It is arid in here

[triagonalpoetry]

I lay down in bed and stare
At the wall, so blank and dull
A reflection not of my body
But accurately reflects my soul

Wishing for something to save me
From the wall which mocks me so
I now close my eyes, tune it out
Out of my mind everything will go

In my memories, I see myself
So full of energy and life
Who is this person, I know her not
If anything, I only know strife

"What happened" asked the girl?
"Your presence doesn't feel so great."
At her age I'd wonder that too
Alas, I sadly found out too late

I am reminded how hollow I feel
Flimsy, an exoskeleton which moves
Inhaling before I answer I feel it again
Feeling the air whirl in me to prove

Knowing exactly who this girl is
To her I cannot bring myself to reply
In that split second I have a crisis
And I drop to my knees and cry

Rather than come to comfort me
From my presence the girl disappears
"she never existed" I tell myself
And every thought of her clears

Still I lay, the wall staring back at me
It distorts the soul is without rest
Despite everything else being motionless
The ghost roams, it is aimless at best

Yet the soul sees what the eyes don't
Around me a desert, void of traits and parts
In which nothing but mirages can be seen
Exposure to which can mold stone hearts

Rain needs a source, and I pray for some
Compensating with my own to pour
Before falling to sleep one final time
Hoping to better times I soar

[artolmaeus]

Mary Ann Evans, at the time may have had to do it out of necessity, but so, she went by the name George Eliot and as such, she/he said "it is never too late to be what you might have been." Initially, I judged it as oxymoronic, but, at my younger days, well, I was an oxy moron(though I never took the tide pod challenge either), but at time goes by, I often wonder what Mary Ann Evans would have wrote, and it may have been shit and drivel, but, as George Eliot, something stood out, she had to push something....I have thought to myself, maybe the problem at being "you(reflexive intent on me and not projected to you, reader)" is that you(same thing) suck at it and perhaps, there is a better form to be, a name or whatever, alter ego, personna and after a great deal of decades, it occurs to me that whatever device gets something going, well, good good goody good. As, well, it is still you(again, you refers to me still) and as such, maybe this is the better you, the you that you could have been if you had just been that you all along, and since it is you, fucking a, how much longer will you not be that you that you need to be so that you don't suffer being the you that is suffering because of being your sell-f?
Well, I hated Middle March but loved Silas Marner, not, well, I can't read them anymore, and when I do, eh. Now, as for Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience, nah, though I still draw a great deal of inspiration from them, the artwork is something else.....but I like the name William--Will I AM, and well, there's a music artist and the whole man made concept of God wrapped up in that and I could draw Crowley or Rabbalais into the fray as God and God's WILL or God answering Moshe that "I am that I am"(I mean come on, you gotta see where Popeye's catch phrase came from man!!)or do what though wilt shall be the whole of the law/love is the law, love under will and all that 93/93 shite, or to read Gargantua and Patangruel again, Jesus no!!!! Frick diggity dog. You're waiting for a train, a train that will take you far away. You know where you hope this train will take you, but you don't know for sure. But it doesn't matter. STOP FUCKING WAITING. Kill some day, or leave it be, like often, seldom and frequently are words and much like the rate of how we take a shit, it might matter, however far down, however many layers or if you are kicked up in the present now, even Gurdjieff starts to get old as you realize, his follower, Ouspensky, who wrote out most of his stuff, killed himself in the end. There is a story to Ouspensky as he veered off into his own direction to leave Gurdjieff behind, but, to basically the pupil copied the teacher, whereas Gurdjieff had a big thing on "remembering yourself" and Ouspensky had this next level thing, I reckon, of "eternal reocurrence" in some ways, it was a shitty rehash of Satre's "Sysyphous" and what if it was not the "gods" at all that cursed him to the same rock and the same hill, but Sysyphous himself....dreams or for real....as best as I can translate a Jewish standard "my hands are steadfast" it is a word anglicized as "emunah" which can loosely mean faithfulness, steady, steadfastedness....how does one get some "emunah" for one's self? Well, I think T.S. Eliot got it, and wrote it out in old possums's book of practical cats(I prefer "the hollow men") but that a cat has three names, the scientific one, the one that it's owners assign them and then the third one that it and only it alone knows....memories, all alone in the moonlight....but somewhere in all this diatribe, there has to be a buttnugget therein....of course, I am conflicted with which term is worse these days "buttass or assbutt" as there has to be some difference to the order of things and I think I would rather be a buttass than an assbutt, as I think maybe mild to harsh is a better start than harsh to mild...........................as I have embraced that I am not really an asshole but a wholeass, and as such, most asses have a good kick and then, well, maybe I should use the name Jack somewhere in all it, magic beans and beanstalk, but, inevitably, my stage name as a mandolin player is Moses Lee which is not really a hard derivation from the name Moseley, but since, many people called me Moses, especially a great grandmother who had the tattooes from the holocaust and my best friend Eric since the third grade to this day, it did seem a good fit.....kinda like pondering how it feels in the difference between the Latin ex nihilo nihil fit and creatio ex nihilo(this is kinda the explanation that Aborigines have of the Dreamtime and how all of life was created, the creative elders created themselves out of the eternal world for in which they never were till they created themselves)....paradoxes and ponderances, but somewhere, still a journey in this form and incarnation and it matters, regardless of what you do, what you do, matters, in some inevitable way, and that, is, yours.

[artolmaeus]

and well, Moseley's origin as a name means either a woodland clearing or something of a mossy peat bog....not quite the same kick as a Leonidas or Dick Butkiss...then, well Moses(water) and Lee(shelter from wind), well, slightly better...methinks, but not a kickass name either, but it will do.