time and time again/Time Out/what time is it?

It's time to straighten up
time to fly right
time to stop falling with grace
time to start missing the ground
time to fly when having fun
time to take my head from out the clouds
time to put your feets on the ground
time to stop
It's time to look
time, now, to leap
It's time, Miller time
time to hold 'em
time to know when to fold 'em
time to come to your senses
time to come back from those fences
time to save in a bottle
time for parsley, sage, rosemary
thyme, too, at the fair
time to buy!
time: two o'clock
It's time to eat lunch


-Marcus

The sun and the moon and clouds and stars

Lastly, the sun languishes.
Lately, the horizon of a grey sky.
smoke hot and sweet
smolders from red bitter light
in my palm. Thrown shadows like shards.
over the raised letters
Of my books once through
Did Escape they’d provide?
No more do words I find enthrall in
Tangle tales and adventures.
All have ended, all have gone

Lastly, the words falling
Lately, closed tome in my lap
Soft, stitched-by-hand
in quilted reds with pine
and hugging burgundy hues
Not sex nor booze nor food
Tastes pleasing on these lips
What was Siddhārtha’s choice?
Too tired to wake, too wakeful to slumber
Upon my side to lay
And consign to fitless dream
My Beautiful Annabel Lee

hear now, as I write:
I seek not pity, nor sympathy nor advice.
Only you, dear reader, your ears
or rather your eyes to listen
through finger tips tapping tick tick tacking
Only to say you, I, a pal - a cohort
like you, I, adrift - a question

kissed by ice

I saw a robbin today. As remarkable as it sounds. and me, without a camera. he, perched upon a snow laden branch white powder falling gently all around.
Red breast proudly hidden, grey-brown feathers to match a mate. Like I, they for all the world's beauty found sublime in seven inches fallen and still more.
White, white and layers of grey. dark lines and sketched foot prints patterns to hide beneath still more. Snow snow and sky. falling, falling, blankets.

almost October.
crispy, fallen leafs
bright yellow and brown
Hugged warm in red fleese
jackets and blue sky
cluttered sidewalks
fill with harvest
spirits lift high in
glasses and song
the whisking wind stirs
empty branches stab
nights, wild, cold, and sweet 
a dusting of frost
reminds us again
almost October

Red, Red Wine

Stay close to me
I am fine.
Lemme clear my my mind.

communication
difficult.
Like a kitten in a box

I find it hard to get out

like a fish

Why can't fish float?
Or do they?
time flies doesn't it?
Is it lies?
(time i mean)
Did they say yes?
why do i
(in reply)
speak only no?
Only no.

a day in the timeline of Marcus

/I find myself wondering through the mist of life. like a child into the fray i rush to play.
/To often do i look at my fellow rough housers and perceive the problems in my life as problems in thiers. i wish i could say it wrong to believe this is truth worldwide. I've not traveled far from my mother...land. but now i watch my Brothers and Sisters and, yes (because of my age), the Childern of Sam prance with eager vigor. and conspire with vehement wickedness.
/Prehaps it dates me to say: no Child of Sam seem to save. today, we spend. spend. spend. gone are the expansive stashies that i recall from my Brothers of my youth. take it, use it now. what happens next? no worries, you'll get more.
/we jump about with the attention span of the play ground. running arms flailing with ---- (no) care from game to unfocused game. Scandle to travisty to ever escalating scandle. "walt whitman", as a very wise goat one said, "was not limited to a hundred and 140 characters!"
/...I recall with a jovial memory, the child (quite problibly of Sam). a sun-browned boy with skin a smooth as Skippy(tm) proclaim during a game of tag: "how 'bout if there's no base" (or maybe he said 'safe'). it's a thought that stuck with me. I never saw him again, that Son of Sam, child of my Brother. but the perplexity on his playmates faces said: 'what (as all immigrant childern ask) why would you want to play with not a safe place to run - to retreat to?

Forsooth! Woe, how i've fogortten!

LO!
I nearly forgot about my blog space.
Sorry, ya'll

No moar chatter, heres a rough piece of poetry




I remember my first
the long slow breath of hot, stale air
I remember the slight high of smoke in my head and the sharp taste of tobacco on my tongue
I remember the ease of "hello"s and egarness of new commrades
I remember being able to run without labored breath
I remember giving them away, freely
I remember each day
each week
each month without a single moment of ashy breath
I remember not caring a flame
I remember not lying about my habits
I remember not wearing the reak, like shame
I remember needing,
not enjoyment like before
I remember shunning the box that i had paid dearly for,
giving to friends, strangers in order to heel temptation
I remember the bar
where i bought a new pack that very evening
I remember the five dollars last week
it's now vacant home in my wallet

I wish i could remember my last.

death

freedom is:

-nothing to lose
-no attachment

only now can i see the fally of my attachment. for us; for us Americans, attachment is a drug, really. it is something we pay for. something we use. it is not something we tell our selves we could do without. we just assume that fact. for to know, one must ask.

-perception
-only feeling
-thought

only a concept, perhaps, but what are we if we live without philosophy?

-anima
-to be adventurous
-loneliness

people, friends, family, compatriots, camaraderie are but attachments

-a belief fully in the self
-trust of one's being
-trust in belief
-to be free is to be fearless. utterly fearless
-the only way
-to be trustful, trustworthy, trusting
-in a glass

inebriation

-in an action
-in the moment
-in questions
-in exploration


-marcus miranti

: D

has it been a week already!?

this is an update.
i had an idea today.
i forgot. well fuck.

-marcus

HEY! sup

so, i had intended to post some comic(s) today. However, my camera's broke. so... as soon as my camera's working again, expect some hilarity here.

please bare with.

in the mean time, i meant to tell the world about a comment a while ago. A few posts ago i was wrestling with a poetic notion: the problem of sound and hearing (i guess, one could put it). anyway, A friend of mine: Benjermen Lindsey (sorry if i spelt that wrong) suggested the very thing i had hoped to describe in a succinct phrase.
"when things get too loud, they become as impossible to hear as silence."
is what he said. so i just wanted to say, "thanks"

thanks, ben!

-marcus

Questions

Part of the work that i've been trying is a piece of ...art, i s'pose, that is a book of questions.
anyway, i've misplaced the file.
but one of the questions i wanted to ask:

can sounds be made in such abundance as to become silence?

...hmmm, needs work.

-marcus