There’s the story of dirt and soil

A hand that moves the mountain

Will of transformation

Will of healing

Majick is the sweat in the rain

Removing one to replace with another

Building the shelter

Time is a legacy

Committing to the act

Loss in this fragile fire

Heart filled with ashes

Don’t vacate the pain

Painting by DHBogucki, 2020.

Everything changes.
Why melancholy?
Struggle sets me inside
a chicken coop.

Feeling safer with
the salmonella sisters,
the day blends with
the light of a flare in the sky.

Blue, a poem by its very
nature, regards this world,
makes us whole.
Return my being

into solitude.
Align, stretch, crack,
free…
Home,

I am beginning to make
It function.
After weeks of isolation
I accomplish surrender.

~

Janitors, maids, housekeeping, physical plant, and orderlies; they are literally picking up after everyone else. What is a fair wage for people who make the world cleaner for others? Why are people who prepare “your space to your specifications” viewed as less critical, less valuable? Why does society believe they should be paid so low?

Perusing the internet reveals this work is labeled “entry level.” What does that mean? Does it mean they can expect to advance through the company? No. Not really, but it does mean it could be your first job. We’ll see if you can show up…

I didn’t want to write today

But everything is at the surface

I didn’t have time today

But it’s already too late

I gave in today

Because the jolt of consciousness that gave me liberation

Is my only voice

I can’t today

Because time will not stand still

Mode

Sold a tapedeck

Without a pause button

No restaurant at the end of the universe

Collapse inevitable and wished for by many

You just have to pick your horse

…

I know what death looks like

Its jaw eternally hanging open

Awe and guile slipping through the gap in Its teeth

The puppeteers hand mechanically spitting out words for the weak

Too afraid to raise their voice

Too stunned to question the line winding to the cliff

Hollow on the inside

You describe the outline of love with precision

Its rotting carcass heaped at your door

Even in this world of beauty

You tug the hemline of dread

It’s not of you to leave

The cycle of your own making

Pushing death to the surface

A new Daisy for the sunshine

Clinging fuels your hunger

So you hack off another limb

Standing and leaving too simple a solution

And how you got here.

There is nothing more exciting than the mundane, life in its weary drabness as you drag on into your late forties. Especially if you have been living life as a constant midlife crisis. Everything can and has been abandoned for reasons that now seem trivial, but give it time, any wound will scab and get picked away.

So, why all the blather? A big move is taking place, but I’m doing it within a relationship. It’s a total cluster-fuck of a move, but this is where life is.

Life also managed to blunder into a dream job, only the blur…