Bleak

Austerity in posterity,
the gaunt ruin of the dark tower.
With Grim realization and compliance
to sever our mind and spirit.
The psychopomp stares
with icy patience; unnerving,
compromising all but the most
ascetic, whom have the least to lose.

But for the unsustainable rest
huddled for warmth, surrounded
by desolation,
the sterility of what remains
is defined by our trajectory.
History's revolver topples
even the most titanic of empires.
Reapers of what we sow.

Live from RoosRoast

The act of existence is explicitly so in our namesake. A human, being. The unfortunate reality is that, for most humans, simply being  does not suffice. As a result, many seek answers to questions such as:

"Why are we here?"

"What is our purpose?"

which are currently out of the scope of human comprehension to answer adequately, short of accepting that we're here to exist. Our purpose is to exist. We aren't called Human figure-it-outs.

Rising in parallel with our knowledge as a species is our ego, and with that growing trajectory, a further disconnect from the natural world. 

A Briefer History

Since then I've been introduced to punk-rock pancakes and to the alchemy of coffee
We've found ourselves in two Outbacks–one a destination and the other a vessel
Perpetually in motion in search of downtime, we strive to outrun Han in Kessel
The balance of motion and stillness; questing for ever-present tranquility so softly.

The Wind Dancer

What happens when the wind dancer finds neither the wind which moves her effortlessly nor the desire to put the next foot forward and walk the forest rows long(ing)?

The soul extinguished, whence powered by the movement of air, lay to rest this past, emotionally-taxing Winter. They say the only thing guaranteed in life is death and taxing—what they don't say is who dies and that all is taxed.

A Spring burial finally permits the breaking of ground. Even the metal claws of men advised against it during that time of perpetual darkness. The ground now flooded with water pays a several billion year homage to the original cellular orgy as life begins anew. The seeds strewn vindicate our solar absence.

We hold séance to summon back the subtle winds which, in lockstep, awaken our sleeping phoenix prima ballerina. Akin to uprising from rooted incubation, the perpetual balancing act of temperature and pressure re-kindle the firestarting winds of warmth.

Thinking in FLAC

The wavering of her voice, I can hear her think out loud

and uncompressed; down to the very vibration of the vocal cords

having an identity crisis thinking that they're vocal chords.

The audible vinyl pop and crack of her knees as she paces

back and forth, floorboards shriek under duress, feeling 

barely less stiff than her sore legs, or so she says...

Hybrid World

Adaptation towards
the vigilant camaraderie
that calls forth
the uniting of power and nothingness.

Standing in the demilitarized zone,
the spectral periphery
between man and nature,
a separate piece; to each their own.

Roy and Biv on either side, always greener .
The carefree and brutal nature giving way
to the organizational structures of order
or is it the other way around?

Merging forth the unlikely harmony
momentum for the hybrid world.
Embracing the wisdom of nature
4 billion plus years senior.

The Persistence of Feeling

How amazing that I touch 58 buttons to form this sentence.
More amazing that I subconsciously chose this number correctly.
Only to validate myself with precisely 58 touches to the →.
Wonderment defiled by cold, surgical knowledge.
Time wasted in the name of preserving my schizophrenic Ego.

There are lots of big buzzwords I learned to say at my job
so the people in charge would believe what I think:
expectations. quantifiable. statistically. initiative. metrics.
along with:
alignment, momentum, camaraderie (though some prefer synergy).
Ultimately, it is numbers that speak louder than words.
More than a thousand pictures...unless they're stacked bar charts.
Oh, and accountability.

I ramble on with a Pavlovian fear of the after-hours on-call
cellular device—weighing heavily, capital ventures over personal.
Incessant boredom with the mediocrity of pre-middle management.
While a safari of ideas persist nestled in the shadowy crevasses
of my mind; Untapp'd in lieu of redirected professional optimism.
Caught up in The Game, climbing a Sisyphusian ladder evermore.

The 2/7 compromise weekend salvation freedom preserves my sanity so,
as I yank down the marionette and repurpose her strings to floss out my thoughts.
A bloody act of fine-tuning my mental health.
Dentists and psychiatrists implore the same wisdom—
that time can be found any day to strengthen this tissue
and ensure the persistence of feeling.

Floored

Chet Atkins' early years (Disc 1 of 5) wafts its way upstairs
old-timey jams between saw buzzes and hammering—not to the beat.
Measuring, laying the self-install wooden planks over poured concrete.
The knights of the kitchen table rap the keys of their aluminum
devices—iconic, but not to the bluetooth air-wave-form music
and infinite prowess over the 802.11 radiating our cabin fever souls
while snow and cloud blanket Gaia and Sol.

The Green EP paces itself along, centralized sound accompanied
by a symphony of sniffles, hiccups and the revolutionary Kitchen Aid;
mixing and mixing and mixing and mixing and mixing
the recipe for warmth in a dip of buffalo chicken for the big game.

Free-time reading and free-range cooking partake in dance with
the floor-by-floor workers, respectively. Where one commits his youth
martyred to the preservation of the future, the other commits to the
antiquity of words and experiences to bridge the new to the old.

On Chaos

Balance, like Utopia, is but an unsustainable destination. We do what we must so that we do what we wish, but the unbiased gravity nags relentlessly; teetering in either direction against our will thus throwing the world back into chaos. The elephant in the room thus becomes the notion of accepting the chaos for what it is, mount a sled and leverage the pull as an enjoyable downhill ride.

While we may find ourselves wavering in temporary bliss, our realization of this conquest so enacts the indiscriminate up-shift in the proverbial Chaos Engine. That is to say, we find ourselves in pockets of perfection only so long as it is not sought out.

Life is not inherently difficult unless one should find themselves perpetually struggling to maintain this balance rather than allow its timeless crescendo and conclusion. Around every unknown corridor exemplifies life's potentiality for simultaneous odds of adventure or doldrums. And while so much of our assumption systems rely on automatic knowledge (I don't expect to look out the window and witness the snowfall literally freeze mid-fall in memoriam), the true predictability of our knowledge (read: belief) systems are meager at best.

It is for these reasons that I accept a "less-than-ideal" life. Our culturally bound notions of what life should be so greatly skew the worldly beauty that exists in the full scope from mundane to tumultuous that I deem the dreams of blockbuster action movies, fairy tales and the like to do an injustice to the realism, and thereby wonder that permeates our filters unbeknownst to our Pavlovian response-based brains.

There is something to be said in riding the endless wave known as life in the universal sea, and while the vibrations of such traversal may seem unorganized (perhaps even unorthodox!), the vibration of waves supersede our own fundamental understanding of travel in that these vibrations can seamlessly pass through one another unscathed. That degree of perseverance and interaction within the fullness of the ever-changing universe provides a necessary purpose, and thereby a necessary comfort for our so-uncertain existence. To rely on the ability to persevere, to thrive, to experience. That single, simple notion of riding a wave that will cease to falter, in its most majestic crests and hopeless troughs, from shore to shore, and with split-second alignment with the rest of the universal ocean, provides reliable transport, and intangible understanding of the overwhelming chaos.

Paradise Transient

The pull of Utopia beckons the good will of Man, but upon arrival at the gates of dawn, elusive stagnation of existence.

A cat looses focus of the game should the laser refuse to play, throwing the world back from whence it quested and longed.

Like so, the life of the trapeze artist, mesmerizing in her ability to walk the line, above it all, absolving her knowledge of the catch-all net below.

All-being, spotlight shone and centered, yet simultaneously nothing, a show, drifting without purpose for the pure sake of amusement. Isn't it all so amusing? Isn't it all so laughably trivial and wonderful?