Wake Now

Right outside this lazy summer home
You ain’t got time to call your soul a critic no
Right outside the lazy gate of winter’s summer home
Wondering where the nut-thatch winters
Wings a mile long just carried the bird away

Wake up to find out that you are the eyes of the world
The heart has it’s beaches, it’s homeland and thoughts of it’s own
Wake now, discover that you are the song that the morning brings
But the heart has it’s seasons, it’s evenings and songs of it’s own

There comes a redeemer, and he slowly too fades away
And there follows his wagon behind him that’s loaded with clay
And the seeds that were silent all burst into bloom, and decay
And night comes so quiet, it’s close on the heels of the day

Sometimes we live no particular way but our own
And sometimes we visit your country and live in your home
Sometimes we ride on your horses, sometimes we walk alone
Sometimes the songs that we hear are just songs of our own


Wake now, discover that you are the song that the morning brings
But the heart has it’s seasons, it’s evenings and songs of it’s own

: Jerome J. Garcia / Robert C. HunterEyes of the World lyrics © Warner Chappell Music, Inc, Universal Music Publishing Group

In love, Be.

We’ve travelled a long road by near and by far

The longest road we traveled got us to where we are.

If I had known you before we had met

In that time of trouble and pain

Would we ever meet again?

Would we, together, have survived ?

The first time I saw you

A hard cold bitch

I could see it in your eyes you wouldn’t take no shit

I knew it Becuase you’d been living that life for so long

Staring in the eyes of the day

But refusing to awake from the night.

If no one ever told you, Your cries will never be enough.

Be

In love.

*

In my ‘77 Chrysler up upon that sea cliff

Overlooking the ocean, we were beginning to live

Listening to oldies on that lo-fi radio.

Hardly a word was spoken

We were

Together alone

Wondering only about our changing shores.

*

We may never know what life we may have lived

But here we are, we can get what we give

And we can live that life we’d been hearing from afar in that song

Through struggle and pain

We can live and live again.

Be

In love.

— C. 2015 CSP

Your at 10 and you need that extra push, where can you go?

Nowhere.

…but these goto 11.

Heart On A Sleeve

HEART ON A SLEEVE.

 

Put some iron on the wound.

The smell of blood will surely put you through

The pain from the stain that’s been festering in you.

 

Do you wonder which parts are true?

 

Melancholy smiles of the blackest blues

That play the heart strings a rapturous tune.

 

Or the simple pleasures that bring the crisis to bloom.

 

Or the way that you see others smiling and free

Come together and just be.

 

…the musings of a fool.

 

Roll away, roll away the dew.

This god-damned romance is just covering you

Just like the heartache when your lover comes unglued

Worked and jaded from the line you drew

 

Waiting

To come around.

 

 

Come around.

Wade to this side of the pool.

Come around

to the deep side of the fool.

 

Honestly, have you ever loved anyone deeper

That the one you loved before?

Have you never wanted more

Than to love the one that you adore?

 

Will there ever be a reprieve?

Wearing your heart on a sleeve.

 

Is there a false from a true?

Is there a me and a you?

 

These are the questions you surely go through.

Not to mention the pain

Once again –

 

Would you like a little salt on the wound?

Maybe a little deeper

Maybe some more room

To squirm and to thrash in the deepening ash

That fills the hole in your tormenting soul.

That spills onto everyone you know

Waiting to come around…

 

Just one flick of the tongue.

Makes you feel like you’re young again.

Just one finger in the hole.

It comes up stripped down to the bone.

Then you’re reminded of when you’re alone

Never minding who is there or how you’ve grown

Or how unselfishly they’ve invested all their energy

For you –

 

Only human is the musings of a fool.

 

One step forward two steps back.

Never quite knowing where your love is at.

Blindly reaching for a heart attack.

 

Honestly.

_____

2008/2019 Lance A. Kair


 

painted_heart_on_sleeve_by_narakafurin

Image courtesy of S Lynn Knight🎈 “heart on a sleeve”.x

The Philosopher.

The philosopher is like an arrow cutting through the air.

or rather –

 

A snake slicing along the surface of a river.

The truth calls the philosopher.

But until it is found, she is like a pebble thrown into the water.

The wakes echoing forth, back and away in all directions, her presence the ripple for the moment, the significance like the rain drop, fades away in dissipation of the wash, while her self sinks and dissolves.

           A transcendental nobility.

 

Yet before this and after, but never while,

The Truth is found, and the philosopher is pulled up the stream.

She does not sink, but swims, floats, slips, buoyant.

The shallow draft carries small value,

with purpose, with determination.

Effortless.

 

The truth calls. And called.

The opinions vary in the concentric interferences.

She is not distracted and never beached,

The swells and rapids only occasion her indecision and resolve.

The rocks interesting siestas.

The shore never beckons.

 


 

c.2017 Lance Allan Kair.

Father. 

Oh Lord don’t you keep me down,

Don’t you push me down to the ground.

Let me ride upon the waves of life,

Let me glide over the mountains of the earth.

Bring me up to the sky.

I did so much for you.

You did so much for me.

Can’t you see me

Digging in the trash of the corporate fortunates
Eating the hors d’oeuvres from their party?

What’s the matter Lord, don’t you need me?

Feed me, Lord, like you did the Five-thousand,

and prove yourself astounding to me.

 

 

 

How easy you are to the TV Evangelists.

How easy you are to the Popes and Presidents.

How easy you are to suburbia.

How easy you are to powerful America.

How easy you are

but not to me.
I see you on the cross when the church is gone.

I hear you in the malls, even the Pentagon;

I read about you on the walls and in books;

I can’t understand, I did what it took.

I see you in your great big golden chair

And hear you in the mouths of people everywhere.

Does your existence depend on the clothes they wear?

I think you’re not there.

 

Oh Lord,

Save me.

 
C. 1988 Lance A Kair. 

What some philosophers sound like. 

You know, for the most part, philosophy is pretty damn boring. I think that’s why most people don’t read it or like it. But then there is a certain type of intellectual who likes the puzzle part of philosophy; they like the creativity , to watch the eloquence of problem solving, the twists and knots and the various interesting ways people can undo through spelling out. 

While it is interesting at times to watch how people solved a certain problem, mostly to me, the mere puzzle solving is boring, pedestrian, mundane.  It is impressive sometimes, but no more than a gymnast. Maybe that why I’m not so into sports. I do like watching the actual plays, and I got my team I root for and know a tiny bit of the politics and larger seasonal bracket strategy and stuff, but mostly it appears to me so routine and uninteresting, slightly entertaining, but mostly like listening to pop music. Sounds nice but oh so BORE-ing! 

So maybe I gave myself away. 

Philosophy is interesting to me when it verifies and confirms what I already know.  Sounds lame and self centered doesn’t it. Well, it is just this type of verification that so rarely occurs ‘out there’ that allows for people to understand what I’m saying as self centered. And that’s why it is interesting, because so very very few people really understand what philosophy is: The only way it verifies to me what I already know is by conveying a meaning that apparently so very few understand. 

Fkg stupid, huh.  

Take the example of music. Pop music is so very boring and lame, as well as POP-ular because it is doing nothing interesting. It is mundane repetition. Sex for fucking; beats for moving; lyrics for saying the same thing everyone else is saying; sound for getting loaded; bliss in vacancy. Worship for fashion; security for money.  New new new from old old and blah shit crap. 

Now this is never to say that I think Ratecliff’s song. SON OF A BITCH is not catchy and even pleasant and danceable, more that it is a product first and art second, of having only the ignorant bliss. It is identity and dumness before authentic relation. It is flat music. Don’t get me wrong ; I’m pretty dumb and sometime music is just there to be dumb to, but the mundane human interactive world of bs I just had to leave, even almost before I entered it. 

I am an artist because art is first; and what comets next … Well, pop music never occurs without some sort of social investment. There is no choice in being socially involved. Sometimes you just gotta accept things. 

****

BUT on a slightly different tangent…
What prompted this post and then got keel-hauled into the above non-sense is : maybe it’s the translations: 

Derrida is like reading folk music. Ive been browsing through a book of his essays and I remembered why I never really got into him. I’ve read enough, mind you, to know that he is merely repeating what I already know, but now we should be looking at how philosoohers say it. He is quite interesting in as much as he has to be included in what is interesting, but honestly, he’s kind of a pussy. Reading Derrida is like reading poetic mush about the beauty of a sunset. You can’t account for taste.

( yes; I do write mushy poems, but I don’t usually like to read them by other people. But wait: My mushy poems aren’t mushy though; they are sincere. There is a difference. Sincerety is not boring, but sincere poems can be nauseating — and not in Sartre’s sense! )

Derrida puts all this poetic mishmash literary image-while-still-being-scholarly stuff. It’s like listening to folk music. It’s nice. But, lets be real: kinda embarrassing. At least now it is. And again, don’t get me wrong: some of the folk stuff I did (or maybe do) listen to and like, but I was quite high then (am I now?) and upon awakening…. I dunno, I guess I’m not as poetic as Sarte and Derida. (I talk out my ass sometimes). 

Heidegger is like listening to classical music, a lot of marching though. Even though he might be talking about poetic stuff, he still evokes a sense of passion with heart, but not the bleeding heart kind. He speaks with authority (ironic, huh.) moving, pulsing, turning, peaking, dropping. 

Zizek is like  Lenard Skynard or Arosmith, or even Led Zeppelin. As many have said, Zizek the rock star. He bubbles literary guitar hero solos. 

That’s all I got right now for the philosopher-music analogies. 

But, I dunno; I think maybe what is needed now is a little punk rock, a little Hendrix metal, a little hard core Dead jam philosophy. And the great thing is: it can’t be faked. 

I’m sorry, but some of these academic types, it’s like theve never partied. Never actually been crazy. 

But I’m a judgemental fuck.

I probably don’t mean any of this. 

Post-modernism’s Worth. 

When we are too close to an event, we talk about it as from a distance. That is, what we say is automatically distanced from the event, a maximum distance. The event is thus, by this occurrence, an object. As opposed to our psychotherapeutic model, the closer we are to an event, the more dishonest we are about its true bearings, that is, the truth of the matter, why it is that the (the wholeness of the) event has occurred the way it has. The impetus and the reaction can be come upon as an included item, a truth in-itself, only when we are distanced from the event. The truth of an object, as opposed to the True Object, can only be viewed in its truth from a distance. The equation is thus of inversion, of ratio.

Here then we may have a basis upon which to properly view foundational post-modern writers, namely, Derrida, Deleuze and Guittari, but others also.  To wit: Their descriptions were from a basis too close to the event, such that they attempted to quickly and finally establish a ground for the event; the event being thus so profound and significant, they were compelled to offer a reason.

They were not wrong, only rash. 

It is analogous to an explosion. We have now the data from the explosion, having encountered it ourselves, but also come across the initial first hand rationalization and fact crunching reports of the explosion itself – with that, subsequent explosions, and now the reports and experience of the aftermath(s) of explosions, we can now safely report upon the truth of the whole event.