a spoon ful of su gar
i love to edit. i could live in the sunset of editing for eternity. the bigger the storm, the brighter the colors - i invite suggestions, and will likely dive into them with no real fear that the suggestion could ever be wrong. i truly believe others know better than me. definitely, others know better than me in how something is being perceived. but the sun must set and while i make edits i wonder if i should just make a whole new sheet; a new piece entirely, an egg laying in the light of the moon. so i do. and now i have two pieces to edit! yay me! who loves to edit. but then a year passes and nothing is edited, but now there is a stack to edit. yay me. i love to edit. and the suggestions pile up and i wonder if there will ever be enough. please, just hold my hand and tell me everything i need to do to make this conglomeration of letters the best your brain has ever processed. yes you probably could just do it yourself, but you didn't, you came to me and offered me edits. no, i'm not trying to be difficult i swear. yes, i agree 'mutiny' doesn't fit the rhythm there. don't you think it acts as a cliffhanger? no, okay, cool, so what do you suggest? nothing? up to me. well, i like mutiny. even moreso now that it's rather ironic to the editing situation. perhaps i will include that in the author bio. "poem titled Pirates in Antarctica received edit suggestions about the word mutiny; in true poetic fashion, the writer mutinied the editor and changed absolutely nothing."
build buildings that sequester more carbon than they release. no more relying on foreign material to build our homes - a perfectly safe, up to code building can be designed from hempcrete and recycled plastic beams.
farmers will rotate their crop for one season and receive payment based on their yield of hemp. this will benefit the farmer, as hemp has been shown to regenerate soil in the areas it was grown, meaning the damage done from years of big ag could start to be remediated. the hemp is then processed into a concrete block. these concrete blocks are sturdy, but need support - where the use of recycled plastic material comes into play.
the hempcrete sequesters carbon during the hemp growth cycle, and even continues to sequester carbon for up to 100 years as a concrete mix.
the use of second life plastic means the streets will be cleaned up.
whats your bid?
please be kind
i can take criticism, yea. i take it in as a suggestion and then i let it fester until i realize they meant it as something productive, not necessarily a change that had to be made right at that moment. then i panic and wonder how i can ever get back to the moment when i didn't know what i was doing wrong. should i have figured out my wrongs for myself? maybe i shouldn't blindly trust another's opinion - who are they to judge, anyway? or perhaps i should throw myself into the abyss of suggestion every time the opportunity arises - yet, that has made me the fool in too many situations and only brought on more criticism. the silent kind. the kind you feel in their eyes as they observe you with scorn. maybe even disgust.
i can take criticism as well as a glass floor can take people over a canyon. it works. in so many places, glass floors are chosen to protect people from a very traumatic, probably thrilling death. but all it takes is that one elephant to put his foot down hard enough, and suddenly theres blood all over the place. i can take criticism but i won't clean that up, i'm sorry.
maybe i can't take criticism. even though i often appreciate it, because i'd like to be the best version of myself, the ruminating thoughts and second-guessing that arise are proof that i can't take it. so the first half of this is a lie. i'm not a glass floor, i'm an elephant.
i think this is pretty self explanatory in how i handle criticism.
(fun with clippers)
I am writing to inform you we have not accepted you for position of groomer. You did splendid on your interviews and have a strong resume. Yet, having the animals leave with various "on fleek" cuts was not appealing to our customers. You gave a show poodle a pink mohawk. You shaved the Buccaneers logo into the back of a family golden retriever. Children will ask their parents about that! How will it ever be explained? THINK OF THE CHILDREN, DAMIEN!
Your energy and enthusiasm is like no other. I have full faith you will bounce back, like the cat that you made look like a dragon by shaving everything but a row of patches down its back.
Best of luck,
You are the moon.
I once was the soil
Nurturing roots so deep
Curious to know what doesn’t lie below
To the air i did creep.
I once was the wind
I felt so free
I begged for friends, and He did bless me
With wings through me they did soar
Yet i yearned for something more.
I once was a flame
And into the world i went
Following the winds orders
Until concrete i met
the air started suffocating me
I searched relentlessly for more kindling
Around the wall, the fire dwindling
I burned through forests, villages and cities
And not a single place could fulfill me
Barely an ember, as i mourn ashen fields
Where my bonfire had played
Now offer crop for farmers yields.
I watched myself die on a rainy day
And down to the river, my sacred char did leach
Meeting my old friend Wind, but this time, he didn’t tell me what to seek
Pulled by forces beyond my sense?
River, what causes your unrest?
“They still are fighting to bestow, upon you a marvelous glow. Nothing provided ultimately fulfills. And in your search, you have killed and been killed. A piece of you stays behind. To create the vast expanse of Time. It’s this piece you will always seek. Always right there, but out of your reach. It’s this piece that tells me how to flow. How deep to be and how to be shallow. Your search has brought you now to me, let me show you what i see.”
my planets are in gatorade
must be why im not feeling so sane
sugar-coated dreams that pressure my vein
my planets are in marmalade
jarred and hidden in a cabinet
waiting to expire, since i'll forget
my planets are in lemonade
distributed by a child for quarters
as she waits by the streets borders
my planets are in rubber-maid
a collection of moms just trying to have fun
while their daughters sell drinks in the sun
my planets are a smoke-grenade
blinding my sights to sneak up
ten-fold to empty my cup
"how much for a glass of lemonade?"
vomiting letters into words like a monkey mashing into the keyboard
1. i guess i began when i wrote my first word. it was likely my name, in barely a scribble on a page that had the letters in a connect-the-dot fashion.
2. writing has given me ability to connect dots. like how similar societal progression is to dna. first, it is replicated. then transcribed. then translated. then, it is destroyed. first, we had fire. which we shared and replicated for others to benefit from. then we had drawings on walls, based on stories told by the fireside. then we had intellectuals gather and people transcribed their conversations, and this has stood as the basis of government and law making. but the way it was written then isn't understood now, so we need classes to translate it into modern tongue. and soon, it will be destroyed.
3. i want to write a sci-fi.
she said. after months of ignoring me, denying me any humanity. what's my prize? i don't want to be alone, never wanted to lose the one who was supposed to show me the way. i said goodbye because it hurt, yet it continued to resurface through little comments and gestures here and there... i miss feeling like i have someone to turn to. ill always be thankful for this deep understanding of what it feels like to be receiving undue hate, and ill never forget what you've taught me.
wish i saw what i was earlier on my timeline. and echo of things that never began in me. but i'm still guilty, naiveite is no excuse.
wish we could've just laughed about the easter eggs, about the silly shit that ensued. wish i had an apology, but i won, so i guess that's pretty good. i feel the same. the wound is scabbing and closure is coming. for me at least.
my next house will be a cave.
jung said ideas have people
which is rather speciocentric. perhaps both zhuangzi is dreaming about a butterfly, and the butterfly dreams of him. perhaps there is to be a hurricane soon.
i hide from my mind
i fear it
the way it tears my body apart
i need it
mostly, i deserve it
i hide from my mind, and i hear it counting down the Time.
it will come and hunt soon
but i can't bring myself from this open, empty room.
do i want to be torn apart?
a feast for the Universe's most evolved part?
wish it could work with me,
so we could hunt other minds
and feast before the body they find.
did i ever think things through?
when it's most needed, i hide real good
can't find me in my green screen cloak
a cgi concocted hoax.
i hide from my mind
for it wishes for things my body cannot find.