Nature's Got My Number

I've stepped into this pattern-
Where the sea becomes the air,
and the air becomes the rain,
and the rain becomes the sea.
I'm going to have to fight hard against nature
not to get pulled out of your bay by the riptides.

Sweet charity!

Why is it that with a heart full of hate and a fistful of rage, I could write a book. Between the eyes bulls-eye, my creativity is always higher when I have a target. Even if that target is sometimes myself.

That stench.

Can you see me down here from that high horse you're on? It amazes me how someone so logical can get caught up in such a world of ignorance. Anarchy? Defiance? How's reception on that cellphone.
If you want to be a pillar of the examplatory human, get it together. Stop preaching about how much you don't care what other people think, if that were the case you would drop the tough exterior. Nothing irritates me more than someone who presents themselves one way to the world and acts completely different behind closed doors. Be consistent. Be yourself.
I'm assessing the view from down here. Don't look at it as judgement, who am I to judge. I have more defects than an '86 Ford Tempo and no qualms about admitting them. Shit, I blog about them.
Just please stop acting like you hold the book of answers. If you're selling it, I'll surely pass.

Nothing But Death by Pablo Neruda

There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.

Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no
finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.