Conundrums!

Nothing but ‘conundrums’,  tactile songs of life,  hurt and death.   Mutilated dreams.  A side ward leap (of all kinds).   Brushing our teeth,  falling hair,  and the snowfall that comes or not.    Happy with changes,  chains of our own devices and external visages.  Looking in the mirror is not a vision of validation, but a portrait of someone else.

No cat cries or the crows feet that becomes whatever we wish  them to be.   Hills and valleys with slow-leaking dreams,  that are shuttered, squared and soon forgotten.  Past lives and artist pallets smeared by the weight of philosophy and the cottony clouds of faith.  God as fast-food or a mooring point of transcendental being.  Like a train going faster downhill, and the clambering effort to find ourselves,  between tragedy and a still pond.  Heights and Success and a   Frisbee, thrown from a rooftop, like a drone with no purpose falling to the ground, eschewing the literal from autism s.

Finally the Borealis Rainbows, a taciturn goblin, shedding Peacock wings, like a cat’s meow.  I blow by stops, I raise above the ether into orbit, rising from antiquity, with a somber soliloquy and beds of finality,. with shocks and snares of frightful stares.  Epic in peace, painfulness no more.

“The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it’s indifference.”
Elie Wiesel

Mistakes, comas and period.  The end

Forever gone.

Larry Olson….

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Everyone keeps telling me that time heals all wounds, but no one can tell me what I’m supposed to do right now. Right now I can’t sleep. It’s right now that I can’t eat. Right now I still hear his voice and sense his presence even though I know he’s not here. Right now all I seem to do is cry. I know all about time and wounds healing, but even if I had all the time in the world, I still don’t know what to do with all this hurt right now.”
Nina Guilbeau, Too Many Sisters

Approaching 60, The big 6-0.

One person’s take.  Mine!!!!

You know, life gets interesting past 60.

When a date’s underwear covers their belly, and you tell your friends, she’s a “keeper”!

And a breathalyzer, you welcome it.

What about when shuffleboard is a considered a contact sport?

You go to the DMV and consider yourself lucky, when your golf cart, doesn’t need a learner’s permit.

Another psyche job, is when you go out to eat with your young ones and hand out

Your phone number to a 22 year old Hooter’s girl and can’t remember why.

They kids don’t know, that you are serious.

You knew all the Golden Girls, when they were 12 and you had a date with Betsy Ross, before she sewn the flag.  A flag?

You call a computer, “that fandangled thing”.

Your first date was named Gertrude and her hair was already grey.   You were so proud of her and knew her SSN,  when there was only two numbers.

You think that TV Evangelists, really care about people and you send them all your money.

You look at the clock and get in your car at 4:00, go 20mph, during rush hour and then go to KFC and flirt with that Asian girl,  God bless you heart!

You know are getting old, when you kick the tires on your walker.

You and your wife, comment, what’s a remote? (TV)

When using an escalator is an extreme sporting event.

You go a sock-hop and wonder what ‘rap music is?

You think that, the music on an elevator is hard rock.

You remember when no one smiled in a picture!

When a pup tent, was a 5-star hotel!

Mighty Mouse....Saturday mornings:

When you think sooner than later, are the same.

When Ronald Reagan considered becoming a Communist.

When you confuse Benny Hinn with Benny Hill.

The crank on your car broke.

When you commented about Two-live crew, “I should hope so”.

When Bad Grandpa was good.

 

Wile E. Coyote (also known simply as "The Coyote") and The Road Runner are a duo of cartoon characters from a series of Looney Tunes.  In each episode, instead of animal senses and cunning, Wile E. Coyote uses absurdly complex contraptions (sometimes in the manner of Rube Goldberg) and elaborate plans to pursue his quarry. The Road Runner vocalizes only with a signature sound, "Beep, Beep".:

 

A fish downstream.

Remember, a dead fish can flow downstream, but it takes a live one to swim upstream.
W.C.  Fields

The War of the Worlds inside my mind.    Anxiety and Depression on one side,  Seizures and Epilepsy, on the other.  Like a nation,  in the midst of battle, participants languish there,  while politicians ponder the narratives.

An excuse to gloss over the  acts of war.    Inside my brain,  little battles rapidly coalesce .  The net effect being like a lost street, now overgrown.  Confusion,  malaise and the lost synapses, brooding in contempt for each other.

 

Between anti-convulsants and pills for depression,  my anxiety,  like a bastard knife ,  penetrates my thoughts. The anxiety causes depression and I float along, until a seizure or the waves of confusion awaken to the thrust of reality,   into the middle of a battle. A place, I cannot identify.

Stars are no good,  for navigation.  They mix like a cup of Alphabet soap.  In there somewhere, I am. Groggily picking my way.  Upstream or down,  I cannot tell.   On this planet,    I dwell wearily.

Larry, 19–

Like Lambs to the Slaughter!!

There was a call to arms by men in high places,  putting on the charm, while soldiers tied their laces. Never ever  considering the risk and ruination.   Then screaming, in false bravado, “we’re doing it for our great nation”. (Politicans and Tax collectors)

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The huggers of infants,  and Redwood Trees, in jubilee they trust.  Spending our money,  with profligate lust,  claiming our birthrights,  our sons and our daughters.

We have Gideon Bibles and a tract,  but only,  if we send in,  a few hard-earned dollars.  Benny Hinn and Al Sharpton  will make it all good again,  with a wink and a show of hands.   My, we are dupes,  and body counts,  you see,  we pay the ultimate price,  while our sons and our daughters plea.  Time for miscounted votes and a new batch of babies,  our sons and our daughters, they join the Navy.

Nothing wrong in protecting our nation,  but the blood of babies,  our sons and our daughters, in this great nation.

 

 

 

 

Milk and Honey

Cookies and Milk.

 

I had my friend Bill,   we rode our bikes

and played together.   He had his own

friends and so did I.

 

 

On an Autumn day,  after the leaves

had fallen,  new neighbors moved in.

I watched them unpack

and I noticed a girl,  about my age.

 

My mom and her’s became friends,

and this girl came along too.

We eyed each other skeptically,

and the mothers had for us,

cookies and milk.

 

From then on,  we became fast friends too,

and our cookies and milk, as well.

Every morning with our bacon and eggs,

were fresh cookies and milk.

 

And each day,  when we walked to school,

our arms about each other’s shoulders..

In grade school even, with smiles on our faces

we walked to school and teased each other.

At home,  whenever we appeared were the

milk and cookies,  of course..

After our explaining each day,

we went outside and played, until

our mothers implored us, to come in and eat.

 

Pretty soon,  our classmates teased,

She was ‘cookies’ and myself,  ‘Milk.’

But we were best friends and we WERE

Cookies and Milk.

Never dreaming that that our

love could grow deeper and deeper.

 

Then one morning, I noticed a change.

Her boyishness figure was full of curves.

Her haired smell nice and her hands

felt warmer.

And instead of arms around each other’s

shoulders,  we walked hand in hand,

still ‘Milk’ and ‘Cookies’,  never apart.

 

We added a caveat, to our names,

for honey and baby,  entered the fray.

But still,  we were,  and forever

would be,  ‘Milk and Cookies’.

 

And as we grew, our journeys

went to different, and secret places

to discuss and wax over each other.

Milk and honey and but still

Milk and Cookies.

 

I carried her books,  hand in hand,

and our texts,  everywhere, and I meant,

everywhere!

Milk and Cookies,  Milk and Cookies.

We went on our journeys,  walking with each other,

Milk and Cookies and Cookies and Milk.

Inseparable as  wind and the rain,

dark and the setting sun,

We still were of course,

Milk and honey to us,

Cookies and milk,  to all others.

 

Cookies real name was Cheryl

and my name does not matter,

as you will soon see.

Milk and Cookies?

It started to rain overnight.

The fog held itself close.

 

In the morning,  the rain had ended.

That morning,  it was different,

and the do0r bell, went unanswered.

When my friend caught up to me,

he trembled,  with tears in his eyes.

I am sorry dear friend, truly, truly sorry.

 

I remember ‘Cookies’ and so did our

school,

Milk is all alone again,

and Cookies looking down.

but in my heart, they still.

MILK AND COOKIES.

COOKIES AND MILK…

Magical Melodies

Our Muses,  one by one, with no excuses become faint and are swallowd up by the ether.  Two by two,     we see what was and what will be.   Those two sets of footprints, washed away in time. Overlapping sentiments.  The tired rain,  cries.  The memory however,  like stranded leaves,  just out of reach.  A mom,  gives  birth to a brother or sister.  Something else to lose.

And with the ice,  the solid c0ld, and the snow, remain inert.  Frosty prologues with a cutting fog, stares back at us.  Fondly remembering. We cannot remember the song,  but we remember the words.  Like dangling participles and a candy cane on a tree.  The smell of cookies and ginger bread and the twinkling lights,  we pine for evergeen,  under a mistletoe and stolen kisses with the taste of pink reveries.  Childhood never dies in our prime, nor in the future on a bed of pillows.   Make this season be, with poetic  flames,  spreading the best of times,  the fragrance of beginnings, and the exit, with purity reestablished.

Incomodious Odes

King

It is pleasing to be pleased AND more than desirable to be desired.   To be desirous of being another one is  better than being a Kate in the Bush or rather two Kates or Phoebe Cates is a conundrums or two out of a pool.

Does the smell of a sagacious skunk offset it’s perspicacious  nature and esoteric wit?   Does the dying flower die to be on it’s own grave?   Is Willy Wonka a policy wonk or a Hershey’s kiss desired?

Every rose has it’s scones and every Knight has his flower,  so by that are we to assume,  that a stinky rose’s prick a knife?  Just wondering my friends….   I guess that makes me wonder what I am not sure.

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Do you know where you’re going to?

Dianna Ross had it right,  but we struggle against the obvious.   The same reality that life is a transient soul a waiting place for something else.   Like I cannot prove to you anything that you are unwilling to accept and the only certainty is deduced from what I believe I know.   I am not seeking approval but at an ear.   To hear my passionate regard for most everyone who has an honest take.   Not the cogitations of mindless babbles trying to sell a book but the real crisis that is every day life.

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In the abstracts our dreams provide a kind of nexus,   to examine our world.   The only deducible result is that we better pay heed to the needs of others.   This idea that we are somehow original is funny because everything we have imagined,  has been thought about before.    It is kind of like salad dressing and choosing between French or Ranch.   We have people who would place their soul on the line just to prove to you that their choice is somehow unique.    None of us are,  exceptionally original.   That is the pride of the status quo.  That some equal would tell us what we already know.   Elucidating on a variable that was somehow hidden.

The brutal reality is that we are created to create.   Our effervescence can be misconstrued as divine intervention but I am sure that a sovereign god does not need endorsements.   Like saying that we know something that God wouldn’t.     OMG Larry,  I never knew that!  ok,  sure!

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And how do we know the answer when we do not know the question?   Last night I dream t that some bad individual was going to take my life.   I hid beneath the ATM drawer,  half suspecting that my location was known.    That person knew I was not in support of him and I think he respected that, given the circumstances.

As things unfolded I spared my own life.    For anyone familiar with ‘Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs’  is aware of my conundrum.   For anyone still in doubt it was my sense of fairplay that gave me street cred.   I was able to parlay a take into resolution,  both preserving dignity while saving my life.

I would like to believe myself being in the final and most basic sense as Freudian and as classical and pragmatic as Socrates.    I hate mean people and even if I disagree with a lifestyle,  I would fight for it as saying to bullies,  “Bugger off”.

So what does this mean?   Well I see far too many people pretending that the Emperor’s pecker is not exposed and willing to attest that his rainment is fine and original.  Joan of Arc had nothing to lose but everything and any soldier of any country who is not diabolic,  sees the intrinsic value of a single soul.

emperorsnewclothes_43_Timo

Men would say a ‘penis’ is of the devil but a labiA is not the objective.    They ARE wrong on both accounts.   The demon is in the details and a patriarchal take on decency.  My heart breaks at the lonely soul with no place to live and the idea that others look down on them.   I look down on those who look down on them.    I realize they had no more of a choice than the man in the moon and just maybe that man may know something we don’t.   Afterall,  he loves the Moon and that is his reality and ours but a nuisance to be discarded.

If I sound like a rambling idiot, your perception may be right,   All I know is that suffering goes on unabated.  The teeth of death spares no one but divinity and I am not even sure if that is true.  I believe God respects the questioning soul because I believe he rather tires of obsequious fools.    Letting a witch die was as much a lack of their own  virility as the perverse notion as that young women peeing as she dies hung on a hickory stick.    If you want to locate evil,   it is not Harry Potter or that name who cannot be mentioned but our own infidelity to our own most passionate values.

People who say sex does not matter are abject liars.    Everyone wants to believe that there is some quintessential probity to a random collection of meteoric imaginations.    Fallacious conclusions are less battle worthy than dandelions in an EF-5 Tornado.    And politicians like rock stars find their quarry in the missionary position and that their rewards in intimacy is beyond the ken of ordinary people.

Like the ill-fated garden in LA to the guard in the Wizard of Oz are the implacable assertions of a slave owner on the 4th of July.    In too many occasions women are pussy on a stick.   A most sumptuous carrot of all.   A viking grabs her by the hair and conquers her while oppressing that same valley with an air of the King’s English and the voluptuous boob jobs on a modern day Barbie Doll.    Misogyny  in a mask of velour and beheading the soul of exposure.    Your member truly does depict you and women see the depth of the valley and the intercourse of fairness.

hELIREErotic Fresco Painting From Pompeii

My next excursion will be the scent of papaya that wafts from the nature of nature and not the moralistic reverberations of hypocrisy.

I would rather have a woman a lot like me.   Sexually inclined and not afraid to be a women and not afraid for me to be a man.   The others are trying to protect something that is not real.

The honest man acquiesces to the notion that the eyes are that flame.   That transcends time and understands her more than any player could hope to.

Quiet Desperation. Rewards Found in Shadows.

I feel pain and many times not even my own.   As a younger man I was working as a Forecaster at McGuire AFB in New Jersey.   One evening the weather observer blew past me and basically seemed to ignore me.   About an hour later she asked me how I knew something is wrong.    Her husband was high on crack and tried to shoot her with a shotgun.

I cannot remember how many times especially with females that I sensed this desperation.   A kind of pervasive fear that riddles with the soul with uncertainty and knowing that people do not understand.   Those who think they know depression and anxiety or to get over those things.

They assume much and without any comprehension of who I am and what I do for others.  The best medicine is compassion.   A feeling heart that is vulnerable but equipped.   It comes as no surprise at the misogyny directed at women and those perceived to be weak.   Most men could not bear pregnancy and yet they carp at women as the weaker sex.   We are both the weaker and stronger and we know what the rules are for that.

We struggle to find things we can color as black and white and a way of a common ground that makes us better,  whole and deluded.   Unfortunately there are the parasites who willfully and aggressively open up scars and believe they are doing good.

To those,  we just walk away,  confidently but with humility because this is an anathema to haters.   Knowing we know where they are coming from.   Two still equal two,  yet the contrary spirit inherent in all of us,  wishes to play the devil’s advocate.

The tears of a friend spent towards a person especially a man who is trusted is almost sacred.    A girl and a friend I knew in Germany was near suicidal following a rape and resultant pregnancy.   She was lost and afraid but I just listened and told her that it is her decision,  whether to keep or abort.   She said I was the only one who treated with real respect.   Not strong opinions and judgments and love that is platonic and still sexually charged.   Without the sex.  Trust.

She decided to not abort and the baby was given to a mixed couple who the Army decided could not have kids by other channels.   Here were people who touched my heart in different ways and all where touched by some kind of angel.   I need to find her again as this was long ago.

The point is that we should listen.  Drink in the moment and appreciate the flavors of experience which if decided to be shared are a nectar so sweet,  that is permeates our brains with compassion and heart.

Give me this.  Take to a place where prying eyes dim. ‘

Give me the honesty to know the time on the clock.

Take me to the door that blesses our entrance,

to the sublime nature of harmony and the steady beat of time.

Give me the mind and the heart to hear.

To move past the shadows

and into the purple throes that fill me with wonder.

sunnude

JungA

The Village

In the still of the night in a remote cabin tucked away from the rest of the world, exists a place within itself.     With respiratory tides of sleep,  the snoring of the night is almost too faint to hear.   But it resonates in subtle whispers like water-bugs on a secluded pond in the middle of an oasis.     The rules are suspended here in this harbor hamlet, a tie-dyed miasma of ideas clashing and jockeying for position,  we attach meaning to these subtle pinpricks.   Suggestions emanating from our perceptions and the texture of skin and the warm breath of emotion.

Night

The night’s camouflage is perfect cover for in that stillness lies the city that no one else can see.  No shutterbug can capture the synergy that glows like the Northern Lights and burns in spasms upon our souls.   We find meaning everywhere and like the first man and first women we discover ourselves together.    Little battles form and we prepare our defense,  only to find that our own sense of oneness can overcome the me.   Our id is suspended and we present as a single flame.   The torch burns hotter than the sun but only felt by two.   The seasons give us a scale in which to measure and adding and subtracting makes it a lot better.

So I guess we live in little spaces away from the chattering crowds where we hear our own heavenly harps and the burnished clouds that come and go.