Pirate Queen

And today
with the indigo streaks of dawn abating past the drawn linen curtains
there existed an old fear of doing nothing
in the face of everything
so I will take my pirate jacket
and walk in leather boots
in search of a love, a sword, or a letter
with transient thoughts of electricity winding in thin blue veins
throughout the edge of fog ensconced mountains
holding defenses like an age old keep.

The blackbirds flew in arcs the other day
against the backdrop of a quicksilver colored sky
that wafted in clouds of fulminous gray
like the dead steam from an old freighter
approaching a harbor on the thin blade
of horizon's West-observed dawn.

In the road,
the cracked old pavements
without a draught of beer
with the dreadnoughts of old nightmares
escaping an eclipse and sunset
with visions of tremendous violence
in a rafted holding pen of ships gathered like artificial atolls
where ten thousand queens
lorded over diminishing supplies
and the few pirate men
drank the last beer
before strafing procedures
by cloth winged biplanes.

I should have known love before
in the itinerant appearances of love messages
sent through a telepathy
as she hoisted her correspondences
with sniper's scope and bewilderment
as pale as the envy of a sea green sky.
Those blows from oars fell only on the ocean's skin
and below the tremendous surge of ink-infused black
fountains sprayed like oil and blood
at the verge of a longboat's wreck
but for the daliance of a maiden's hand
that sewed a pattern of oleander leaf
in silver on navy blue
were we lost for love
as the correspondence stricken with irreal guilt
did melt away in the diminished floatings
of an offshore stationary left to disappear
beneath the dark blue of tides
that lapped like a disturbed cistern
in gradients of love and hatred.

Outlog

Network assistant programming reset today to restart point on the twenty third of January, successive restarts failed, inadvertently downloaded internet software suspected of crippling drivers and factory computer qualities.  The laptop functions like a scanner.  When uncertain of travel options, rely on searches and mental examination of strangers and friends on the internet.  The news articles are becoming sloughs of falsity, and communiques on Facebook and email express negligent and harassing promises in terms of known acquaintances.  It is recommended that a break is taken from drinking beer and wine for the time being until the population's weather changes for the better. 

Halfway thinking about what an electric guitar would bring to my situation in terms of increase of positive values in Life.  It has been recommend and encouraged to purchase a high definition screen television, potentially for gaming in the future.  An electric guitar or violin would necessitate an eight track recording device and amplifier, and may be more expensive and less encouraged with concerns to the listenings of current housemates. 

Waiting to get paid in two days, desiring hamburgers and soda instead of alcoholic beverages which is a positive signification.  Poetics have receded, straight truth is better anyways.  The filing systems of the police are filled with junk data and garbage, taken advantage of by intransient and unknowledgable persons without empathy.  Recent assessment of my mental acuity has placed me at Psychic Empath Intuit, Perceptive of Truth and Facts.  There are no current problems besides future planning, I have accomplished the Joan of Arc mission of justice in life and feel significantly sleepy after experiencing horrors and beauty. 

the poems behind me

Parched cracked sidewalk
on the highway out of town
and junk cop cars
with rigged light systems
flashing orange
instead of red white and blue
as though the road
were some loading zone
where thieves pulled over thieves
and my heart beat faster
at Midnight
when they tracked my bootsteps
from across the brush fields
behind a supermarket complex
left dark in the forlorn planes
of a small mountain town.

Later I had dreams of jealous love
and not in love letter format
but twisted with apparitions of steel and metal
that formed into the commerce of coffee
then and early in the morning
leaving me to wonder if sometimes
my dreams are symbolically psychic
or just repetitious
to the waves of Reality
and the undertow
of a less wakeful Beinghood
where I traverse through matter
unlike a ghost
but cautious and unalarming
frightened of wendigo lore and violence
without offensive weapons.

I knew my armor well
for it began to pattern like tattoos
across the nudity of my body
and I wondered where it wouldn't stop a pistol slug
or those broken dull urns
they save
for powder of ash
and broken ulnas
that weren't my keeping
or relevant to my corpus.

I should have taken a car
but for the wind power
of sailing gestures
leading me into blockades
of dark uniforms, blades, and chains
that didn't resemble the Hellcat dress
that I grew fond of
in drab theater performances
until I gathered that metal
carried some kind of electrostatic resonance
that could blow apart a vessel
containing magnet powder.

I could have sailed earlier
but the nightmare of hatred felt in the cabin
would have warded off any animal
much more a person.
Now the story is about unaccomplished violence
that I will let die and rest dead
in a cushioned crib
made of linen.

Notations, January 26th 4 10 PM to 4 28 PM

This is my writing with a fledgling readership.  I changed the information and seemed to have gotten less readers for some reason, as though the former title of "Strange Wren" encouraged reading.

The assonance of poetics in a helter skelter environment appears dismal with the afternoon freezing mist hanging behind the dull emerald needles in the pine trees.  Glass and mirrors are becoming concerns.  Do I have enough material on my mind that necessitates writing the truth?  Yes, but not within the proportions of an encouraging reconciliation.  My view of policing units, for instance, has frayed in its conceptions.  I feel that policing apparatus has become an exercise in mental illness and that jail and prison systems only encourage the debasement of law in terms of financing and execution of anarchic imprisonment.  I don't want to see the police, on the road or in person.  I also don't want to see that many people in person or talk to them.  Not that I am that reclusive, but it is cold out and the temperament of certain individuals I have shared time with in the past seems to rest on their narcotics habit.  I am debating borrowing money for beer.  The outpost here is slightly warm but it is snowing outside now.  The prospect of beer seems like a benevolent exercise in abating the fringe beginnings of emotive paranoia.  I get worried, especially when considering the past cruelties of a life spent under the scrutiny and persecution of insane executors of speech, word, and action.

If I had friends, we could listen to music and embrace each other, and if I had a girlfriend, I would kiss her lips deeply over a bottle of wine.  I don't really like discussing love that much these days, but for a week there was a flux of interested parties who I vetted before sorting my relationship options down to solely myself.  It is cold and slightly harsh in the mountainous environment, I have no spare space for a lover, and it can be frustrating enough to carry on with the housemates.  I wonder now what the future allotments in life entail.  Do they exist as reminders of times past, as fluctuations of immediate Beinghood, or as gold symbols that regard the future tense as possibility instead of probable happenstance?  Is the future warm or cold, hot or dark, thin, or ample?  I want to embrace a woman of age, smell her ample perfume, and have her respond in kind, and maybe have her present me with flowers in the middle of a sparse and hard won winter.  I am not a psychopath or errant, I am not a fool and I am not a masochist, but these qualities have seemed to stop relationship prospects, or is it my capability and willingness for truth telling at any cost or outcome?

Outlog

Weather conditions are approaching freezing point, the sky is overcast.  Hike into the mountains stalled based on financial credit system and low temperature.  Toes accumulating cold in leather boots.  Transmission from Los Angeles County expected later, designations about purpose beyond psychiatric prescription check up questioned.  Flummoxed by roving spies last night in the open midnight atmosphere, wendigos feared.  Concern about town and housemate substance abuse rising.  Paycheck arriving in three days at night through electronic transfer.  Search for a friend with a vehicle have been negated by known drug dealer apathy in work environments, and transfer of my personage into a vehicle seem less than likely.  Mountain fire road travel into Apple Valley is a possibility, but marked trails seem complicated to traverse especially at night and with the cold wet weather arriving.  Forty two degrees outside and cloudy.

Destitute Outlog

Considerations of Being Estimation in terms of Living Value outside of Worker Commodities has seen a Plunge recently in Valuation of Labor.

If I had a Blaster Pistol, it would Burn Up the Kitchen.

Let's Dance for a Night, For the Rest of My Life