear lies in its ability to control me.


I know it's from another place I posted on, but it was too interesting for me not to show somewhere else.

I saw a woman at a crosswalk today as we sat at a light on Howe. She seemed normal for a moment, though she looked slightly perturbed and upset. I almost expected her to start crying, but to my surprise she did begin to cry, as well as shout. She was dressed as I was today, actually. Black stretchy tank top, dark blue jeans, and sandals, carrying a clear Starbucks drink. She started shouting wildly, appearing to accuse someone who would have been standing somewhere between the ether around her to somewhere in the middle of traffic. It was soundless to me, of course, but I should have rolled down my window to hear her. I thought perhaps she was wearing a bluetooth and was yelling into it, but I saw no devices on either hear, and no phone in her hand. I dismissed her being crazy as a possibility as well; she didn't have that demeanor. It seemed as if she was trying to pour her heart out to someone she would never be able to speak to, or else pleading for spiritual guidance. Too late I thought about tossing her my ring; I didn't know why I had that instinct either, it's a precious possession of mine. I felt bad too that I had thought about it only as the light turned green. How could a ring help her anyway. Then I thought about it: My ring is silver, with a heart shaped into the center. Perhaps I had thought subconsciously to remind her somehow that there is love and caring in her life, even if it is only she who supplies it. Also, I had imbued it with my purpose recently, and thought perhaps it would do better to serve her purpose. I hope I see her again, so I can either give her the ring, or see her with a happier face.