whatareyouthinking

The first in a row
of parallel train cars
from a tightly packed set
placed back in its pack
once the holidays were through.
Stored on a floor
of gravel, ice and mud.
The air conditioner’s hunchback
protrudes from a window,
and serves as a shelf for snow.
It slowly keeps falling.
The porch sports grass
that never grows
but wears out slowly.

I dwell inside this box
of dissonance thinking
this might be one of my last
nights. Not knowing if I’m
ready for my relationship
with these walls and the city
that taxes them to change.
I contemplate this chance
to work and to thrive
in a climate that’s rarely cold,
yet always Christmas.
Does this purported paradise surpass
free coffee, free food, free mechanic,
and those who greet me daily,
all about to be forsook?

With divided mind I pray for a sign
of whether its time to leave this place
behind. Then sleep falls upon me.
Ice falls upon the earth (later
to be masked by a deceitful
thick blanket of snow). I awaken
in indecision, start toward
my car to take my racing
thoughts for a ride. I slip
off the fake grass and fall
baptized into the cold
reality of what is left
for me here.

You’ve torn through flesh of animals
And crushed the nuts of trees.

You’d hang with others like you
To tear all that enters to pieces.

Yet today you slimy sharp stone
Send me a biting signal. The nerve.

Buried beneath pearly white
Lies a canal of bottomless agony.

Like an alarm with no ‘off’ switch
That must get unplugged to stop.

In different times, you were
Indifferent like the Buddha,

Detached yet still on task, intact.
Now all the years of your toil

Consolidated to this message of pain.
A vengeance I can no longer endure.

I will level with you. You must go.
This same fate awaits your friends

Who pull the same.

An unlikely store front
With action behind its glass
The motion of resolution
Proceeds with assembly line efficiency
With no product of their labor in sight
People pushing, pulling—repetitiously
To the beat of cast iron clapping
Hands hanging bodies from arms
Racing to elevate their masses again
Some struggle through weighty endeavors
While those at a nearby spot
Reluctantly lend their hands to help
Another approaches the bench
Pressing the limits of muscle—but not of steel
Thunder pounds from feet of sweat-soaked runners
Running in place of where they’d rather be
Aligned with their goals
Their machines in a line
Bounce as the rubber beats the belt
Buckled from wear and tear
And all of this within walls of mirrors
The reflections of before pictures
Of bodies yet unrealized
Awaiting fulfillment
People change
They leave

Out from the icebox outside
into a place where I change
my own climate the way I change
channels on TV. Soon to forget
the things that came before
the things I see before me now.

A rectangular hole in the wall
gives a second story perspective
while its viscous liquid filling
shields me from feeling
the effects of the air
from the other side.

Unclouded sky and un-obscured sun
set the scene of summer fun below,
while fowl which never flew
south seem to conspire with subtle
winds of deception which supplant
a sincere summer skyscape.

In a daydream I exit through exit
doors downstairs to enter my escape
to this space where all things summer
seem to take place. I pack a swim suit
just in case. I sense my body embrace
the heat. And the sun burns my face.

But I exit and awake in the state
of disillusionment. My mind freezes
as the illusion of summer fades fast
outside. And the cold reality
touches my skin.

Park yourself in the armchair
Shift your intellect to neutral
Prepare for the next transmission
That pulls you into over-drive

To see conspiracy where it’s not
And no conspiracy where it is
The point is just to point and click
To keep every rumor alive

Right or wrong it’s still your right
So express your rage
Freedom of the pressed
They come to set your stage
And fence you in for security
While they rattle your cage
Since everyone knows everything
In the Misinformation Age

Another red letter day
A caps lock lockdown in progress
Bring deluges of delusions
From fonts overflowing with urgency

React from your conditioning
To this chain of splitting hairs
Out from the old. Into your inbox.
Then forward to spread its misery

Right or wrong it’s still your right
So express your rage
Freedom of the pressed
They come to set your stage
And fence you in for security
While they rattle your cage
When everyone’s an actor
On this Misinformation Stage

Everything is true. When we’re scared.
Everything is scary.  When perception is impaired.
But truth transcends this altered state of minds.
And seeing takes more than just not being blind.

© 2010 J. Marshall

There was a man who fell into a well. A passerby heard his cries for help and stopped to talk to him. The man in the well told the passerby that he needed to get to the police. The passerby said, “That’s easy. Just make a right onto this road here, follow it out to Main Street, go about three or four blocks and the police station is right on the corner of Market and Main.

I never wanted to do this, but I have to require everyone to create an account in order to comment. This was done to eliminate the huge quantities of forum spam I was receiving. Sadly, I’ll probably get even fewer comments than I do already as a result of having to make this change. However, you can still make comments on my newest project at http://softersideoflight.wordpress.com since I have not been comment spammed there. In fact, no one has left any comments on there yet at all. Be the first!

Based on some comments I’ve heard in person or have seen posted on sites where I post my ‘parables,’ I am quite surprised by the number who actually take these at face value (i.e. literally). I wish to assure you this is an unintended consequence. As the writer I am pleased if someone finds value in this work at any level. Nevertheless, I assure you the stories have a meaning far beyond the superficial circumstances of which they’re circumscribed. The frivolity of the literal is intended to serve as analogy to the frivolity (from my viewpoint) of the ideology to which it points. If while reading something ‘clicks’ and you know what I am getting at, please comment! I’d love to talk to you. If you are confused, you are also in good company and I’d love to talk to you too. After all, it is only with my own writing that I actually seem to know enough to not take too literally. Others’ metaphors often elude me.

A health guru was attempting to motivate an audience of his adult followers, saying, “Everyone in this room would experience a superior state of health if he or she would just lose 50 pounds.”

One of his followers objected that he was already below a healthy weight. Without ascertaining the man’s condition, the guru replied, “Certainly you can still lose *some* weight. Yes, everyone in this room would benefit from better health!”

Desiring better health, many of the underweight people embarked upon the guru’s ‘better health’ advice. Some did so enthusiastically, others did so reluctantly. None of them improved their health.

Once upon a time
was one / who under-
stood life’s mysteries
Stood under the lof-
ty over pass / pon-
dered the things above

And spoke his words ab-
stractly / standing be-
tween concrete pillars
His hands armed with a
healing touch / and with
that, the touch of love

Longed to share his soul
in short / with all the
others passing by
Although he spoke ov-
er their heads / they saw
him as one beneath

He gave them all what
they needed / but they
would not receive it
Because in the end
no one believes / a
man who’s missing teeth

Brushing over what
he said / while they were
foaming out their mouths
These so-called seekers
of truth / were blinded
by his missing tooth

And spit at the per-
ception / of the gaps
in his countenance
And flossed over his
words / as if they had
wisdom (teeth) since youth

Overlooking their
checkered lives / squared with
crimson and blackness
Filling their mouths with
silver things / and crown-
ing themselves like kings

Drilling into his
past / they meant to dent
his reputation
Claimed themselves merely
partial / to the fresh-
ness clarity brings

He wished to heal them
but they kept laughing,
aghast / at his smile
Their root of evil
dwelt beneath / their cav-
ity of errors

Amalgamated
their forces / to rid
themselves of his talk
No cap to their mad-
ness, they vexed / this
toothless man with terrors

Few words were implant-
ed / the scope of his
vision receded
And under the ov-
erpass / died the man
with the missing tooth

Though rarely extract-
ed / his gleam of in-
sight never decayed
Now a plaque on the
bridge / serves as a re-
tainer for his truth

© 2010  J. Marshall