In a binary universe,
you are one,
you are on.
In a binary universe,
you are positive,
you are possibility.
Binary Universe In a binary universe, you are one, you are on. In a binary universe, you are positive, you are possibility. 10.1.13 M.L.Michael
When it comes down to 0 and 1, you’re all 1’s in my book.
(empty platitude of the year?)
7 AM – a sublime sadness stirs you from your slumber, and in those fleeting, fogged out, moments, you’re barely able to maintain your grip on the ghost of a dream now wanting.
it’s the last dream on your mind.
the one dream that always stays on your mind. […]
Residue 7 AM – a sublime sadness stirs you from your slumber, and in those fleeting, fogged out, moments, you’re barely able to maintain your grip on the ghost of a dream now wanting. it’s the last dream on your mind. the one dream that always stays on your mind. this dream is your gold standard, your grasp at a perfect ideal, at a model worthy of transcribing. it’s your very definition of bliss… until you wake, and that dream begins to turn. it wraps around you and it rots. it seeps into you, into your blood, and it poisons your heart. the specifics of the dream fade, and emotions flood in to make up for the loss, leaving a residue to stain your day with the unshakable weight of naught. you forget that the dream happened, and as the day trudges on, everything seen and felt remains tinted by its grayed out lens. the luster that comes from life spent wisely is lost – it might as well be forgotten. only a dull existence remains, one sparked into creation by a dream that can no longer be recalled. work seems meaningless, visits with family and friends, pointless. because within the wells of your dreaming, upon the moment of your waking, a bad seed was planted. your entire day plays out like this, and even though you cannot track the coordinates of the cause, you’re still able to take solace in some familiarity, however brutal it may be. you've been down this road before. and you will be down it again. because you dare to dream the fool’s dream – the one of obtaining perfections only found in dreams that sour upon waking. M. L. Michael 9/7/13
In a bar anywhere, Evan and Elle met for drinks.
This was an anniversary of sorts, a ritual of others,
at whatever bar of wherever-where,
they began sharing observations.[…]
Conversations at the Bar (Evan and Elle met for drinks) In a bar anywhere, Evan and Elle met for drinks. This was an anniversary of sorts, a ritual of others, at whatever bar of wherever-where, they began sharing observations. Elle spoke first. “On the way here I saw two muggings, one assault, and four separate occasions of people shooting up in the streets.” Evan shook their head. “That’s a shame. I saw a kid help an elderly man cross the street. You should have seen the looks on their faces. The man was stoic, yet tender. The kid was proud and beaming.” Elle gave a snort. “That’s nice. Hey, did you happen to catch the news? They’re thinking about going to war with Syria. Iran is threatening to attack Isreal if we do. More shit keeps coming out about the NSA. Nothing is private anymore. Everyone’s nastiness is out in the open.” Evan sighed and nodded. “So I’ve heard. Did you hear that scientists have used gene therapy to repair heart cells? And they found a way to convert stem cells into immune cells that attack and kill cancer. Cancer, freaking cancer. Isn’t that amazing?” Elle shrugged. ”I don’t see the point. Everyone’s eating themselves and each other alive out there. I see it in the streets; I see it on the news. It’s happening here; it’s happening on the other side of the globe.” Evan nodded. “I see the point everywhere. The point is everything. It’s selfish and it’s celebratory. It does well by everyone involved.” Elle nodded slowly. ”I just don’t see it that way, you know that. In fact, why do we keep having this conversation? Year after year after year. Nothing ever changes.” Evan took a long and thoughtful drink. He looked up at Elle, smiled, and gave them a one armed hug. “C’mon, you don’t know that for sure. Now drink up. The next one’s on me.” 8.28.13 M. L. Michael
This is almost a nightmare.
The setting is right, it’s 4 something-god-awful AM and you’re in a dark bathroom, trying to escape the ravages of a body gone ape shit, trying to shut all the dark doors it has kicked open, trying to quell the murder of thoughts threatening to blot out the sky.[…]
15 Months Later… This is almost a nightmare. The setting is right, it’s 4 something-god-awful AM and you’re in a dark bathroom, trying to escape the ravages of a body gone ape shit, trying to shut all the dark doors it has kicked open, trying to quell the murder of thoughts threatening to blot out the sky. But this isn’t a nightmare because you feel a monkey clawing up your back, you can hear it screaming in your ear, “this is not a dream, but you still better wake up. because this. is. not. a. dream.” Those words hit like thunder and throw out flashbacks that disorient. Flashbacks to nights of no sleep, days of exhaustion, and the blurry gray, guilt inspiring, times of wanting to give up the fight. This is dangerously close to a nightmare. A totem in the form of a pill bottle is what drew you to this spot. Your pain delirious steps brought you here, and your spirit-fueled stubbornness holds you back. Here you are…and there it is – the bottle with the quick answers and backwards directions. The simian in the spine screeches, “you can take just one, just one will be okay. And the coven of crows caw, “You’re in pain. You’re exhausted. Just one is understandable. Just one is an honest break.” Their noise is so convincing, so conniving, that you feel yourself falter for a second, a second where you are too indomitable to fall and only human enough to falter. Faltering on the edge of that cliff overlooking a terrible abyss, where you can see the past tense threatening to swallow the present, a shudder of revulsion causes you to take a step back. ‘Just one’ holds the gun, ‘just one’ is apathy on the trigger, ‘just one’ and the abyss has won. No. …The abyss cannot win. As long as you are feeling, the abyss cannot, it will not, win. With one step back, the memories flow in and the tape plays back. Mute and out of focus, the tape plays back. Feelings of the abyss reach out from every moment. The tape plays back and you step back, again and again. Again, until you find yourself out of the bathroom, into the hallway, and finally back in your bed. Instead of a bottle of pills, you reach for headphones and lose yourself somewhere between the ears and on a river. This is not a nightmare. You made sure of that. 7/23/13 M. L. Michael
Dearest Ragged Runner
You are never more radiant
than when you glisten against your struggles.
Because,
when you came barreling,
like the little engine that says, No, I know I can, No, I know I can, […]
Dearest Ragged Runner You are never more radiant than when you glisten against your struggles. Because, when you came barreling, like the little engine that says, No, I know I can, No, I know I can, and you hit that proverbial, that archetypal wall, your eyes said you had never felt so weak, so beaten, and yet, gloriously, powerfully, you kept going. Oh, My Dearest Ragged Runner, There is no greater champion, or louder cheerleader, in your corner, than your proud, proud, drum, beating, beating, your triumphant song. M. L. Michael 7/16/13
In the name of the Muse,
I pledge to you,
with the resonacy of reality,
with the fervency of finality.
In the name of the Muse,
I sing to you […]
A Poet’s Pledge In the name of the Muse, I pledge to you, with the resonacy of reality, with the fervency of finality. In the name of the Muse, I sing to you, of the warmth you give from your brilliance cast unseen, of the values you hold dear within that celestial sheen. In the name of the Muse I pledge to you my joie de vivre, my joy re: yugen, In the name of the Muse I sing to you the passion of survival, of the sun-rise creating and the sun-god defining, of the freedom gained from contemplating how star began and why hearts must end. In the name of the Muse I pledge to you my drive for your smile, that spark, my push for your strength, that fire I know is real. In the name of the Muse I sing to you of reasons to never surrender of lights at the end of dark tunnels. In the name of the Muse I sing to you in the way your smile sounds, in the way your laughter responds. In the name of the Muse I pledge to you only everything I ever want in return. M. L. Michael 06/14/13
I saw Nostalgia tonight.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Nostalgia.
Beaconing, with the tug of a spotlight,
Beaming, with the warmth of sunlight,
I saw Nostalgia radiating in half-life. […]
More than a twinge (I saw Nostalgia tonight) I saw Nostalgia tonight. From the corner of my eye, I saw Nostalgia. Beaconing, with the tug of a spotlight, Beaming, with the warmth of sunlight, I saw Nostalgia radiating in half-life. I overheard Nostalgia sing, through speaking, hinting, never hitting, at guarded chords, soothing, while still stinging, steeping, while still soaring. I overheard Nostalgia, forever, that belle ringing. … I drew in Nostalgia tonight. And with a soulful, with a sighful, breath, I inhaled the perfume of Yesterday, of Yesteryear. I inhaled the memories that I fought to exhale. M. L. Michael 05/23/13
A surreal horror begins when, in the devil’s depths of depression, your mind begins planting insidious questions. “Am I losing my mind?” “Should a sane person ask that? Will an insane person answer?” “At what point does this fear become pointless?”
…… “Am I broken?” […]
Wait For The Punch Line
A surreal horror begins when, in the devil’s depths of depression, your mind begins planting insidious questions. “Am I losing my mind?” “Should a sane person ask that? Will an insane person answer?” “At what point does this fear become pointless?”
…… “Am I broken?”
Those questions have yet to sprout, and already you are ill from a fevered opinion of yourself. Already your mental landscape resembles a nuclear wasteland. Here, the remnants of the war waged in your brain pockmark the landscape, and the sun can’t be teased through a fallout fog. Here, your detoured, devious, mind begins by sowing seeds of destructive doubt. These seeds-on-steroids, gestate negative thoughts that end up spreading their anarchy like poison ivy across your fertile nightmare.
That last question –the “am I broken?” question– is arguably the worst; because the tone of the question suggests darker implications. You may ask, am I broken, but what you mean is, how broken am I?
Taking mental inventory, you become the bull in a china shop. You’re too terrified to commit any serious investigation for the disruption it may cause. Instead, you opt to sit on your hands and judge the damage from afar. In a state of mind not fit for survey, you imagine every break as a heinous exaggeration. Each crack represents a chasm of dysfunction.
If any truth is to be found in this experience, it will be buried beneath a landslide of doubt.
An absurd horror persists when, doggedly treading open water, the life-vest offered by many family and friends is to simply, “stop thinking that way”. As if, in this permeating funk of despair, all it takes is the flip of some epistemic switch to see the light of day and part the gray sea.
Unavoidable bitterness belches up like heartburn whenever you try to swallow their kind naivety, and the salty slap and choke of a harsh mistress muzzle your need for a calmer sea. Oblivious, your loved ones throw pearls of wisdom that they gathered in their travels. These pearls that they see shine with a determined brilliance burn to your irritated eyes with the violence that reflects your turbulent waters.
Knowing nothing else to extend, they’ll tell you that this is an illusion, that you should go outside and walk around in the sunshine, you should go see a comedy with kin, you should visit the shelter and rescue a furry friend. They’ll suggest to you all the things that make one happy – thinking, as if somehow, somewhere, you had forgotten the way.
Yes, this horror may persist, but you *will* persist longer.
And then a comedy will erupt when you wink at the surreal and chuckle at the absurd.
Remember, this is your movie; there’s a comedy to be found in the errors;
and redemption is ready – for those who see it through to the punch line.
1/12/13
M. L. Michael
be ever diligent, little cosmic wonder.
even though you bed in darkness,
you possess the ability to dream tapestries
of light and sound in the realm of your mind.
be ever vigilant, little cosmic wonder,
for when the dust has time to rest,
when crickets cease their serenading,[…]
little cosmic wonder be ever diligent, little cosmic wonder. even though you bed in darkness, you possess the ability to dream tapestries of light and sound in the realm of your mind. be ever vigilant, little cosmic wonder, for when the dust has time to rest, when crickets cease their serenading, that is when you are most vulnerable for introspection igniting self destruction. do not buckle under that weight. remember, at this moment, at always *this* moment, you can dream. 11-10-12 M. L. Michael
I’m in a crowd of unfamiliarity,
with strangers shooting daggers,
and judgements running rampant,
when suddenly I catch a whiff of you
– a blitzkrieg visceral assault of aching hues
of lingering fragrances that knock me from my post. […]
Aromanxiety I’m in a crowd of unfamiliarity, with strangers shooting daggers, and judgements running rampant, when suddenly I catch a whiff of you - a blitzkrieg visceral assault of aching hues of lingering fragrances that knock me from my post. and suddenly time and space are warped, suddenly it is years of scars and wounds ago, suddenly we are falling all over again, and then suddenly I come to, in a crowd of unfamiliarity, where you’re nowhere to be found. -11-06-12- M. L. Michael
Every Breath Poetic 