Imagine –
in the midst of the ink of Oblivion,
floats a lone candle – a solitary flame
.
Does it flicker, in despair,
or does it dance, out of defiance?
Don’t You Dare Think Despair Imagine – in the midst of the ink of Oblivion, floats a lone candle – a solitary flame. Does it flicker, in despair, or does it dance, out of defiance? 06/25/12 M. L. Michael
WHAT TIME IS IT?!
It’s time for Steve’s WILD AND CRAZY STRAWMEN SALE!
Are YOU tired of losing arguments you KNOW are WRONG?
Well do we have the deal of a lifetime for you!
Yes, Steve’s WILD AND CRAZY STRAWMEN is having a
MASSIVE STRAWMAN SALE!
All of Steve’s WILD AND CRAZY STRAWMEN are half off! […]
WHAT TIME IS IT?! It’s time for Steve’s WILD AND CRAZY STRAWMEN SALE! Are YOU tired of losing arguments you KNOW are WRONG? Well do we have the deal of a lifetime for you! Yes, Steve’s WILD AND CRAZY STRAWMEN is having a MASSIVE STRAWMAN SALE! All of Steve’s WILD AND CRAZY STRAWMEN are half off! It’s not a going out of business sale, it’s a stimulate the economy sale! YES, YOU HEARD ME! HALF OFF!!! With deals like this, who needs to stop and think?! ACT NOW. -M. L. Michael- 06/29/12
Strawmen are some of the most common types of fallacies that you will come across on social media.
So much so that I figured someone has to be off selling them like mad.
Wake up to the sight of a dozen crows perched on the horizon
and the dream of Dorothy becoming a fickle thing,
and her ruby toed goodbye being a sour sort of thing,
because now a swollen bruise hangs in the sky, and the crows wont stop cawing.
Wake up to find there’s no place like a home that’s haunted.
-there’s no reason to fear the dark- but reason enough to save yourself;
its the do or die test– the water is coming, its a sink or swim race;
now try and run with your dreamers legs and your clown shoes. […]
Wake up to the sight of a dozen crows perched on the horizon and the dream of Dorothy becoming a fickle thing, and her ruby toed goodbye being a sour sort of thing, because now a swollen bruise hangs in the sky, and the crows wont stop cawing. Wake up to find there’s no place like a home that's haunted. -there's no reason to fear the dark- but reason enough to save yourself; its the do or die test– the water is coming, its a sink or swim race; now try and run with your dreamers legs and your clown shoes. Wake up to the racket of a dozen crows ready to roost, (there’s a murder causing hell over your roof, ready to rain away any chance of a parade if you don’t claim your higher ground.) Wake up to the panic of there’s no time left on the clock. the storm is here, and the flock has found their cuckoo nest. ready or not, you better fly and finally soar like the rest, so take heart, steel your mind, and summon old courage and forget the crutches – they’re only handicaps on a brick road. Wake up to the alarm of a dozen years dreaming, so encumbered by your heavy coat of slumber - you fight familiar demons masquerading as nightmares, discouraging you from leaving a house now flooding, making mute this place you called home where now only the crows sit and the water waits. Wake up to find Dorothy had bailed from this merry-go-round left a note saying you weren’t ready this go around – that the storm is here and you’re still struggling with the baggage. still sluggish from a longish slumber, yet to comprehend the emergency of sobriety. Wake up to the sound of sirens singing the murder song and you cursing out your best swan song - “the ship is sinking – abandon all ye sleeping, make out for land! No time for weeping, break past the line of constant return. This time, wake up for real!" M. L. Michael 04/30/12
By April of 2012 I had enough with the cycle of taking more and more pain medicine until it eventually unraveled into a destructive downwards spiral. As soon as I noticed this happening I told my pain management doctor and we decided I should go to a 30 day rehab clinic right away.
This poem was written in the middle of that night from a dream that woke me up. In a mere six hours or so after this was written I was being driven by my parents to the clinic.
A random encounter, a chance delight.
She sat in a chair, which may have well been a lounging couch,
I sat next to her, in a chair that may have well been bathing in sunlight,
and –by the causality of a magazine that she was merely browsing-
the furnace in my chest was fueled and stoked into a fire for our conversing… […]
From A (from Bee) to Z (Safe Sex #3) [a journal poem] A random encounter, a chance delight. She sat in a chair, which may have well been a lounging couch, I sat next to her, in a chair that may have well been bathing in sunlight, and –by the causality of a magazine that she was merely browsing- the furnace in my chest was fueled and stoked into a fire for our conversing… Still…nervous as a bee approaching an unfamiliar flower, I buzz, like the bumbling-bee only I can be, -being careful not to be overt with my bobble- …being careful to not wobble, tilt, or, topple… but to merely give, ^flutter by flutter^, to gravity…so I may land as sensual as a feather; …but instead, I prove my previous bee-behavioral thesis: with a fall&fail, with a thump on my rump, that’s followed by a blurt of some improvised blubbery: ‘Ah, Discover, that’s is a great magazine. Are you a subscriber? I am… …I see you are reading about one of my favorite subjects, too. Ya know, what do you think about all of this nano-technology? All those miniscule robots – acting for our favor, with a hive like mentality.’ She laughs…and I struggle to gauge her range, “Oh, I am just casually reading. I’m not too familiar with any nano stuff.” I push up my glasses; and straighten up in my chair, ‘Oh well, hell! The possibilities are mind-boggling, they are…infinite/infinitesimal!’ Then, looking into her eyes, I added, ‘…but of course, they’re brilliantly altering…as they are dangerously threatening.’ She folds her magazine and pivots to me. “Really? You sound so psyched about them. Are you some science major?” (…I’m netted, tangled, in her eyes… and released to only stare down at my feet…) ‘No, just a science geek; if anything I’d be a journal major, doubling in dabbling at a lover of life from A to Z.’ My nervousness tickles at me; but I’m merely grateful that I didn’t sketch her a complete stereotype by chortling as well. She chuckles, again, in a pitch I cannot catch, (although I am already needlessly cursing myself over the miss) “Oh? So, you’re double majoring in some fake degrees, and a lover of all things A to Z?” Another laugh, this time I know it’s jest, but still not sure what at. Instead on lamenting over paranoid speculations, I’m picking up these specks of nature, of hazelnut, in her oaken eyes… And I am stammering for any specks of conversation from the ruinations of my tries, ‘No, I mean, yes. I love…anything…well almost anything. Whatever celebrates life…anything that…explores reality… So, yeah, all these things - A to Z… From… ah…Aesop’s fables to…ya’know…stuff like…Zodiac symbols.’ I shame my self with my forehead in palm, and my shoulders quake while my head shakes… but she laughs, this time in a rhythm with me that I cannot mistake, for it’s the sound of candy unwrapping, of a jolly-rancher undressing… ”From Aesop to the Zodiac… and, really, all those letters in between?” One of her eyebrow lifts, and suddenly I’m darting, from this flower to the floor, those vibrant eyes to my dull toes… ‘Yeah…yeah, I’m definitely not lying when it comes to something so…fleeting.’ I sense a hint, an uncomfortable silence verging on becoming a pregnant pause; and I eject: ‘I’m sorry, I was just trying to be stupid, or silly - whichever, really.’ Her eyes brighten and those specks shimmer like lacquer in the light. I am awkward at a level beyond a tipsy toddler…or a fumbling bee, and before I can summon all the courage, as young Arthur did before Excalibur, a man comes out of the bathroom to tell her “Hey, Honey, I’m ready; let’s go.” She puts down her magazine and tells me it was a pleasure… I nod in honest agreement, but with a somber smile as a place card. When she is out the door… I crack my journal open… and I start my pen buzzing… M. L. Michael 2.16.12’
Sunday,
and I have tickets to see one of my favorite bands.
My weeks been building towards this wonderfully, undeniable day,
this – one helluva – sanctifiable day…
I put on my Sunday best, a limited, old concert shirt
(it’s like a form of passive bragging; subtext saying: this is how
long I’ve been supportive and loving). […]
Sunday Sunday, and I have tickets to see one of my favorite bands. My weeks been building towards this wonderfully, undeniable day, this – one helluva – sanctifiable day… I put on my Sunday best, a limited, old concert shirt (it’s like a form of passive bragging; subtext saying: this is how long I’ve been supportive and loving). I called all my concert going – this Sunday loving gang.. And we listen to the band for the hours to drive up, and speculate on our set list dreams, and our ideal-concert-heavens … We are acting like the band’s geeks, fanboys/girls), acting like disciples, because no one is shy to show off even out of key singing, their air guitar and air drumming, because singing and playing along in this company is everything during these drives.. We arrive early to a stadium/or club, almost filled with fellow fans, all of them blowing their excitement around like a refreshing wind… It’s almost like a carnival at that point, with booths and tables selling merchandise for the band, and stadiums or clubs selling stadium and club priced drinks and food… When the band takes the stage… The lights go dark and the crowd lights up. From the front row that can see everything, an uproarious explosion occurs, and like shockwaves, it is carried out and out until even the people in the very back, cant see the band all that well, but, are yelling, and chanting their name. The energy flowing from everyone is densely massive… Bright-eyed grins and the chaotic sounds of their yells finds no difficulty in causing a fireworks of their inner fires… Until the moment the first song begins, and there’s a Big Bang of energy, …I’m chanting, and then I am singing, applauding, hooting and hollering… Till the last song ends, and the music echoes off, and cheering simmers down. …By the time the concert is over, I am hoarse, and worse, already sore because they have the songs that just limbo my limbs to life, despite the fact the next few days my spine will gripe… But I’m alright, because I’m on this incredible high… Where, I’m tired as hell, but way too hyped to shut these eyes. On the drive home, If anyone is willing to listen and share, I’ll be saying: I can’t stop thinking of how they changed up this song, about that solo from so and so…and that interlude that happened when… I can’t help but live it up, all the way, till I park my car, and still reliving all of today before my head hits the pillow. I’m dreaming of jolting jukebox music, crowds of a pulsating glow… That’s my Sunday… …and in many ways – I try to make it my Everyday. once a week day M. L. Michael 11/11/11
For the curious, the band was Dave Matthews Band, and the show was at The Woodlands in Houston, Texas.
O, my sweetest peach, ma chérie…
let me bestow your petite mort…
With a petite-grand finale;
come the gifts of fireworks & fantasia…
the gifts of a first breath and a last breath, the Gift of LifeAndDeath… […]
la petite mort
(the little death)
O, my sweetest peach, ma chérie…
let me bestow your petite mort…
With a petite-grand finale;
come the gifts of fireworks & fantasia…
the gifts of a first breath and a last breath, the Gift of LifeAndDeath…
And let me bestow you such a pleasure
such a celebration of this, life that we use as a given,
for we are faberge fragile – if ever we are;
we are….right-now, right-together…
Maybe my words of mortality conjure up images of the gothic and finite,
but I promise you {my holdin’ one} I am no hooded ghoul here to steal your light…
I am already a bearer of my own light, and I’m the bearer of your little death;
orchestrating the chorus that sings of your unique meaning,
that accentuates and punctuates a galloping breathing –
for that two in one special: the synchronization hearts beating…
When I give you your little death,
then I will admire an afterglow as bright and wide as the sun-shattered earth,
which will lead into a flush of life, a longing----stretching---- birth of joy –
through and through – let it thru to your every trembling toe;
your sin-sensational declaration/the ringing of your ecstasy’s exclamation…
…Echoing/echoing/echoing,
through and through – let it thru; this is a reaction of the shared alone–
…Echoing/echoing/echoing…
this is The Big-Bang of Personal Proportions,
through and through – let it thru, to every sin-sensitive bone–
as of this moment –you are triggered by pure electric reactions…
O, my sweetest berry, ma chérie,
you will be my own, little scythe/my own, inspired little death,
and our sheets will be cleansed in death-sweats; and, as a pair of ghosts
we will wish to die again, and again – so that we may have another chance to cherish,
another time to haunt… to relish… to flaunt,
ours/yours/my, grand, petite mort…
08/19/11
M. L. Michael
Addiction can be so insidious … a muted snake in the grass…
without a hiss or rattler, one can easily become bitten…
And depending on the snake in question –
because of the local anesthetic of a devious snake
one can doubt if they’ve even been taken;
and only the widest-aware, can recognize a ‘minor’ sting of irritation,
for the spreading disease of the venom’s deconstruction.] […]
(Addiction Observed)
The Story of the Serpent’s Aisle
[…]
Addiction can be so insidious … a muted snake in the grass…
without a hiss or rattler, one can easily become bitten...
And depending on the snake in question –
because of the local anesthetic of a devious snake
one can doubt if they’ve even been taken;
and only the widest-aware, can recognize a ‘minor’ sting of irritation,
for the spreading disease of the venom’s deconstruction.]
[–1–]
This courtship begins…
I was lead into the tall brush by people who we were all told to trust,
White coats that I came to revere, in a unquestionable, priestly, veneer,
who –upon the moment of finding traces of venom from snakes they well knew,
drew me an arbitrary line – like drawing perfect circles in the Sahara sand,
that gave them the power (or divination) to plot a schedule to work with their appointments]
‘Physical Dependence’ –which is now part of most medical jargon,
and ‘Psychological Addiction’ – a weighty term that’s cropping up more often…
[These words are always defined in referenced books; but never taken as seriously
as anyone who from anyone has felt the dehydration, the delusions, from the weeks,
the years, of confusion; when one’s delirious decisions making more hills for the all inclusive desolation of their desert resort. their regrettable conclusion.]
White coats, with allegorical colored collars,
gave me the venom I readily desired,
and explained it all away as an, ‘increased physical dependence’,
and, vehemently sold that anything else was rarely ‘physical addiction’.
“Because, based off what we have here in your chart – you have every good
reason to hop a long our pres cription branded ponies…
You may not see it…but your body’s failing at its internal-repairings.”
So, under the threat of breaking down in the middle of hell’s nowhere,
I billed my repairmen by the hour,
and in return they gave me everything,
all of their super-synthetic everything,
…in increasingly, unaffordable, increments.
And always…”psychological addiction” was the word next on their lips.
…they warned me of a desert of addiction,
yet they’d mentioned it first, in its lowest key…
so that by the time I found myself in the desert,
I was already over so many sandy hills – that this mind’s desire to thrive
created mirages out of things I knew to be an ongoing desert’s divide…
But then!
White-collar-coats swoop in as soon as I give the signal;
and rescue me to another prescription…maybe, now, an anti-venom.
And, now, their saying it is my mind that’s malfunctioning too,
and as my only repairmen, I bill them by the hour,
for their super-synthetic rewiring,
of incredible, damageable, redefining.
[–II–]
Now, this courtship is finally revealed…
Although one is called “dependence”, and another is called “addiction”,
They’re two sides of the same, unbalanced, coin.
That can only balance when I decide to say, “I do”.
…with words that taste of sand, and sound of broken acoustics…
…with a taste that thrashes the throat, and a tone that irritates the ears…
But when it reaches this heart…
when it reaches this heart,
it hits upon a well of buried wishes,
it gushes up promises of a shooting star,
that if I honor it at all,
till death do I, and only I, depart…
[–III–]
Finally, this courtship is threatened…
When I can snap out fast enough from the delusion,
and fight back for my life, my freedom of choice;
to become that lovable lion,
and fight for my courage to make all right.
To defeat my beat of being so snake entangled,
and come out with my life stronger - via that divorce…
06/17/11
M. L. Michael
Come on, come all! To the oldest charade in America!
The trickster poet-all, the slightest-of-hand politician,
sharing the same secrets behind the curtains,
knowing the same shortcuts behind a mark’s eyes..
for pulling the heart and purse strings of billions of marionettes.[…]
The Barkers are the Loudest Medias & The Stage is painted with Reds and Blues Come on, come all! To the oldest charade in America! The trickster poet-all, the slightest-of-hand politician, sharing the same secrets behind the curtains, knowing the same shortcuts behind a mark’s eyes.. for pulling the heart and purse strings of billions of marionettes. The bleeding speech writer, the alligator-eyed orator; The donkey debater, and the elephant enunciator, are in a symbiotic shout-off...turning the noise of irony into sound-byte harmony- that is nothing more than the braying at microphones over the fumbling economy, or the stampeding clouds of rolling thunder- that is the misdirection away from our, ideal, jolie, Lady. --- See this as a coin – distinctly symbolic – of one of our oldest and most insidious shows, that only becomes more brass with every travel it tumbles through the air, from the thumbs of Americans, shouting: Donkey "Heads!", or Elephant "Tails!"… who, for variables of reasons, are blind from the fact -- it's no matter who called it. It’s still the same, corrosive, coin that falls on the land... It’s still the same, corrupt, circus that fools the ticket holder's hand.. 07/09/11/ M. L. Michael
It begins with a simple enough premise:
I think, therefore I am.
…This is my life, and this is existence.
But after that, ideas can wonder – rather abstractly-
and like discovered mines – I’m now questioning my own know-whys.[…]
Descartes Declared My Love Best
It begins with a simple enough premise:
I think, therefore I am.
…This is my life, and this is existence.
But after that, ideas can wonder - rather abstractly-
and like discovered mines – I’m now questioning my own know-whys.
:::
I know because I can knock on a wooden door,
(and hold my breath when you answer – with *so much* more,)
I know because I can gaze at some country panoramic, setting-sky-surprise,
(and see an equal beauty, pooled within your eyes,)
I know because I can taste funnel-cakes in Carnival air,
(and feel your tummy’s rumble for a cake that we might share,)
I know because I can smell …some scent… I can’t yet put my finger on…
(and become flooded with all the joy, the love, of all you’ve ever done…)
For me, and for you, it begins with a simple enough premise:
I think,
therefore
I love you.
\
…and we work from there…
M. L. Michael
05/09/11
I have a dream…
and in this dream… I am a fish:
I’ve been swimming along for a while now,
out in this fascinating, seemingly endless, ocean…
I see little worms, wriggling, deliciously, ahead,
and I eat ‘em as I go along… as they make me swim on, with a bit more steam.[…]
Fishy Awareness
(This is for “National Fish Awareness Month”)
I have a dream…
and in this dream… I am a fish:
I’ve been swimming along for a while now,
out in this fascinating, seemingly endless, ocean…
I see little worms, wriggling, deliciously, ahead,
and I eat ‘em as I go along… as they make me swim on, with a bit more steam.
I swim along fine, for a while…
until I notice…there are hooks! dragging me against my current-will –
draining this fish’s steam powered body of more internal combustion!
So, I fight and swim, I fight and swim, slowly losing against so many hooks…
until I am just too tired…and I cant find a good pair of hands…and I give up…
Watching the ocean I love being reeled away faster, I think –
Ok, wow, ocean; so, this is it…
Some of those bullshit worms, actually had deceptive little hooks in them.
…thanks for the great warning…
And then in this dream… I, gratefully, wake up.
Happy I am not, really just some dumb fish…
But still, oh-fishily leery,
about delectable, detectable, worms,
and possible, horrible, hidden, hooks…
05/08/11
M. L. Michael
Every Breath Poetic 