Ranch Poem – “There Is Just So Much”

2/17/14

“There Is Just So Much” 

There is just so much. So much text. So much thought. So much images. So much tracks. So much tabs open. So much electricity surging. So much new episodes. So much unread emails. So much new connections. So much individuality. So much following. So much liking. So much variation on these themes and memes and electric sheep dreams. So much burgeoning and elastic extremes. So much confusing the Gonzo. So much pushing against that which pushes us against what we want to push against. So much reading into text messages wondering what she really meant. So much instagrams. So much insta-waste-of-time. So much insta-enlightenment. So much sight. So much retina display light. So much late nights. So much snow. So much money, time, dignity, brain optimization to blow. So much pressure in the nose. So much release and solace in digitizing our prose. So much forgetting a global perpetual, out-of-sight out-of-mind war.  So much more.  So much of this pop culture I ignore. So much rebooting of an entheogenic ethos of the new identity.  So much forgetting that which we are experiencing and participating in. So many nostalgias as I watch the streetlights of this modern and well paved superhighway blur violently by me as I stand in awe, and sometimes fear.

RwmG

car lights in blur.preview

Ranch Poem – “I’ve been in the trenches of the soul”

1/14/14

“I’ve been in the trenches of the soul” 

This living has been so crammed and heavy that this poem seems obligatory.
My story needs its narrator again, and finally, here I am,
writing empty quotations for a title to another freshie chapter.
That last one took a while to conclude, but standing here in this first snow,
I know I’ve been absolved.

I can produce less of these patchwork soul spills and return to form:
Gonzo, Beat, course; what you all want.
I’ll raise the millennial sigil  proud, I know potential when I see it.
With our sure footed voices and rapid keystrokes, we will fight against the repetition of history.
Against the suboxone social staff infection, against the freak love of
consuming spending capitalizing idolizing fetishizing panderizing oligarchy,
against boundaries of space sound sex and race, against willful ignorance by
the solo flyers who deny the togetherness.

Seven years so far. As I gaze at my world, Boston, I see it much as I did at the onset.
Thousands of hipsters and suits and wooks and gangbangers
and educators and coworkers and customers and friends
and ladies I have touched and traded arguments and glares
and songs and advice and papers and shifts and ounces and love
and orgasms. In mad sick sniffling smog night, the girls with their onyx tights
and malachite handbags and garnet boots are looking for some recognition.
The boys with their kyanite jeans and ruby ties and tourmaline hoodies are
hoping to find a love like their mother’s. Little children awake past their bedtime
act out Nintendo worlds with spinning sword slashing leg sweep combos,
battling our lingering demons too close for us to know ourselves.

I’ve climbed from ruin, I’ve lain in bed with despair, I’ve made promises kept,
I’ve completed my degree, I’ve kept the same job for a year, I’ve picked up where I left off,
I’ve had to go my way, I’ve raged sober, I’ve thought of you quite often,
I’ve been in the trenches of the soul and it’s been a beautiful battle.

RwmG

heskin2.hieratic.illumination