Rumbelow (rŭm'-bĭ-lō): A combination of meaningless syllables

Mammon. .בהמות

By Billy | December 27, 2009

the humans of the untied states

the hungry ghosts

the untouchable aching

–

We are

the air you breathe. The shit you smell. The flesh you rend. The tears you shed.

We are looking

all. the. time.

for substance.

for truth.

for you.

–

Where are you? Whom do you love?

Why are you waiting?

We ache, we cringe, we smile.

We ignore what we defile.

We eat the filth that we create.

We grab the knife to satiate.

We lick the wounds and smile kindly.

We close our eyes and lash out blindly.

The silent thief has bent our vision

and helped us rot in indecision

–

We wait.

so long as it’s not us that perish.

–

Your hunger is misguided, child. Your longings are not true.

You seek to end your confrontation.

Your fight is against you.

—

–

-Your longings are misguided.

Topics: poetry | Comments Off on Mammon. .בהמות

The Fires Had Just Started

By Billy | December 26, 2009

“Come in. Welcome, child,” she said with a kindness of which I was more than wary. “This is a home. This can be your home. For a while.” The last word hurt her more than it hurt me.

The green Honda she picked me up in looked from it’s place in the drive at me as if to say, “I’ll be here too, but don’t worry. In there is even better.”

Usually I don’t hitch hike. Usually I sleep under bridges or abandoned places. Usually I start planning my shameful return the same evening I leave.

Tonight was unusual. Tonight I heard the word, welcome, tonight I heard the word, home.

Hannah was her name. I suppose it still is. Hannah. The first and last word Hannah said to me was “Jesus.” The first and last word I spoke to her was, “I.” That about sums up the two of us. I, me, me, me. She, grace, love, God.
Jesus, boy, this is no road for y’uns to be walking about in. Get in, I don’t care where you’re goin, I’ll take you there.
I… I. I am heading your way. Thank you.

Our first car ride together was mostly silent. I had everything to say to everyone, but no will to let it surface. She adjusted the volume on the radio and swallowed the silence hard. She learned to be silent when I needed silence, pry when I needed cracking, laugh when I needed noise, and smile when I needed light.

As I stepped into her home for the first time, I imagined I’d stepped into a jack-o-lantern. Usually people look into these places. Warm, serene, glowing. Completely contrasting the world around. We were the happy ants feasting on the unending supply of goodness. It rained less when I was around Hannah that night.
=
=
=
When the first fire broke out, I started packing my things. I was pretty sure it was time to hit the road, this time for good. No new Hannah for me, no biological family, no home. Hannah caught me with my foot hanging out her sun room window as I tried to slip quietly into the night. She squeezed hard on my hand as she tugged me back into the room and I braced myself for the beating I never got but always deserved. This is it, I thought, justice. This is what I’ve been waiting for, order.
=
=
=
Miss Hannah has the most perfect hug.
=
=
=
There were no locks on Miss Hannah’s doors. The front door, the bathroom, her bedroom, nothing. I felt like there were bars around me after that day. The smell of smoldering wood stung so sweetly in my nose I nearly split in two. The full moon offered no comfort. Though no one was hurt, I felt dirty as a murderer, and I wept bitterly that night.
————-
More later.

Topics: Works of Fiction | Comments Off on The Fires Had Just Started

Hungry

By Billy | December 22, 2009

am i looking for you
am i looking for you
am i looking for you
am i looking for you
in the wrong
wrong
places?

am i hearing my name
is it really you?
are you calling for me
like i think you do?
am i completely lost and misguided here?
do i have the grace of meeting you?
am i looking
am i looking
am i looking
for you?

i keep forgetting the words that you said to me
and the thoughts that i had they’ve imploded
and i can’t help but wonder what’s going on
where is the source and where is the end,
where is the answer
Who
is
my friend?

well i am wandering out in the forest
and it is dark and i have no more food
and the trees and the owls are all haunting me
and the wind is like needles and nails

you see i thought that i might find my way out here
wandering in this poor desolate land
still there is no more signs of life out here
i just feel like i’m juggling sand

Topics: poetry | Comments Off on Hungry

Violence is Suicide: (I’d rather stand in front of guns than behind the people holding them)

By Billy | December 17, 2009

No, I will not support the troops. Not by clicking that link, not by wearing a red shirt, not by joining your facebook group. In fact, I don’t support your troops at all.

I don’t care who they are. Even if they were my brother, my father, my grandfather, my cousin, my uncle, my neighbor, or my friend. I do, let me clarify, support my brother, my father, my grandfather, my cousins, my uncles, my neighbors, and my friends. These become something else when they strap on those boots and pick up those guns. (To clarify, my brother, father, grandfather,and some cousins, uncles, neighbors, and friends are, in fact, in the military. This is not a far removed subject from me.)

You’re fighting for my freedom to write and speak as I wish? I didn’t ask you to. If I didn’t have it this way, I’d go and “fight” for myself in my own, nonviolent, way. It’s rather unempowering for you to fight my fight in ways I don’t agree with; representing me without my consent.

You’re fighting to keep the peace? Using weapons as instruments of peace makes as much sense as using instruments as weapons of war. You’re going to get yourself a lot of attention and in the end be completely ineffective. Look at the roots of this dis-ease: colonialism, capitalism, greed. Greed denies how utterly vital we are to each other. Greed denies the importance of the OTHER. Greed makes the other fearful, as we strive to serve ourselves.

Greed >> Colonialism >> World War 1 >> World War 2 >> Cold War >> Middle East >> _______?

What am I missing? Who is to be the bigger one and play the “weaker” role of cessation? It might not be fair that we have to bend for someone in the wrong. It is simply our duty.
Respect the patriot who will kill for their country?
How about we respect the human who is willing to die for a possibility of lasting peace.
In Hebrew, the word for Peace is Shalom. This word, Shalom, not accidentally, also means Complete. Peace is stillness. Peace is a unit. Peace is solid.

Fighting will leave things broken. Violence and Peace are incompatible. Any “peace” we create with violence will be tentative, distrusting, shaky, and incomplete.

I’m not about to toss a bucket of blood on the president and I’m not exactly a big proponent of bombing military gatherings in the the Weather Underground style “peace” tactics. Insult is division. Insult denies the importance of the other. Insult and subversion chip away at that Complete Shalom I am longing for. I love the human disguised as “an American soldier.” I love the human disguised as “a Terrorist.” I would die for them to be happy — to have a chance for Shalom to enter their life.

People. Friends of mine, humans I’ll never know, me. We turn to things when we are scared, confused, hurt. We pick up habits, addictions, false comforts. We onlookers love the addict and don’t like so much the drug. We forgive backslides, we encourage cessation.

It is easy to feel for the physical victims of violence — the child with cigarette burns given to him by angry parents, the person covering up the black eye with makeup in the bathroom, the innocent who is falsely accused.

It comes more slowly, more painfully, more deliberately to feel for the “victimizer,” who is, in fact, hurting, scared, confused. (Human) [Victim]

They are addicted (dependent to the point of hurting themselves or others) to these false sources of comfort. They feel justified (perhaps even, only momentarily) enough to do the things they do. They are seeking Shalom just like you. You can’t make them change the way they act — you can only with great effort change the way YOU act.

Real Peace is contagious. Real Peace is solid enough to allow those without enough Shalom in their lives to lean, seek shelter, find support. This sort of Peace is bigger than you and me, and the more Completion and Peace you find, the easier that is to deal with. (It is not always easy to take the blows and continue smiling. It’s not always easy to love the person beating you. As Peace enters your being, it comes easier.)

No. I won’t support your troops. I will strive to find Shalom as truly as possible, and I will support Life. I will only continue to learn how to embody Peace. I will close my eyes and sing songs of freedom in the face of the corrupt/confused [government]. I will sing Hallelujah running barefoot and sky clad up mountains, I will chain myself to the gates of the oppression factories.

This is what I mean when I hold my two fingers up in a peace sign. This is what I mean when I say to you, Shalom Aleichem,
Peace be upon you.
שלום עליכם

Topics: Philosophy, This is my life | 1 Comment »

Dislocated Spirits

By Billy | December 17, 2009

You are a fantastic worm, born in the middle of Jupiter. As you crawl out from one level of the core to the next, from metal layer to rock layer to ice layer to violent atmosphere… At each level you metamorphose into a new being more capable of passing through the medium at that level. Each state of being you become new, all but forgetting what it was like to experience the state before. You start as a tiny dot, then you’re a worm, and soon enough you are a great flying being navigating the eye of the biggest storm.
As a flyer, you look back on your life and hardly recognized the thought processes that existed for you as an ice-dwelling worm.
As a human adult, you hardly understand the thoughts going through a 4 year old’s mind. As a human hardened by the experiences in your many years, you forget the naïve thought process that existed in you in, say, college.

We are crawling, walking, leaping, getting thrown, beaten, dragged, and kicked into different layers of existence. Sometimes we evolve into beings ready to set cruise control in. We make adaptations that keep us at our comfortable flying speed, and to reach escape velocity to go visit Saturn would require steps back. It’s not uncommon or unreasonable for us to willingly climb back down when the level above seems too intense. The atmosphere is more dangerous, bigger, scarier. Space is even worse.

Yet, we long for space. That is where we are born to go. It’s in your nature. Eventually you will explore all of the surroundings you have. You will feel cramped by the confines of your body. You will wonder what lies beyond your line of sight.

I’d venture to guess that you experience longing on a frequent basis.
You long to be with something or someone with which/whom you currently are not near.
You long to be away from something you are near.
You long for things to be the way you see them being in the future.
You long for things to be the way they used to be.
You long for things to remain the same.

More than likely, a combination of these go into your longing.

These longings are, because of our human nature, really baffling. Suppose at this point in your life, your longings are most noticeable in the physical domain. You long for your achy bones to feel like they did when you were young, or you long for another warm body in your bed for once. You wish better quality (flavor or substance) food in your belly, you wish your house were air conditioned finally.

Suppose a wish-granting fairy were to appear in your living room as you uttered to yourself these wishes for physical fixes. A lifelong supply of these fixes are granted to you by this fairy. Wonderful. Longings taken care of, life is good, happily ever after.

Happily for a while after. As soon as you’re comfortable, if you’re anything like other humans, you’ll begin to find something to be unsettled by. Now that you’re not struggling to stay alive, you have the time to sit and ponder. Now you’ve got to be alone just you and yourself. Now you’re in trouble.

If we’re not longing for physical comforts, we are longing for emotional ones. Our tastes get more refined and our vision for what we want is made more clear. Happiness in its truest sense is at that end of the asymptote that we will never reach. I think sometimes we throw stuff in our own ways to keep us far away, because it’s sometimes frustrating to be faced with this eternal the-harder-you-push-the-more-you-have-to-work.

I have things I want to scream at you. I have things I long to say and long to show. When experiencing metamorphosis, you have to just sit there. Growing. Guhhhh. You’re not climbing to greater heights, nor are you safe, nor are you comfortable. You are static, you are vulnerable, you are small. You can’t plan because you can’t possibly know what to plan around. You know neither the conditions above nor your future capabilities. You sit in that chrysalis and you wait. You thank yourself for carrying on so well thus far, and you prep yourself for the struggles of learning to use new wings.
I long to be out of this cocoon. I long to explore the atmosphere. I long to show others how it’s not too bad up here. I don’t even know yet.

I am going to stop here and rest despite my longings.

What if this particular cocoon won’t let me out until I eliminate my longings? What if the last cocoon is the longings itself? They keep us moving, they keep us protected, they keep us growing, but they ultimately hold us down.

What’s at the end of your asymptote? Who is your infinity?

Topics: Philosophy, This is my life | Comments Off on Dislocated Spirits

Who are we

By Billy | December 12, 2009

Who am I
to lay down my life
or even worse
to lay down my dagger

who am I to love you
while you destroy my home and family

I’m tired of these tired old “answers”
plaguing our children
and growing like cancers

Worried about these useless solutions
stroking our guns at our revolutions

Who am I?
(No.) Who are you?
I am a human who recently realized
that someday he’ll realize
how unimportant he is.

These children are my children. These women are my mothers. These mountains are my backbones. These rivers are my veins. These birds are my breath.

These notes belong to someone else, a composer I’ve never seen but never looked away from. These words are lyrics for a song that I will always sing. These people are the blood cells pumping through your heart.

Who am I? I am one who will try to love you the best. I am the dirt under your feet. I am nobody.
Who are you, oh powerful, worthy you. You who has the authority to take life. You on the other side of the riot gear, you on the other side of the riot.

There’s no difference,
I heard him say,
between you freaks
and the KKK.

Nobody’s watching,
just give in
they have the power
you will not win.

Stop singing,
and get in the back seat
i said stop singing
recognize defeat.

you don’t know why i’m screaming
or the colors that I see
this air tastes like music
for once I am free.

handcuffs and concrete
orange head to feet

addiction and violence
suffering and silence

There is more to do here. More to learn. More to give. Focus.

Topics: poetry, This is my life | Comments Off on Who are we

Saying this out loud.

By Billy | December 10, 2009

they must have been tiny
they who stole what’s mine
one day I woke up
and everything was fine

i went to sleep
and dreamt
and woke
and slept
and broke

one through infinity
clogged and unclean
no, i wont let you
know what i mean

there’s both
at the same time
too much and too little

there’s neither
either
hope
or despair

it hurts
you know
to go on like this

to breathe
and walk
and sigh
and be
and all those things

and when my body is shaky
and being alive
means being achy
and there isn’t rest at all here
and i just want to fall here
and i don’t feel you there
and i keep screaming
it’s not fair

and i take back what i said
when i screamed them at you
i didn’t know
what you’d go and do

i smile at my stupid self
and give up on this failing health
and i don’t really care right now
that you are always there somehow

Topics: poetry | Comments Off on Saying this out loud.

A Basketful of Potatoes

By Billy | December 10, 2009

The place was beautiful. We could hardly, for the life of us, understand why. Each clue pointed to a deeper confusion; each confusion pointed to reasons for us to keep exploring.

Were we the only ones to know of this place?
Were we the only ones to care?

The house had easily ignorable signs around it. Perhaps someone hoped they would work. Warning, biohazard. Perhaps this was a battlefield. Whatever the case was, we didn’t heed the warnings, we indulged in the dangers.
I started visiting The House on Sand Street when I was twenty one years young. It was a place of safety, of refuge, and of secrecy. Every ounce of matter in the place screamed, “secret;” whispered, “secret.”
Some nights I’d go out wandering and find myself there, not quite sure of the path I took to get there. Sometimes I’d wake up there, sure I had gone to sleep in my bed. When I got lost, Sand Street seemed my light house, helping me triangulate. The House on Sand Street became a regular event, then a weekly trip, eventually a daily pilgrimage.

Cleo and I were the first to discover it, we were certain. Nobody has been here since forever, we said to ourselves and each other. We guarded it jealously; shared it with the little birds, the big cats, and the weepy trees. They alone knew our secret. Anyone else would know where we were going, but not where that was.
I don’t know how often Cleo came back (I bet she went all the time without me), and though I don’t care now, I certainly did back then. I became suspect of her and why she’d tell me things like, “I don’t have time to visit Sand Street this week,” when I know she was going there all the time.
I’ll admit, I often hid and waited, seeing if she’d come in the night or early morning and explore or play without me. Only cats, only birds, only tress. The toys remained unplayed with, it seemed. I knew they had a player, though. Everything always changed there.
Everything was always different.

Sometimes I’d end up there and something would be moving still. Someone had just been here. Random wind chimes still swinging on the stillest of days. Tree houses in mid construction would fall to the ground, a pile of wood. Laundry… half a load of laundry hung on the lines!
Sometimes I finished the job, sometimes I took them apart. Sometimes I created, sometimes I destroyed. Often I slept there. It was exhausting being there, it was amazing sleeping there.

Cleo and I would go occasionally. Usually only when we welcomed big cats or weepy trees into our lives. Sometimes we went for them, sometimes we went for us. I don’t recall ever going for her, towards the end.
Towards the very end, I only went for myself. I think.

I wandered a lot, I longed for something solid. The House on Sand Street was a dream for so long. I don’t know why I ran so hard.
Last night I dreamt I was the turned over birdbath. Today I dreamt I was standing next to the birdbath.