WEEKLY WTF
03-31-25 Edition
Pay Attention
Oh Spring
Yardwork Contemplations
Mindhole
If Only…
If only I could sleep,
wrinkly pink meat could think.
No, I’m not nodding off!
I just had a long ass blink.
If only I could sleep,
I’m tired- that’s the gist.
The only eye staying open,
is the one that’s on my fist.
If only I could sleep,
plunge deep into the black.
Die the little death,
lie in my coffin sack.
If only I could sleep,
heart and breath could waltz.
But I stare up at the ceiling,
measuring regrets and faults.
If only I could sleep,
I’m tired of being tired.
Coffee can’t even touch this,
I can’t get fucking wired.
If only I could sleep,
and awaken in that dream.
The one where she walks and smiles,
so real that one did seem.
If only I could sleep,
and forget that I exist.
Then awaken with a bushy tail,
and hunt what I resist.
But…
Better to be AWAKE,
observe and actually see,
the ones and zeros of reality,
are a dream arranged by me.
Better to be AWAKE,
lucid outside of sleep.
I’d let my thoughts dream themselves,
not a single one I’d keep.
Better to be AWAKE,
and notice- so is she!
Fuck all the shit I cannot change,
if I accept it I’ll be free.
Better to be AWAKE,
to allow myself to feel!
Everything I perceive is me,
none of this shit is real!
Better to be AWAKE,
nightmares become a mirage.
I’m pulling off this dark ass road,
gonna park in my bone garage.
Better to be AWAKE,
but wait, I am just that.
Let the past and future sleep,
I’m awake right where I’m at.
Better to be AWAKE,
accept both moon and sun.
Life is another kind of dream,
there’s only 1 dreamer dreaming-
just one.
X Marks The Spot
Death.
It hides behind life.
It clanks and groans at us from the shadows.
But we don’t want to hear it.
Not today.
Not today.
Maybe tomorrow though.
We try to hide from it in the light,
thereby avoiding the spindly stain of its shadow on our forehead,
an X that incessantly whispers.
Not of evil things no,
to those who suffer it whispers of sweet release.
To those who cling it chants of annihilation.
Its only promise though-
is inevitability.
The greatest teachers wear the greatest disguises,
death is adorned with the black cloak of aversion.
It gazes with its winter eyes and we wither.
It looms like evening shadows and we shrink.
Its soft whisper is like dead leaves blowing and we shiver.
We are all marked, every one of us,
with a shadowed X upon our brow,
as we unconsciously march in life’s procession.
But to consciously make of life a death march
is to savor
every- single- fucking- step.
Should we gather ourselves to face our grim stalker
and boldly rip away deaths cloak-
we are surprised to find… nothing.
And nothing terrifies a self proclaimed somethingness more-
than nothingness.
A forest is full of death,
but without lamentation.
Branch and leaf,
fur and bone,
are simply recycled into the unified loam.
Not a tear is shed.
A forest is constantly dying and being re-born.
Un countable births in soil and branch,
yet no one celebrates,
there is no one,
because nature does not limit herself through individuation.
Except that is,
through “us”.
And what do we make of life?
Of this rare and temporary fluctuation in the field of reality?
Do we love or do we fear?
In our dualistic ignorance
we shine briefly but brightly
like gunpowder alight.
Nature descends into amnesia,
and resides silently
behind wet eyes and wrinkly pink meat.
Death is the womb of all life.
We are all marked.
Be reborn into each and every moment.
X marks the spot.
Dedicated to Miracle Maisie Mae
Toodaloo
