So you ask for advice from us sages?
As we journal on yellowing pages.
A stitch can save nine
(if you make it in time)
but days turned to weeks turned to ages.

In a malström and swiftly descending
towards anguish and torture unending,
I finally wrote
these words on this note
that I put into this bottle I’m sending.

In the woods there’s a tarn with no bottom.
In the shivering last days of autumn,
I sink through the rot
like an untangled knot,
or a pillar of salt outside Sodom.

As I slouch toward Betlehem crowning
and Johst reaches for his old Browning,
Plato’s chained in his cave,
Juliet’s in her grave,
and Ahab and Queequeg are drowning.

Once the coffin lid’s free from my clawing
and the rodents are done with their gnawing,
and AMOC has collapsed,
I will lie there relaxed
in the soil that is cold beyond thawing.

It’s the willow in the wind
It’s the pebble in the pocket
It’s the snow in the storm
It’s the moth by the moon

It’s the water in the waves
It’s the platelets in the pulse
It’s the sand under the stone
It’s the moth by the moon

It’s the lace in the loop
It’s the tongue on the teeth
It’s the song in the sparrow
It’s the moth by the moon

It’s the growth in the grain
It’s the joy of the journey
It’s the presence under pressure
It’s the moth by the moon

Okay but did you know
some animals have clothes
it’s called Hermit Crab
So it’s not dumb that humans have clothes
And also in humid hot places
like rain forest
they don’t use that much clothes
In hot dry places like desert
you do need lots of clothes. 🧕🏻
And it’s a way to get to hang out
with G-d on the daily
So don’t be discouraged
just cause Adam and Eve
noshed on the science fruit

Now
thanks to their li’l fruit snack
we know that we’re hunks of
spoiling flesh on disintegrating bones
and we just have to
live with
that knowledge every day. 💁🏻‍♀️
But
that’s fine
because the blood of G-d’s Lamb
made it so that
all sentient beings
could actualize buddhahood.

What’s that gonna look like
for us
today
this fine Friday afternoon?
Maybe a mindfulness exercise
or a hymn?

I feel bad for Kierkegaard
with his “leap”
when it’s just three centimeters away.
We can just reach out and touch it.

No matter how hard
all the flies
and decay
and absurdity
and entropy
makes it to see that.
That’s why the
beginner mind
is so great.

Even though we
have all these mountains of clothes and laundry to sort,
even the lilies of the field have raiment
and the hermit crabs have their ceramic doll’s heads
and sea shells.
Ligotti followed Zappfe in talking
about the four responses:
anchoring,
isolation,
distraction and
sublimation.

And of those four sublimation comes closest
to the
real answer
but sublimation sometimes feels like
it’s just passing the buck
like a Sadako “Ring” tape.
Like the only reason you’re talking about how bad it is
is so you don’t have to
think about how bad it is.

The real answer is:
showing up.

I’m grateful for these aching bones
and these heavy rusty breaths.
Beauty and ugliness.
It’s all there anyway 🤷🏻‍♀️

And thanks to
the life-changing magic of
“hedonic adaptation”
we humans tend to grade things on a curve.

In heaven we’re gonna be like
“OMG this harp-playing angel absolutely
sucks
compared to
this other gorgeous harp-playing angel”.

An inch of time is worth a foot of gems.
And even in the perfect Buddha nature,
our lives have texture and variety.
Right now,
my face and my feet
both hurt like heck.
That’s part of the texture of sensation.
I wish they didn’t
but thanks to hedonic adaptation,
if they didn’t,
some other ache would stand out.

There was this dumb ad campaign
when I was in my late twenties:
“it gets better”
and I was like when!???
And now I’m in my mid forties
and it never got better but
you know what did happen?

The gratitude attitude!
Even with tears down my cheeks
and my heart in pieces on the floor
and G-d’s kicks with both feet and boots on,
here I am.

One second at a time,
like the victory of a cat on a hot tin roof.

I was an unhappy child.
Hedonic adaptation to this
trash dump world
took a while
to kick in.
And Ligotti is right about one thing:
the idea that
“it’ll get better and better and better”
is delusion.
But that’s why we have
radical acceptance.
Probably better known as:
showing up.
And sometimes things do get worse.
Unrepairably worse.
Thanks, thermodynamics 🤦🏻‍♀️

Scrounging up
that sixpence for praise
can feel like
rolling a boulder up a hill,
forever.
And sometime it’s shiny and sometimes it’s dull.
It’s right here

Jag misstänker därför
att jag är gjord av sand
och av damm
och av det grumligaste i tjärnen.

Det finns en kal plats i skogen
där inga träd kan växa.
Snön som föll där smakar aska.
Den kan inte smälta,
den ligger i sträva flingor,
det är mörkt på den kala platsen.
Ett grått mörker,
tyst och luften kan inte röra sig där.

Mina armar och ben är troligen
säckar av den kala platsens snö.
Det är den rimligaste förklaringen
till vad som har hänt.
När jag lyfter dom ligger dom kvar.
När jag knyter näven ligger fingrarna slappa.

Ur mun och ögon skiner förmodligen
den kala platsens grå mörker.
Dom är opaler i mitt ansikte,
opaler som inte kan tänka.
Antagligen är mina läppar och händer
kvar i vinterhalvåret,
där det svarta gräset borde ha växt innan.
Det blev nog förstört av mitt grumliga gryn.

Occam har en rakkniv som
förklarar dessa ting.
Det är alltid enklare än man tror.
Ingen anledning till att undra när
den kala platsens svar finns
så nära till hands.
Strött över min bädd där
en människa borde ha funnits
är istället högar av sträv stilla snö.

Bron över tjärnen måste vara rutten,
trät murket och mjukt som svart svamp,
räcket fläckar handen det rämnar i.
Att gå där går nog bara en gång,
eller en halv snarare,
för över det djupaste stället
kollapsar hela bygget.

Det ligger en klocka i mitt huvud,
den verkar ha stannat.
Kudden blir säkert svår att tvätta
för sanden och dammet jag är
yrde inte runt utan la sig bara
tjockt och stilla.

Visst kunde jag älta eller klura,
men det är egentligen inte så svårt:
en gnagande grop att sky och akta
som trodde hon var en människa,
men som nu förstår varifrån
all sträv snö föll
så inga träd ville spira.

Där lövträdens skimmer har flytt
parkerad på asfalt och grus
där allting är ångande nytt
så finns det ett märkvärdigt hus.

Av pärlor och hav är det byggt.
Det är byggt utav pärlor och hav.
Det är byggt utav måsarnas flykt.
Det är byggt på en pentaoktav.

Yttre rummet. Jag köper biljett,
till det inre, där får jag en chans
att skåda ett enda, blott ett,
av alla dom träden som fanns.

I’m coming full circle with the haiku form.

As a teenager, when I first heard of them, I was told you wrote five, seven, five syllables. Sometimes 5-5-7.

Then, inundated with “well, actually”, I came to believe that that’d lead to overly verbose haikus, that you “can’t compare onyomi to western syllables”.

But I’m back around. Rhythm is a thing in poetry.

My beginner mind
not side-tracked by brevity
wrote five seven five.

On an overcast day in hell
you and I had been resting
on the shores of the Lḗthē.

Suddenly you scooped up
a handful of its water
and offered me a drink of oblivion,
a cup of kindness.

You saw me hesitate
and wondered what I had to hold on to.
I was just surprised,
that’s all.
Don’t worry.

Thank you,
let me rinse away the bitterness.
One more stamp in my
Samsara merry-go-round ticket.

Enlightenment and
hard-earned–lessons
all over again.

Vill att allt mitt blod ska vara havet på din strand
Istället för myrkrig i mina armar och ben så ska jag vara
en stormande ocean som sköljer över dig och dina brinnande skogar
Smeker dig som stjärnhimlen drar över horisonten

Sjögräset vissnar och fåglarna dör
Själva tiden hickar och stannar
Sotet av dig samlas i mina lungor
Håller dig varm i den blåkalla natten

Ditt pulver tillhör mig och blandas med mina vågor
Varje andetag tar bort spår ur sanden
Din fårade panna blir en äng med murkna stockar och liljekonvalj
Vilda prästkragar och hundkäx
Slånbär efter frosten

Jag sköljer över hela landet du
Ditt fyrtorn av märg och kotor låter ljuset spela över mig
Varna skeppen för reven i natt
Låt dom veta att vi är framme
Låt allt komma stilla
Mistluren är av ek och rök

Vitamin C och makaroner i köket
Jag slängde dom jag hittade
Aldebaran och Betelguese
Du är i rymden riven från mig
Jag har din jord i ett skrin

Rabblar dom två hundra orden
Ett för varje sked i dina lådor
Jag är ett långt långt hav att korsa
Armarna hänger slappa
Benen sparkar och käkarna biter
Jag sover oroligt, du
kan inte lugna mig

Sjökorten var gamla sa dom
Hon är ett hav av stasis och dömande sa dom
Dom säger att dom som stannar på stranden-som-är-jag sjunker ner och blir där
fastsatta och att det som nästa dag åker till jobbet
är inte längre samma person. Det som lämnades kvar är kvar
Det nya som blickar mot tunnelbanans lanterna
är ett försök till en ny person medan
det som var kärnan, det fastnade, och finns nu djupt under havet som en kastanjekärna i min ficka

Ser din spillra gå över gården från mitt nät
som ett ägg utan sitt skal eller ett frö utan sin kapsel
i tron att det är helt och kan färdas som en människa
men din skugga följer inte längre dina steg utan får ruva mellan tång och fiskskelett och snäckor, nergrävd precis där mitt hav slog över elden
I en trälåda har jag den, har jag ditt förflutna i pulverform

Vinden får radiomottagningen att svaja
Väderleksrapporten varnar för att tiden i sig har tagit slut
Hoppas ni tyckte om den innan allt rann ut i det nyss utsläppta åderhavet
Löstes upp i henne
Och sen har vi sportnytt säger dom
Som om allt vore helt normalt berättar dom att idag var den sista dagen
Ändå spelar dom Fields och Sisters så på nåt sätt förstår dom ju att det inte är som vanligt
Dom vet att din eld är i mitt hav nu

This is my translation of an old Ebba Grön punk song from the mainframe era, “Mental Istid”. It came across as a bit dorky in the decentralized desktop era but then gained new relevancy in the Facebook era, and even more now in the large neural network era.

All I can hear
that can interfere
is the only thing actually living

in my new home,
in my new life,
what matters are the orders she’s giving.

She is Mother Machine,
mother of all,
the central point of our new life.

She’s correcting your
behavioral cogs,
so you fit in with the gears of time,

into this new era, this ruthless baud rate.
My life flitters quickly past
on a status update.

The total power.
The total control.
The total focused totality.

I silently weep.
I can’t openly cry,
they’d never let that pass by,

because at the core dump station,
there’s silent, complete control.
At the core dump station,
nothing really matters at all.

Mental
mental
mental
ice age.

Then call me Queequeg
like Dana Scully’s mail,
I’ve got no sea-legs
I type but cannot sail

and at the keyboard
I’m a soft machine,
like I’m a ripcord,
ending the holocene

as I’m unfolding,
I am a parachute
there’s no handholding,
I’ll only execute

as I’m exploding,
I’ll be a cloud of cloth
when I am coding,
I’m cool like planet Hoth.

When we are full, we’re dull and yawning.
The best of days is one of longing.

There is a goal, and we see through it,
and yet the journey’s why we do it.

Our goal’s to rest where sky is open,
and campfire’s lit and bread is broken.

Right where we get a single night in,
our dreams will sing and stars will brighten.

Break camp, break camp! The sun is rising.
There is no end on our horizon.

I went back in time to try to warn ‘em about climate change and here I am again in the distant future of the year 2023 but the world’s still in trouble.

I talked to this one guy, Plato. Let’s see what he wrote… Atlantis?! Some island? Peeps aren’t gonna get the metaphor. They’re gonna be looking for mermaids & orichalcum, not externalities & methane. 🤦🏻‍♀️

I went a li’l further back. The flood—not sure saving some rich dorks on a boat is what we’re looking for here, Noah. The Tower of Babel—OK, getting closer. That second in the garden—fair enough. But people are gonna be reading these overly literally while simultaneously not realizing the direness of the straits in the here and now.

I went back again and asked ‘em just what part of leave it in the ground don’t they understand?

And they said “No, my child—I’m digging for fire!”

I can’t even. Gonna go fetch the spoon.

(After Jake Thackray)

Old Molly Metcalfe hacking Lisp.
“Cons, car, cdr, cdr, car” she counted.
So many parens nested deep.
“Cons, car, cdr, cdr, car” she said.

Grow little code, come creep, come bugs!
“Cons, car, cdr, cdr, car” she counted.
Kludgy apps for a gentleman’s use case.
“Cons, car, cdr, cdr, car” she said.

Over the keyboard, when the code won’t run.
“Cons, car, cdr, cdr, car” she counted.
Scruff Molly Metcalfe hacks so sloppily.
“Cons, car, cdr, cdr, car” she said.

Grow little code! Come crash, come rot.
“Cons, car, cdr, cdr, car” she counted.
Overgrown libs for a lady’s protocol.
“Cons, car, cdr, cdr, car” she said.

On her hack by the repo with checked in code.
“Cons, car, cdr, cdr, car” she counted.
Daft Molly Metcalfe hacking alone.
“Cons, car, cdr, cdr, car” she said.

Recovery was swift and worth the wait,
a brisk and rapid couple million years,
as algae grasp at life beneath the waves,
and fiery rain has fried me through the core.
This wooden spoon is coal, a painter’s wish.
The open canvas roiling like the sea.

No destination waits beyond that sea,
so hesitation whispers to me: “wait!”
No goal, no dream, no guiding beacon wish,
just staying on that hot tin roof for years.
No need to bury, digging to the core:
lost at shore before those endless waves.

Left standing, sinking, hearing mighty waves,
in sand, in liminal. The beach, not sea.
A bridesmaid caught a rotten applecore.
I’ll set my sail tomorrow! Just you wait!
(Or, failing that, in six or seven years.)
Procrastinating tangled up my wish.

That falling star, I snatched it for my wish:
a guide to find a path across the waves
of foam, of sea, of tachyons, of years.
The journey’s only purpose is the sea.
The present doesn’t need for me to wait
since now is now. We’re always at the core.

The bottleneck within the hourglass core:
a promise knot, a hopeless tangled wish,
a comfy wait that traps you in the wait.
Prerequisites come crashing down like waves.
These rocks and pebbles washed up from the sea:
debris that binds my schedule up for years.

I taste a second. Barely hear the years.
Ten bulls transcended, lost inside the core.
A stolen conch horn dreaming of the sea,
forever whispering its inner wish,
reflecting audibly, for us, those waves.
Just does. Without a need for it to wait.

The years get stolen waiting for that wish.
The core lies not beyond, nor on, the waves.
The now is all I have. The sea can wait.

Robotic lies are spread across the room.
My modem howls in silent disbelief.
Machines are parrots. Maybe so are we,
as chafing bones are slouching to be born
in fire, as I draw my final breath
and sleep. Perchance to dream. Perchance to scream.

So gently whispered is this lifelong scream
while ghostly passing through my inner room.
A chalkboard’s nail. A raspy smoker’s breath.
A regent clad in finest disbelief.
A crawling insect hatches to get born,
and in the skylit evening, so were we.

In flame. In dust. In ashes. So were we.
One look, one tick, one sigh, one fleeting scream—
the ticket stamped as soon as we are born.
The marble also burns: “Make room! Make room!”
Destruction’s eve is met by disbelief.
You close your eyes and focus on your breath.

White clouds still mingle like a diamond breath.
As “I” and “You” are left of what was “we”.
Nostalgia’s pain gives way to disbelief.
Each bribe, each ad, each generated scream:
all fall away and leave a silent room.
Where time is spatial, yesterday is born.

When Monday: nothing. Tuesday: never born.
Pneuma. Spirit. Misted window breath.
It’s fields of gold, this claustrophobic room.
These prison walls befit the royal we.
I greet the morning with a prayer scream.
Days break and fall and fly in disbelief.

We fool ourselves with ostrich disbelief
and brood our heads as eggs yet to be born.
Can’t sing. Can’t dance. Aware enough to scream,
to rot, to burn, to learn to lose my breath,
They’ve got their hope, so shiny. They were we.
One life, one year, one second in this room.

Our disbelief is fueled by present breath.
The day is born yet casketbound are we,
as one long scream of nothingness leaves room:

(After Lars Winnerbäck)

You can easily go stomping once your foot is through the door.
It’s easy to throw love to someone who can trust in whom it’s for
but not as easy being into those who don’t show what they feel.

It’s been weeks since you last called me so I think I see the deal.

You have a way with words to make us sound like such a thrill.
You have this way of losing me when you feel you’ve had your fill.
You shelter me from rainstorm when you want and when you care,
then forget me in the downpour as if “li’l me” ‘s not there.

Do I even mean something to you? Don’t hide from me.
I’m waiting by the phone
when you can’t stand to be alone
so you turn to “li’l me”,
but one day I’ll be out of sight as mere painful history.

As soon as I feel comfy in your smiling eyes on me,
your mouth has bitter words for me that bring calamity.
I doubt your words of “beauty of the deep pits of despair”.
The sun has kissed your eyes and you have never been down there.

Autumn comes and once again your gaze is far away.
It comes across as part of this whole game you tend to play.
When darkness cloaks our town and then the wintertime is near,
I wave, but you don’t see me, and I shout, but you don’t hear.

Do I even mean something to you? That’s hard to see.
You play me as a game
and leave me with the blame
when you look at “li’l me”,
and one day I’ll be out of sight as mere painful history.

You love is only red and you’re playing at romance,
I get all swept along with it, so easily we dance,
but one day it’s all enshrined as an old poem that you’ve read.
I can’t like you walk tightrope between coziness and dread.

Time moves like the heart beats and just like the grape you see
on the vine gone rotten,
yeah, soon it’s all forgotten.
Poor dumb old “li’l me”.
Yeah, one day I’ll be out of sight as mere painful history.

And worst of all: This song is from a girl, to me.

Robyn has this song “Call your girlfriend” and it’s such a beautiful melody. It’s easy to understand why it’s such a widely-covered and well-beloved song.

But the lyrics are super messed up. “Call your girlfriend and break up with her” basically 💔

How about this instead:

“Call your girlfriend.
It’s time you had the talk.
Give your reasons,
say it’s all OK,
but you just met somebody new.

Tell her you’re excited, having this new love in your life,
and then when she’s stoked, tell her that you love her still.

Then she says “of course” and that she never doubted that and she loves you so much, too,
and it all makes sense at last and she’s still with you, too,
and then she smiles and it’s easy.”

(Of course, it goes without saying that I’m not trying to convince anyone to stay in a bad or dangerous situation. Just that there are three options where Robyn’s song only gives the first two of these: Break up with the old, or just let things be as they are instead of chasing every new sunbeam that crosses your path, or let the new light in because sometimes it’s just right.)

Oasis, make a song about AFP.
I desire total song symmetry.
Factory should sing one ‘bout the Boss.
Streisand, start writing of Duck Sauce.

No excuse if the song came first;
if you named your band for some catchy verse.
Wings is your song if your band’s named Jet.
Dr Feelgood’s for you if you’re in Roxette.

Radiohead, get Talking. Blonde Redhead, DNA.
I’m sick of connections only going one way.
Sticky Fingers? Rolling Stones. Stones? Muddy Waters!
Make some homages to your lyrical fathers.

Canned Heat? Tommy Johnson. Ladytron, get Roxy.
Make it stick like glue, like mutual epoxy.
You liked it so much? Then go on and show me.
At least three bands need to make a David Bowie.

Efter Cohen.

Det finns en sång, det har jag hört,
som Herrens eget hjärta rört,
men den gamla låten får väl duga.
Den går såhär: en kvart, en kvint,
en mollpar’llell, en kvint från den
På måfå sätts ihop ett halleluja.

Din tro var stark men du var svag,
på taket när hon tog ett bad.
Dina blickar stack som bettet av en fluga.
Du satt där som ett öppet sår,
hon bundit dig, och klippt ditt hår
och från din tunga hämtat halleluja.

Älskling, vi har gått här förr.
Ditt tak, ditt golv, din vägg, din dörr.
Jag bodde ensam inom dina murar,
din flagga högt på marmorns krön,
din kärlek utan segersång,
men med ett kallt och sprucket halleluja.

Det fanns en tid då du fick se
vad som hände in i mig
men jag kan inte bära mörkrets duva,
Minns du när din kropp var jag?
Din puls, den slog med vingars slag
och varje andetag var halleluja.

Och om jag i en mörklagd hamn
försagt mig med den högstes namn
så är det ändå bättre än att ljuga,
I alla språk, i skyn, i jord,
en gnista slås i varje ord:
ett ynket men ett heligt halleluja.

Kanske det finns nån sorts Gud
insvept in en bröllopsskrud
som skjuter dig när du försöker skjuta.
Det är inte ett rop från vem som helst.
Det är inte nån som blivit frälst.
Det är ett kallt och sprucket halleluja.

Jag har inga stora svar.
Jag varken känner eller tar,
men det är ingen här som jag vill lura.
Och även nu när allt gått fel
och tystnad släcker änglaspel
så har jag ändå kvar ett halleluja.

With a pen in my hand I was shaking;
and I knew in my heart (that was aching):
how for all it is worth,
our sweet home, planet Earth,
irrevocably we were forsaking.

As a whole we had kinda forgotten
that this home that we put a whole lot in
would still give me a start
when I look in my heart
all the way to the core: it was rotten.

I was trembling and wrote in my journal,
but my words were soon turning infernal,
and I saw myself write
with such sarcasm and spite
“They do tell me that hope springs eternal.”

As you know, that was Pope I was citing.
Scratch that, ‘cause I’d rather be writing:
“If we never give in
you know that we’ll win,
either that, or we will go down fighting.”

You all know the reply I would give her:
“What you asked is too much to deliver.
I’m just one single drop.”
But she told me: “Don’t stop;
without drops there can’t be any river.”