Archive for category Literature: Stories and Poems

releasing flow, receptive absorption.

Dear God make my giving and my taking change forms.

May the giving shift from a pushing forth what is mine,
to a releasing flow through me what is, was and always will be yours.

May the taking shift from a grabbing what I want or think I need,
to a receptive absorption of whatever You flow to me.

And ultimately through me.

For me there is time.
A time for this and a time for that.
For Me, there is no time.
All is here now, though there is no now and no here.
Only Now. And. Here.
No tea, no pee,
Know tea, know pee.
Pee.

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A Search for Romance Ever

Beauty, my dear friend is something that hits your eye but can, at the same time, dreadfully hurt your hand.

My dear father explained
years ago in my ladhood
That beauty is in the eye of the man holding the bee.

Strange though it may seem
This is what my father taught.
And he did seem quite confident on this point.

Though his premature death
made further explanation unavailable
I have taken upon myself the practice of putting every girl I date to the venerable bee test.

Curious to them
as it is painful to me
it keeps my hands to myself at least for a time. They seem to appreciate that.

With that bumble or wasp held firmly in palms’ cavern
I gaze upon the object of my suspected affection.
Putting an end to conjecture, I subject her.
To the view amidst the familiar tears
that well up in my eyes as my insectual guest loses patience with his entrapment.

I open my hands and set him free
and through the tears of pain I gaze upon my gal.
If through blur I concur with previous assessment.
The evening continues.
Though first mendicament.
Ah and if per chance her countenance is lacking.
As I release the bee I send her packing.

‘Tis an odd ritual I don’t deny.
But father planted the seed, so who am I?
To walk away from such a thing.
Simply because I dread a sting?

For the love of my life I continue the search.
And this trusty test won’t leave me in the lurch.
I’m sure it’ll lead me and I’ll long to hold her.
For beauty, I know, is in the eye of the bee holder.

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Dripping wet but out of the pool

Bob my friend, calm down. You are dripping wet, it is true. But Bob, five minutes ago you were in the pool itself! You are so much drier than you were then, and you keep getting drier by the moment. Bob my friend, you are moving in the right direction.

During your days in the pool you were completely enveloped by wetness. You barely understood that you were wet. It was so essential a part of your environment that it barely deserved notice. Ah but now, Bob, with all the progress you have made, you are living on dry land, surrounded by air. Breathable air. And now, dear Bob, now in this world of freedom breathable you find that you have an unneccessary parasite traveling with you here. It is that pesky water from the pool of your past. And so yes, you are wet. Very wet in fact.

But the true state of things with you isn’t wetness. You are a man of land and air now. The water will evaporate in time. Perhaps it needs a little help from an absorbant cloth or a warm breeze. But the water isn’t the state of things with you today. The pool is of the past. Focus on the water and you are likely to say, “fuck it, I’m wet anyway. I may as well jump back in the pool.” But you are one of us now, Bob. You are a free man. A living breathing man of the earth and air. Welcome. Welcome.

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Let the Towel do the Drying

How could I have missed it?! And you! How dare you write me off as a madman for what you think you saw. It’s not that I was intentionally tearing the skin from my body with that towel. Aye, I thought I was merely drying myself as all others do. Nothing you taught me hinted at the fact that towels do the drying. You made it seem that this was something I myself was responsible to accomplish.

What a discovery I have made! Such a beautifully organized world this turns out to be! The preordained physical properties of my precious towel make it so that all I need do is touch that blessed object gently to my skin — drag just a bit — and the drying happens magically. By itself!!! Your eyes tell me that you think me foolish for not knowing this until today. How dare you hold yourself blameless! Why did you deny me the truth for so long?

And what’s this? A knife too? Indeed it is so! The knife cuts when placed with just the slightest force on that which is to be cut. Be it steak, bone, wrist or throat. The sharpness of the knife, like the absorbancy of the towel, requires only minor participation and cooperation from me in order to do its job. And how much else in the world works this way? What other facts of worldly functionality have escaped my introspection until this day?

Oh what a fool I have been! I have been working too hard for so very long. Unbeknownst to my struggling, striving soul, this world is set before me in such a way as to require so little of me. Gentle participation alone would have taken me so far. Why did I not know the power of simple acknowledgement and sensible use of the properties of the material world? I exerted myself so forcefully all these painful years. And for what? The world does not require fevered exertion from me. I need no longer play the ferocious slayer nor the relentless defender. Oh what joyful relief! Rest is at long last a possibility.

But it is not yet time for rest. For I have been grossly wronged — by you and by the others. Why was I not told that my true responsibility is but gentle effort, persistent willingness, sensible use of self and object? You and they have denied me vital, vital information. What a dear and painful price I have paid for your omission. Be they acts of neglect of or conspired viciousness, you shall not have them for nothing. What a fool I have let you shape me into indeed. What a mad mad of pain and now wrath you have created. Woe to you that denied me the truth and set me on this frenzied course. Woe to you indeed!!

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Cook So Long

If per chance the rain should wane
Would we dane
To go out on the lane

And purchase grain
Which we’d subsequently drain
And cook so long we’d go insane?

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Poem for a Palindromic Bro

A December 21st Poem

for My Dear Brother Eddie

My brother’s fifty-two.
So here’s a little rhyme.
His birthday’s ten days past.
But today’s even more sublime.

For if there’s any little thing.
To give his aging engines charge.
It’s a palindrome of numbers.
On calendar writ large.

Now what’s a vice prez wannabe…
…have to do with Ed? you ask.
No, no! Not that Palin,silly.
He’s in Cleveland, not Alask.

No, we’re talking about a word.
Line, sentence, number or verse.
That means the very self same thing.
Read forward or in reverse.

From earliest memory ’till present.
My big brother’s shown me the path.
To seeing funny patterns in things.
And playing games with math.

I remember when he showed me at 8.
That numbers sometimes lie.
Hey, Eddie himself would be a palindrome.
But for that pesky little “i”.

And so in 09′s final days.
With his birthday past by 10.
And my own recent birthay.
A multiple of ee-lev-EN.

I give this gift of poem.
To my beloved mother’s son.
I wish him a happy birthday.
But even more, a happy twelve twenty-one!!!

© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon

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Da Parness Pour Tansey

The parness pour tansey
Up ultimate
Go dansey

fettered all the while
basie and goodman
ellington style

phillys do but jenny don’t
neither knows over
the ways that won’t.

Be it do it set it free
axes of ultimate
gobbledee glee

© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon

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Radial Rusty

The lessson was born back in the day when certain schoolkids thought it good sport to step a vicious ball-of-foot on the back of another’s shoe. Sneaking up from behind these naredowells would deliver the dreaded flat tire, an affront — or aback it should be better said — more to the ego than to flesh and bone. Not to say that many a bone leadingg to the heel wasn’t bruised or skin risen like ruffled feathers beneath a newly pinking sock. But the wound was more to the ego. It was just after suffering my fifth such attack in less than two school days that a plan I now consider dreadful was delivered to my unprotected brain. I say “delivered” because I accept no blame for the idea. It just popped up, really. I know that I am guilty for having acted on it, and I live with my fate.

Having served my time in Juvi Hall and been released with two promises — one overt and the other silently understood — I bear the cross of a thousand Jesuses, though the flesh wounds of holy nails are not mine. The overt promise was that I would not do such a thing again as had brought me there. As my first go round at fighting back had earned me a reputation as someone not to be trifled with, such an action wasn’t necessary in any case, so there was no skin off my heel on account of that guarantee. It was the second promise, the unsaid, that has doomed me to the thousand pound weight of unendingly painful restraint.

I was made to understand, you see, that a good fellow would portray contrition constantly and without armor crack. Contrition and contrition alone would do if I was to be regarded as rehabilitated. It matters not that the regarding was only in the eyes of the one time jailers, none of whom would be with me to regard any further. Nevertheless, their imprint on my psyche was — and was known by them to be — ultimate. So profound indeed was their steel bootprint that it compelled me from the inside out all the days of my life to play the obligitory promethean pentitence as if they, like a panel of gods, looked down from the curtain tracks as humorless, harsh critics, curtain to curtain, day after oppressively theatrical day.

But just beneath the reach of the boot track of my one time all time jailers, somewhere near soul’s edge, remained the everlastingly ignightable evil glee, glowing steadfastly. Eternally. Sweet, sweet revenge knows no limits in its satisfaction to the ego, no matter its temporal price.

Pride, though the soul’s enemy in the ether, is its inextricable partner from the vantage of physicality.

And oh how sweet that bloody day was. Who could think a foot could bleed so much! Cascading waves of electric joy frame my edges and explode orgasmically from my insides to my borders and back again when I become aware of the emotional memory. I say become aware because once you’ve had it, the feeling never quite goes away. Deep within me this seemless pleasure lies, ironically sustaining me through a painful life caused solely by its very existence and, of course, decency’s dictation that it be concealed.

© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon

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Mediums in a Misty Midst

At the culmination of arduous legs on parched journeys in search of the not-so-famed Oracle of Dromedary, our very own Martin, upon finally gazing into the ize of said wise man, could think of only one question to put forth. “Hey,” he staccato blurted, bringing forth his inner Tommy Chong. “Is the plural of medium media or mediums? I mean like, I know the plural of medium as in materials — y’know — that’s media, but how about a channel for the spirt, like you man? Like, is that mediums? I mean those?”

“Man is but a tube of paint,” came the silky smooth if pseudo cryptic response. “And each day the heavenly creator squeezes what is required from him, until all that remains of us is a stained and crinkled old container, ready for recycling.”

“Yeah, man.”

“And thou shalt treat that container with reverence, especially in its later years, for it bears the fingerprints of the Divine.”

“Whoa. Divine, man!,” Martin beamed, then forgot to resist a comment on pop culture then and now. “And you’re not just talking about that fat dude dressed up as a lady. Travolta sucked in that remake by the way. Not really, I just wanted to say that. Huh, huh,” Martin bubbled off.

All smiled blissfully.

“But mistake not any of the tubes for that ultimate, Heavenly paintng which G_d uses our inner essence to create.”

“Well wait a sec. I don’t know about that dude. I’ve seen some funky ass works of art made from what most people would think are leftovers. Did you ever see that house on South Street in Philly, man? Or that ‘Throne of the Third Heaven’ guy down in DC? Like, I don’t know man. Couldn’t the tubes themselves be part of a creation without you ever noticing it. I mean, like, some wider aspect of a bigger ‘It’? Like I don’t want to offend you man, but maybe you need to open up a little more.”

The oracle bowed.

© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon

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Coin Shop insurance

Bolly is a serial small scale scamster who cooks up at schem for opening up a coin shop in order to commit insurance fraud. He opens up his hobby shop, loading the shelves with cheap supplies and coin related books. He makes documentable purchases, mostly on credit, of expensive collectable coins with a total wholesale value of about $100,000. Once he fills the display cases with common junk pieces he opens up for business and quietly sells off the good stuff one piece at a time at coin shows out of state, using the proceeds to pay back creditors in the order of the squeakiest wheel first.

Having broken even, Bolly bides his time, waiting for the inevitable robbery and his insurance payday. While he’s waiting he puts on a good show of things, playing the role of a coin enthusiast and shop keeper. The shop steadily becomes an afterschool haven for a group of troubled teens. Bolly becomes a reluctant positive role model for them. Becoming impatient, he purposely makes lots of sloppy, forgetting to lock windows at night, loudly proclaiming that his alarm system is broken iin front of dozens of people at a local coffee shop, etc. The interrelationships between the various teens and the middle aged counterfeit storeowner become increasingly iintimate, challenging his sense of who he really wants to be. Will that darned that robbery ever come?

© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon

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