per each morning the people woke

not to work but to media  __repeating

repeating

motivating guilt movements

to prey upon freedoms

for an ideal

inciting fights

lies made of good virtue

exercised as images of social servitude

abundant in forms of covert self-flagellation

distrusting sides

motivated to divide

by shared private demons

instead of venting palms

down an aisle

the hares spewed

upon public forums

morphing through digital mediums

drawing deeper

relations with our bodies

they moaned

while tapping and swiping fixes

inoculated by the paradoxes

in the lies about the problems

policies on new addictions formed

support groups and a few more than 12 steps

for the self-believed weak

in feeling hollowed

began to follow

and such a snare

we built our own traps

by knowing we rely upon the other

to build ideal worlds, upon real worlds

so while people bickered

wasting days to fight

for the belief in an imaginary

capital that made the Pignoli

weightier than gold

while values are indeed free

hippies already found

unsuccessfully

attempts at escape

no one made it out

sane or unaltered by trances

the dances of verses on

the eloquence of the universe

spun out and around

so on and so on

some bought experience via pills

while beggars and thieves

sat mighty as street buddhas

amongst virtue signals

over the shouts of self-proclaimed

advanced societies

such desires go to burning man

akin to put out their fires within

by minimizing

generative hormones

becoming the other

by forgetting

the soul

ingesting yesterday's ashes

rid feelings of Lack

chasing up their backs

warm bodies grew cold

by the isolation of those

who keeps asking, asking,

ask, ask -

always wanting more

those few

who live

in peace

resigned

to standing firm

a relationship with life

bearing no flinch at those crying: more

beg for more,

a will do

whatever can be reasoned

to shake a little bit

_more

Each day

a day's work in standing

freeing the body from

any detriment of belief

exercising

fewer postures

giving way to other signals

knowing a way

nor better or lesser

standing are for shallows

while sunk depths

are tested by the guts

and an automatic will

to breath

as life says so

do what you so choose

let those go on claiming virtue

sing sirens

and keep driving

feet deeper

in soil

or steps

each all and none

at their own

time

9 February 2018. Oslo, Norway

Mari Amman

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One of the several arguments against Beauty is rooted in the notion Beauty is Subjective. Further still from a face-off or contrarian perspective, Beauty has grown as form of taboo substantiated by cultural standards. Given the hard and narrow push for the acceptance of the abject and the minimising of Beauty’s significance, this Lapin is penned for the remembrance of Emerson’s and Scarry’s writings on Beauty, as a means to widening the cultural production and being just and spiritually fulfilled.

Afferent Beauty, relates to Perceptive Beauty. To state the obvious: people differ in perceptions. Perception is something considered malleable. Where the responsibility is placed, within the individual or the company, brand, or government, often has bodies pointing physically into thin air. The word: society or they or them, is a gesture to the ghost of our time, the spirit to come to terms with. Where did the ideas and perceptions come from aside from someone’s psyche, and who put them there? Beauty can be a remembering for each and every person to have the right to make up their own mind.

Within the different perceptions are intrinsic orientations toward a Beauty that has the capacity to cross lines ascribed as cultural or related to time. The sense of knowing time is not linear or vertical but rather another form of perception yolks in a contingent understanding of mass, velocity, and magnetism. After all, we would have nothing if not bound together by something.

Yet, the time we live in, whether then, now, or to come, relies on the invisible, ideological space present within the performance of speech, posture, apparel and so on. The permission of behavior or creative choices are indicated by the ayudar of the media, technology and: your attention. The tolerance or intolerance of sensual and cognitive choices begs to ask the origins of the thought police. The thought police are the subtle informants of what you are willing to let yourself think or not think. The skrikkelig situated part of this is, it’s at the end of the day: you. You decided to edit your thoughts, believe something whether or not it was substantiated, or in the worst case scenario, be in the presence of pathological liars. Yes, this is all quite scary. Now we are already deep down in the dark burrow, and yet you are in actual safety. The cognitive operative driving the motor of people only works if you let your mind drive your life, or let someone else’s mind dictate yours, or further, allow someone to negate your feelings, suggesting they are not real, and undermine intrinsic trust. So when people say we are living in strange times, they are quite mental times, and the health or unhealthiness of those is a larger formation demanding a reconciling within ourselves and each other.

Social conditioning relative to Beauty has proven to invite experience through a spectrum of safety through danger. Despite differences of physiological, biological, and cultural orientations, a deep well of truth remains when the contrarian mind occupied by the love to propagate danger, whether to personhood, relationships, or ecology is released to welcome the experience of an afferent, and simultaneously mindful and thoughtless, sensual beauty, pointing to an intelligence humans have and even robots seem able to grok their limitations in accessing. Robots or A.I. primarily, and presently access these thigns analytical processes alone with the help of engineers and biochemists; they are at work attempting to mimic your human behavioural biology. If you know anything about neural link or the human genome project, you will find out how far human curiosity is willing to go, and how much that risk is being not only permitted but funded, while currently living human beings face increasing gaps between poverty and what we can call abject wealth. Can those tolerances be considered anything but ugly? Since Beauty of the afferent magnitude requires a nervous system…so far anyway.

This is not a call to wake up, because that call assumes a position you are not awake or dreaming. In terms of consciousness, the unconscious is typically regarded as the body, which animates the nocturnal dream state. The waking state then asks for the unification of the unconscious and conscious.

In all practical, literal, and spiritual senses, people are awake and aware, but may need the time and space to deepen and reflect upon decisions and what they are tacitly permitting or not, and where ideas lead to in the future, as well as space to expand awareness. Blind faith has historically shown detrimental. The use of Beauty can be fouled up such as in, Annihilation, the movie, a prime examples of horrifying beauty, or the type of Beauty cults leading people into dangerous behavior exhibit. This is not the Beauty I want to incite. The kind of Beauty I am interested in incites a nonreactive, nonviolent courage, a Beauty that remains in a wordless space, constant and yet ever subtly changing flow.

Vastly differing subjectivities can appreciate and share visions or phenomena as beautiful. Those experiences of Afferent Beauty run current to concerns for geological empathy in an increasing desire to understand how to healthfully inhabit the earth, and relate as people, man, women, or the increasing number of subjective identities with each other. Without veering into the tricky wicket of politics of any sort, which is the way Beauty becomes mentalised instead of felt or spiritualised, means the mentalisation itself can produce affective states in the body. Psychosomatics as the term suggests, runs deep.

Why all these words for Beauty, being so obvious and felt in experience of thought and appearance? The decline of its presence seems to be doing something to the cognitive and self authoring functions of people. The mass formation compounded by a mix of historical ignorance and performed cognitive function of rewriting history, has created a group pathology. To transform the ugly wetiko of societal narcissism, it seems everyone agrees we have to do something…so what will that be? Beauty of virtues holds together through dominance and power dynamics, is gathered and protected after conflict. Beauty as this requires courage and discernment.

While important to account for diverse people, we have also a duty to remember, a great majority of people regardless of identity increasingly report feeling lost in a vacuous ideological schism. Therefore a felt Beauty holds space for all Vision-Body relationships.

Beauty is what I see through a feeling in my heart, or thereabout from my core radiating a cascade of comfort around my body as if held in an eternal embrace, suggesting the impossibility of being totally alone. This fulfilment through Beauty remains more satisfying when shared. As an old saying goes: joy shared is compounded, sorrows shared are halved. Beauty shared may therefore fuel compassion and love, sparking joy and halving sorrow. This Beauty relies on a willingness to see and reconcile behaviors that harm oneself and those arounds them.

We are relational beings. That gives rise to wonders on why and how Beauty has become such a tumultuous subject within select intellectual frameworks. Beauty as subjective instead of perceptive means an ugly use of life to escape fears of annihilation grown through age within those unreconciled with mortality, or as features of robots seems more celebrated than the imperfections of humans. This relies on examining the object/subject relationship through mental and spiritual frameworks, existing as a ghost demanding increased ability to perceive the multiple layers operating within the complexity of being.

I came to learn, perhaps late, some live in a gamified view of life, placing the driver of the perceived game in a dominance relationship to the world around them through a poor contraption for control: a few buttons. Players seem to simultaneously gloat and suffer in the relative dominance their subjective mental framework constructs, as if the Virtual Reality glowing grid realized in the headsets was already part of the predatory, gamed view of life. This is not a survival behavior such as actual hunting to provide nourishment for the self, family, or group but a means to gain dopamine hits through external objects, or even people, to fulfill their life. Virtual or physiological, the subjective experience turns out to be destructive, and not the beautiful from a distance type of destruction, but more of a slow internal rot.

This view is echoed in the notion of the universe (a proxy word for god) resides within each of us. As far as I have found, a type of stand-off/ish posture around subjectivity historically incites anything but getting along.

In the interest of getting along, a Perceptive and Afferent Beauty establishes presence in as quick of a deep breath, quiets the mind, and structures correct and compassionate action. The reach to control external behavior or minds, that would be indicated by the desire to control whether or not Beauty was accepted as valuable or worthless, taken for granted or appreciated. There are other options on those spectrums of course, yet those are the typical tendencies choices tend to lead to.

Some mental frameworks perceive Beauty as power. In that cultural perspective, the notion all power is abused gets wrapped to Beauty. And yet, in moments of destructive action, Beauty is replaced by things such as “ugly crying” or “ugly thoughts and behaviour.” I had argued the relational claim on Beauty as power in the context of the way I personally see Beauty as inviting understanding: if power is abused it is not power at all. The abuse of power is a negation of the persistent Beauty existing regardless of mental frameworks.

When listening to subjective visions of life, I heard utterances from others or myself that were not Beautiful. I often heard ugly utterances in the distinguished voices of esteemed leaders which I have also heard many people quietly murmur they felt. The spiritual war against Beauty fuels lapses in perception to feed hatred and contempt that consume instead of grow Beauty. These experiences led me to see gross misuses of power as cowardice in action and revere the respiratory relation to Beauty.

Through breath and body, the heart has valves, and therefore holes. We exist not because we are totalistic gods but because we respirate and relate. Even when we are alone, we are signaling and forming our future through imagination, desire, will through mystical experience of living. That feels Beautiful: existing with eyes closed, open, or through watery veils, both within and beyond, as plentiful and deep where games about power or abuse are entirely unimaginable.

The deep well of Beauty heals, is certain as water and stones are, as light and darkness need each other, as seaweed survives each tide and storm, there is a Beauty from the furtherest reaches of theoretical cosmos concurrently running through our electromagnetic tissue making movements from the cells birthed through lungs and bones.

All that withstanding, these are examples of the way metaphysics mated with new age theory to confabulate a notion of the universe as contained within the invididual. Our individual and relational connection with life has come under cultural critique to pave the way for robotic and transhumanist celebration.

This is precisely why Subjective Beauty has revealed a tendency to stall out, stale, or grow out of fashion, and why I want to underline an invitation to Perceptive and Afferent Beauty. Are we really still kids? Learning to play on the playground, instead of bullying each other into submission? That’s the main reason I have withdrawn care for understanding the canon of Subjective Beauty, which enables the suggestion of people as pawns or subjects, to be gamified, played or used. Even if the military organisations see bodies that way, we can, such as in standing meditation choose to embrace the Beauty that is in being.

The abundance of Beauty leads not directly to spoil but does so in the presence of apathy or greed. The way people see, eye to eye or not, directly derives from what Chinese Medicine calls the Conception Vessel. That is describe the vision someone sees with, is what is rooted deep within their sacrum. Linguistically this points to vision as a sacred relationship between sight and sacrum which are not only faculties of body but also of mind and spirit.

The contexts in which each of us exists, is not a universal. The rise in nonlocal awareness through senses and the internet has situated the intellectual frame of vision as temporally higher. I say temporally because the body can only be ignored for so long. The rate at which people move through the day and inhabit their personhood has increasingly been forced to choose to adapt to the tolerance for things that are not beautiful, or be dissolved. Therefore if a taboo is opened up, the clandestine is replaced by open air expression. This is why I wonder if we are collectively nearing the return of Beauty in culture, in the afferent senses or perception. Instead of making Beauty a scapegoat, or phenomena to fear, a small but subtle shift to reverence can generate the inner light and deep well as we enjoy our protection built from the forces of nature. Our ability to manipulate the natural world to our benefit means the heirachy of nature as being more beautiful than cities more of a concern for maintenance and care than for the claim of ugliness. If a place has become barren or no longer Beautiful, the spirit of the people may need to be examined. Beauty, while superficially easy to blame the guilt and shame fed by the rise of self-love pumping up the narcissistic society, reveals a false meaning of beauty, a beauty that when confronted with the logic in fold: if ideas are powerful, what if each person was already whole, already spiritual, not in need of more antidotes or self-love?

What if, the idea of universal beauty was not something scary, inviting destructive actions but something that inspired the remembrance of the Beauty within. This kind of wholeness still asks another external being to co-create with. For we are creative in our humanness already, even if not gods. Through Beauty we can be cautious and careful with ideas, deflating and soothing the inflammatory realm of reactivity and nourishing the burnt-out inner and outer landscapes.

When I was growing up, like most kids, my perception was limited to what I had access to feel and see. I did not have to think about getting love: love simply was. I could then, as adults marvel at children, perceive when there was harmony or conflict, and preferred harmony. In that observation, I noticed when people love each other, they do not have to think about loving themselves. The love is contributed. Everything is taken care of. When there was conflict, there would be wounding, and then focus on oneself was inevitable. When there is such a wound, as even propagated by the idea…just keep loving yourself more, life will work out: I have found this to be a myth. Life kept moving forward by giving and wondering. I never once can say I solved something all on my own. Sure I took choices and risks that no one else could force me to, and I not once took the privilege to make those choices for granted…but things happened with people. The self as god complex seems to be more accepted by those who prefer to use of the term “Universe” than the taboo of “God,” which happens to simply mean: Good in Norwegian. That goodness our body and collective memory knows, often through knowing the contrary, we can grow through focus on creating more Beauty.

Elaine Scarry’s book, On Beauty and Being Just, has been a sanity saver for me. Digesting Scarry’s wisdom, Emerson’s distinctions, and meditating on Beauty, my senses has shown me ways I had let others have access to my mind. The mind itself is a sacred space to give anyone acess to and I believe ought to be treated that way. This is why the imaginary realm is one I protect and wish to share, and likely the reason for the imaginary realms to become such a battleground for value.

As for why Beauty still has not healed the minds of people living in truly Beautiful lands, still remains in the realm of mysterious ether to me. Perceptive Beauty remains relative to the orientation of the body. Is the head upright or pointed to the ground? Is the human upright or hung by the feet? If our conscience knows our actions, then I trust in the Beauty that stands as a body of water or forest does regardless if we are here or not, to make way for wrongs to generously correct themselves, through time.

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“It could be worse.”

Phrases like this may mean well and prove to be slippery slopes. Meant often in kindness prove to be not very kind, in parallel to the way Self-Help books are psychospiritual, as well as social-economic traps.

Things could be worse, and they can usually also be better. The way things are looked at has a bit to do with where one is situated in life. This makes writing about kindness or cruelty difficult unless there are specific examples.

Due to this, I have increasingly been drawn to find ways to make Le Lapin a safe burrow for dialogue instead of the format of sending out pieces of my website with the thinking process behind the work. Though recently finding use of this email for sharing the results of 14 years of writing, rewritten and formatted over 2 months into 4 books of poetry and photography in Paris…amidst the riots. I came to Substack because I did not want to make a Patreon to create more middle-men taking cuts of the budgets people are already feeling tapped out by the relentless streaming services. I no longer saw it sensible to share hard work on social media, where the general decline of valuation or appreciation for culture making seems most evident.

In that some addictions will drive people to spend whatever it takes, energy or money to get that need filled, social media has proven to appear more masochistic than I had realized at the onset of its use.

I understand I need to accept the dark side of human psychology. Yet I want to ensure I’m contributing ethically and with care to the freedom to choose instead of manipulating the collective subconscious motors driving behaviours found in positivethinking only rhetoric or self-help pretzel logic. The deep tug on a real need for the conscious awareness and reconciliation of those forces makes me realize a dialogue could be fruitful yet who really wants or needs ANOTHER podcast. Would the fact my strange set of weirdnesses and female voice be enough difference from the typical setup I find out there in so called conscious-broadcasting space? or is all this talking avoiding the labor that needs to be done ;)

Social psychology, yet another dark dynamic I dipped my toes further into while studying in Japan became a plunge right into the deep end during art school. While I had considered becoming a psychologist, under the influence of self-help books, I imagined art making would be more illuminating, helpful, and positive. Instead, I ended up getting the education in dark psychology anyway.

So before I hop off the weekly posts here to tend to some new burrows, I wonder if anyone else has noticed how it seems like more people are on drugs. I did not want to be crass or rude. As it turns out, more people are on drugs. That is not to condemn or shame people for their life choices, but rather recognise the challenges in communication created by folks under the influence, and the results this is collectively creating. So while I’ve heard many attest to remembering their wholeness, more commonly referred to as healing these days through drug usage, I’m really not sold on the behavior. Since, as far as I can tell, life is an endless process of making and remaking….so where does that situate the usages of substances with the perception of reality? These questions send me on long walks often, as I tend to see patterns from the past resurfacing. While I very much want to give trust to the higher organizing nature of the cosmos, experience has led me to understand power and responsibility is within each of our hands.

Since there are elements of universality in pain, as Elaine Scarry wrote in depth about in The Body in Pain, The Making and Unmaking of the World, there is this more statistical model in the GSK report here: https://www.gsk.com/media/6351/2020-global-plain-index-report.pdf

Pain is something people clearly seem to be interested in reducing. And yet, are the people promising the reduction of suffering actually delivering that? or are they finding ways to serve the endless void some seem to have for power, dominance, and influence? This article, allegedly from 1987, describes the human suffering index: https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/lifestyle/wellness/1987/03/17/a-measurement-of-human-suffering/19aee44f-b460-4c8d-9aa3-4c55fbb74a30/

And as made clear here, on this link, global suffering is on the rise, despite the plenty.

Instead of pointing fingers at class, governments, forming cults or new religions, I still wonder if it is too much to ask we realise we have enough space to not agree, and we do not have to force each other to perform behaviours we do not wish to do, or be punished for not following each others’ commands. Which is why I want to share this Podcast my dear friend DiLos sent me the other day:

#13 Thom Knoles - Vedic Perspective on Trauma, Identity, Forgiveness, Karma: From Trauma To Triumph with Wade Robson & James Safechuck

So while people still believe they’re creating imaginary realities from within, reality is a confluence of choices and actions. (Reality is what exists regardless of what we think about it). As it has become clearer what is going on, Le Lapin has to sustain, such as a note carried over by holding a pedal in piano, doesn’t mean it’s over, but that the keys need a rest while other elements are practiced, so that when this melody resumes, the resonance is in alignment for the mission to reduce suffering and increase serene beauty, harmony, and quiet joy. For example this album coming out in August has sounds within it that bring me close to the origin of where my work comes from. I hope you will enjoy it: https://mariamman.net/all-in-twilight/

There is a lot more I had written. I learned Substack has a word count while writing this. But I realize everyone is pressed by time, attention, resources, and so I think I’ll leave things about what is actually kind or what is fake-kind with some advice from my Mom. When I prompted her for guidance, she said to ask myself in situations:

What Good Comes of This?

I often wonder why more people are not up front with their intentions and interests. I have no problem in letting people know I’ve worked really hard to be able to be allowed to make a living, and it is still an everyday labor. Every field comes with its challenges, and there are different challenges for every walk of life.

So even though anything good can become weaponised because we are relational beings: kindness or silence for example, which are usually great, can be cheese in a mouse trap. I have met ultra nice people who turned out to be some of the worst, and some less kind people who turned out to be some the best. These are not matters of taste, but rather matters of pricinples and virtues. So while as awful as the burning in Paris was, it was bewildering and inspiring to see an unwillingness to take comforts and look the other way. I, on the other hand, being of the constitution I am, still tend to prefer the side of a mountain or someplace near the sea where I can enjoy the white noise reminding me of eternity.

This writing and none on this site were generated by A.I. I have wilfully saved your mind from 4,721 words 28,225 characters.

And yes…that is meant to be funny-ish. If you get my drift. I have seen things, but not because I took substances; instead because I made pictures. How I see things has been hard to say how, because regardless of identifying features, the only thing I know I am working to be diligently for are things that were once quite common and are rarer in the gamified reality peoples seem to be playing in. Do you also enjoy playing in what was here before we were? There seems to be a lot for us there.

Walking agains the flow of water proved to be more challenging that it seemed to be.

Somehow analogue film turned out to be more forgiving than my digital camera.

And if you made it this far, please let me know if you would like to see more of my early photographs or the subjects that interest you most. I’m also offering the poetry books as PDF email or downloads if you do not want to subscribe to Le Lapin. Simply email me at [email protected] and I’ll send you my PayPal info and email you the PDFs right back.

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I was told hell can mean luck in some contexts. To be direct with you, Hell is a beautiful place. The train stop sits just outside of Værnes airport in Trøndelag. You don’t have to believe me; you can find out with some map service.

Hell is a train stop in Norway.

And just a stop, you can get off or keep riding. Hell is a sort of creation of our beings, a manifestation of fears. And yet, the peaceful serenity of Norway seems like a hell for many natives, and a heaven for folks such as me.

Peace, some people associated with death, and others freedom. So it’s not the actual concept that proves so hellish really, but the aggregate of associations.

And if you are willing and able to, make it a few stops past Hell anyway, you might find heaven. A place where the worst anchors of history set down roots and were shuffled off, because time and time again proves, nasi means national socialism; and it’s quite dangerous too….perhaps more dangerous than hell.

Photography by Rachel Wolfe, Trondheim, Norway

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The time has arrived to address play with the fullness of sincerity.

Contents

. progeny . proclivity . proclamation . preponderance

Proclamation

to announce

to recognise an initiative

to make an official declaration

STANDING STILL

We are all standing still

Motoring about in BMW’s

Stair masters adorned by climbing servants

belts moving around and around, remain in one place

recycling the past to find something new

Relearning what’s lost through stock options

lost to the deeper desire of innovation

a standing still repeatedly rehearsing

destructive thoughts through isolated egos

twirling circles on wooden dance floors

aiming to reignite some spark

consumed by pieces of promises

in layered cakes

nodding along

this isn’t close to a demonstration

for awhile ago

this could have been seen coming

as the moment draws nearer

in ‘tis bleached out fervour

the bets can still be placed

those who seem shocked in the face

will be stilled in standing

when the flash blasts forever.

A CURE FOR THE LIE

I must be ugly, sad, and dead

Don’t you bother or feign worry

what you ever say

can’t penetrate my head

surrounded by an imaginary helmet

more convinced of itself

than open to truth

yes, that simple

the ego makes itself to be

gave up learning

a long time ago to see

the fatalistic

no point in focusing

apathy wasting through the lost soul

fixated on identity

when there’s so much more good

that exists out there

take my hand and

I’ll lead the to see

outside

the norm

outside what’s now

outside

let’s go play outside.

ISSUED SOLUTION

The magazines, the movies, the stars, woo!

The reality we’re told we need

The happiness we’re fed on the screen

Images we’re told to uphold

Defining our souls-can’t we just let it all go?

Make no definition and redraw the lines

Flip the switch and live a life

Feel time, as it flows

The stupidity drains and creativity grows

Minds compressed become the hearts are repressed

Aching for spontaneity, some passion, then fire?

Is such a shared experience, truly individuality?

Measured in the difference in what Disney taught us

Toys mommy or daddy bought us

We know such spoils of half riddled lives become those

Ranting, raving, releasing the storms

from behind brick walls while preaching

Back to nature and here’s some tabs for your tongue

Discover purity so proclaimed you keep yourself young

Instead of indulging in the richness of maturity

Where are wrinkled aged faces tolerated by society

For the young to see, the whole stays too long

Rarely understanding the depth of meaning

Waiting in the engagement of the whole being

The day to day waits not always for tomorrow

nor the weekend

while tomorrow holds again the possibility for change

yet again the generations are growing closer in and yet

farther out

all the same.

SHOWER

Simply turning the icy handles

Washes the day away

The air was filled with voice speaking scandals

Now forget and let the mind linger astray

Problems causing me to ramble

Vanish when I say

Simply turning the icy handles

Washes the day away.

Warm droplet stealing kisses like vandals

Peace is what the walls convey

My aura now glowing like a candle

Life was meant to be this way

Simply turning the icy handles

Washes the day away.

BLANKET

Shh, hush child, they say it’s the way

Trust the man with his green loaded gun

Fear is the root, so thinking won’t solve the problem

Got to let the truth in

So your glasses will clear

Sit up now-pay attention

Culture programs the way

Feigning options to choose

Until you walk away

and toward the sun

or the other way

toward the night if you choose

and look the other way

it won’t go away

but you can…

Make the best of what’s in the face-up palm

Chew cautiously

They’ll throw in their seeds

Look up, love, and be saved

That is the way

Look around, tremble, turn to a friend

Shh, hush now for everything’s ok

Fore this is the end.

IF ONLY

It only took one match to burn away three years

Snapshots and memories now lakes of ash in the wind

How much freedom gets lost in forgetting?

Those parts of life that felt doomed

were the way

to finding true happiness sooner.

If only, the mind tricks

Were more obvious

I could have become a bit smarter sooner

Perhaps quicker to find instead of seek

That person thought of as I

Was merely conceived by someone else’s mind

Convincing ourselves deceives life

From the truth eyes paid witness

Such pasted upon masks

Make honest moulds of the sick

If only, the time could be taken back

Instead of having wounds to lick.

SOFA POLITICIANS

Pedestrian talk politics

a common commotion

addition to the grind

the sidewalk buckles

we walk

but look the other way

thoughts trapped

by excesses of solitude

streets roamed by hungry ghosts

people living by rules

doing all they can get away with

to enjoy contentment with nothingness

happiness and sadness

grey without judgement

a time ached for holding hands

shoved deep in pockets

lingering, scraping for fulfillment

nervous, sweaty palms

sometimes need a bit of air

for current generation stations

to again become magnetic.

GASLIGHT

After having my head held underwater

these first breaths out from under his spell

I remember being contained within his surface

Bound up by his lies

Until the day I snapped and screamed

those howls eery for all who could hear…

each day forward the home of my body grew stronger

still unable to stand without a cave to be sheltered within

standing at the edge of here just out side the line

saying goodbye

possessed and then awakened

he dispossessed me

when the emotional mess projections

made upon my body

kept coming to surface

the last tears cried for any man other

than within the loss of my clan

such was not unconditional love

but rather a shallow lust which ran dry

as sure as once the pursuit got his prize

slumped into a space now where wounds suffered can heal

he returned to say sorry and ask to come make life with him

again, disoriented I returned to later remember the story

of how he said it was always in my head

and that I never knew the man I married

such lunacy a boy with his illusions

naively I blamed the skeleton in his closet

the truth unearthed behind the body of his lies

he says what’s convenient for him

one moment to the next, a story always changing

I had lost my mind

and life for awhile

so now

I’m grateful

for retaining my soul.

© Mari Amman

Poetry, Prose &Suche VOL IV.

First edition 2023, electronic distribution. Text and Images by Mari Amman.

The poems contained within this volume were drafted circa 2006-2009, in Chicago, USA, and edited during spring 2023 in Paris, France, with the enormous support of The Trélex Residency.

Get full access to Le Lapin at lelapin.substack.com/subscribe

The time has arrived to address play with the fullness of sincerity.

Contents

. progeny . proclivity . proclamation . preponderance

Proclivity

to tend toward doing

to have a tendency toward

to perform with regularity

LOOK AND SEEM

The sparkling band just last week slipped

between the glistening sink and out the home

just below the reaches of her peering eyes

illuminated by a miniature flash light

she sighed knowing no amount of

hairspray or liquid covering compound

can uphold an image of what occurred decades ago

to her white-picket fence, prince charming dreams

opening within more tenderly now

the bubble of skin between her big and pointer toe

reminded her of a round, tender mound

when she became self healing magic

and the hurt from the loss to the sink

became the stick that punctured the

life she grew through a foundation

those thorns of his betrayal

a deeper shaking within

awakened the logic in which

traveling in someone else’s shoes

is made only worse by having tried them on

to appease someone who could

pretend to have not do such a thing

and she knew

always she supposed

so she left barefoot the next day.

TRAIN OF THOUGHT

Funny how a simple thought

Can make or break a day

Such a cliché

But always seems to be underlying

And momentarily

Briefly

Shine through

The fog of the everyday

That accumulates over the weeks

Of the mindless bog

And moan and drone

Ho humble existence

We attempt to prettify

Spinning pinwheels

White picket fences

Made musical instruments

By children dropping

Sticks across the positive

And negative spaces

Ringing and echoing alongside

The memories of easy bake ovens

And GI Joe tirades

That were presented before my eyes at an

Unmemorable time on some television screen

Reminding me the memory

Was never really mine.

TEMPORARY LIVING

Vertical mini blinds

Playing canvas to the dances

Of light and shadow

Flickering in the dimly lit

Night sky

This evening sky

Vacant from clouds or stars

Leaves an open expanse

Of blackness held not only in my mind

But in my energy

Dying to shine within

The stark architecture-reality

Alive with social caveats

Leaves my spirit hollow

And longing to find

To continue country warmth

Is what I seek.

PIECE OF HAND

The steady flow of the ink hitting the page always held

A place in me that always seems to try to replace

that space of beating myself up again

for what an idiot I seem to be

Never learning the lessons

from the trails behind me

running through these pages

as my feet smack the pavement

breathing comes easier when in motion

than suffocated by idea hands

words full of hopeful future plans

my faith resigned by my mind

rarely if ever holding steady until

we see what comes from the consistency

of daily choices resulting in truth

each day revealed the deep down inside

continues to run to propose a way

to find depth beyond such shallows

of the peaking out from inside

begging to be mined

as a determined destiny.

RHEUMENATION

What’s there to hold onto anymore?

The comfort memories past can bring

Or the promises a future holds

The love, the passion

Where has it all gone

Things just don’t disappear

They evolve

And move on

So, with all this moving forward

Wasting energy on the has been

The stand still is inevitable

Why let this hold ourselves in?

MOTORS AND THE MOTHER OF LIES

Histories are myths, stories written in code and glyph

Realities made by choices, takers of givens have forgone

Will and responsibility driven by a poor man intellect

Wears for shows and tells, by all those believing

The spoils rich men trust their own lies in

Go on labouring and loving as they go on saying

Poor by choice means never raising your voice

The fear of standing alone

As odd man out

Consider the ways fingers ridiculing played your soul then

to the bone in the agency you had once rejected

The cowardice of kings stands in the shadows

formed by complicit malice of the masses

even worlds far off stand on knees weeping

An international saviourdom

Martyring through mortar and land mine

What people draw into their belly

Signs the ways countries paint their fates

Fear wrangling life from the bones and

We hear it in all the moans

There is no saving the best course of action

has been stopping assault - Assail

Whatever motive painted good

Has blood on its hands

and in the sands washed by rain

Each time in generations crying

Why do we keep doing the same thing?

WIELDING HOPE

As the last shreds of hope end

I saw the northern lights -

Sobbing through the forest

the green lights flashed back -

With ease the respect arises

for those who bear a burden

than those who wistfully whisk

responsibility aside -

Nothing comforts heartbreak

but breath and witness.

A cultural shift is amiss

that kills bonds

and people wishing for primal ways

a sense of duty has changed -

There was a time

when things were different

the option to make sacrifices

was considered a gift -

How we are littered ourselves

in grandeur and abjection.

A distain for the tomes

which attempted to guide

Love Patience and kind -

these altruistic motives

have come for far from under scrutiny -

As starving and pain

give way to endless desire making waves

our societies ebb and flow

through tumult and placidity

fashioning wilds for those -

who wield hope.

THE DARK MAKES THE STARS GO MAD

It’s the dark, that makes the stars shine bright

we light off crackers, into the night

drawn lines in sands

boxes from, where we stand

we hope our lines last a lifetime

and when we sleep the tide comes, takes those lines away

round and round we circle hoping the rest can play along

but all the musicians and all those times

have always sang a song - its only for a short time

we will our lives, between these moments

of ritual

claiming sanity, and in the sand

we sink our feet-and see

we see a sea, we count the stars

and run away from all the dark

drawing lines of right, and rules for wrong

when we all know what gives live

and what takes all along

we hold it in our conscience

and call it consciousness

raising up celebrities, to wave our flags

but the truth, you hold in your heart

what makes it break, what leaves its scars

a happy new year everyday gets countered nowhere to claim

any stakes but on your taxes revenue

will they access and comfort you

boo, you’ve been good

rah, you’ve been bad

and it’s the stars

that make the dark go mad.

© Mari Amman

Poetry, Prose &Suche VOL IV.

First edition 2023, electronic distribution. Text and Images by Mari Amman.

The poems contained within this volume were drafted circa 2006-2009, in Chicago, USA, and edited during spring 2023 in Paris, France, with the enormous support of The Trélex Residency.

Get full access to Le Lapin at lelapin.substack.com/subscribe

The time has arrived to address play with the fullness of sincerity.

Contents

. progeny . proclivity . proclamation . preponderance

Preponderance

to be the majority

to be worthy of significance

to factually be in greater number

RESPLENDENCE

a placide horizon feigns a twilight

promising entryway toward oblivion

enumerating plurality as everyone

a toy mountain within sight

precipatory shores impose upon

a horizon hidden behind spines

of mountains hawthorned by

meteorological phenomenon

a yolked encourvature

reaching to kiss the moss lake enclosure

spatters a light upon

a placide reservoir

with stillness emphatically elusive

metallic refraction evocative

respite pool of heavens

graces barrens of resplendence

magenta hues are foretold to be

silvery kisses of hope in a fog laden landscape

penetrated by a few golden slices

feeding forest paths underfoot

begging my bones a curvature to rest upon

a geologically stabilising curvature

kissed by long afternoons’ horizon

placated by the winds’ dappled whimsy

through a darkened underbrush a cloudscape

beckons my footsteps towards a solace

of promise and barren mirroring

a longing nearly here, emptied vessel in wait

pinnacle in demand

the rivers go rushing toward

a meadow blossoming and skies threatening

only an equalising, ever lapping horizon.

MIND GARDENS

dreams are drawings from my heart

the opposite of escape

awaking to turning my fingers

into little hammers the centres of my palms hurt

there’s so much crying in poetry writing

so tomorrow sounds like a good day

an audiovisual story awaiting

without any proper order or ending

nor beginning for such a record marked only

by idiosyncratic time

interspersed and performed

by folk singers

perhaps to be danced at a another time

I have no more wonder

for those with resentment toward creativity

have inside a sickness

and yet we know no one cares if one dare says or does

until the doing is said and so

take pen to paper and say

what is felt, seen, or experienced

how dare she or he? ill makers believe

but what of such thoughts dare to exist?

could be wrong or possibly upright

standing ground

saying ok those worries are not today

again not today and again

gardens welcome hearts

whether they smile or weep.

FIRST TIME FOR EVERYTHING

For that which people deem trite or cliché

allow me to tell you this isn’t my first poem

and for those who deem freely formed verse

or spoken word absurd

then be sure to steer around Chicago’s Green Mill

permitting peaceful warriors backup band and

the reciprocal space of witness I felt 13 years ago

and may be yesterday’s excuse for

denying my truth

and so if you allow me to

I want to share in earnest with you

this morning’s thoughts on life

because I did not get handed lemons, I bought them

I drank the juice and used the flesh to do the dishes

prone, as a result of taking bad advice, I have a bit of it to give here: take a walk under the clouds

pretend you’re in Paris

imagine a photograph made there

it doesn’t matter if it was or wasn’t

to feel why a blanketed sky

proves more romantic than sun

that is if you want to have a view of what you love

instead of being blinded

having inadvertently torn corneas

I would not advise having to adapt

to not having what you once had

so while I reach into yesterday’s sunshine memory

of which I am not complaining

because my bones loved every minute of soaking in light

instead of shivering to generate heat the euphoria of

pedestrians moving around as Monet brushstrokes

still warned me summer waits patiently

and while spring taunts I buy cheap flowers

because expensive ones die too

and I’ll have the spare change for cheese

later on the extra energy to grow a garden

and own the privilege of giving flowers away

so that was some of what I told my friend today

when I asked if he wanted to know how I choose friends

he didn’t care to find out really

as so often is the case

but I told him anyway:

doers and lovers are for me

not because I love Sartre this decade and may not the next

but because I noticed the people who are busy cooperating with life-getting on with what they can do rarely dare haunt me

those who come back regretting, as if they all read the same script retrospectively noticing a sincere foolhardy diligence to pursue the truth

and telling it to the best of my ability

saw their inverted saga for what it always was

because for worse aimed at getting better

I am what I am, and do as I say I’ll do

unless life changes course

life made sure to teach me to never fight with it

so words are not nearly hot air alone, I suggest we keep our cool I used to keep records and notes, but I know I’m telling the truth

so I don’t have to keep track to stay on track

which is perhaps the way of grace

that’s more than ok

because grace bestowed her compassion

many times I felt undeserving and seeking

yet grace doesn’t always delight as tulips do

but wedges space into closed logic loops

so instead of going on again, instead of being bossy

I’ll tell you what I do and see how it fits for you

I donate money I don’t have to donate

yet if I have some then I have some to give

making less for me but others have some too

and we all can make more or less out of a little

resources are responsibilities

we don’t have to save the world

careful of those pretending to

demystifying life enough

made figuring out how to blend paint colours readied

to create routes with greater clarity in their course

an orientation less shy of the most desired direction

I thought could be easy enough

until I met those who love to make shadeto ensure that which could grow, would rot

so their roots and vision could proclaim

popularity as best instead of letting all the rest

feed their roots too

as life cycles through seasons of rebirth and growth

in digesting the consequences of creatingnow with more caution

to not bite into lies people believe about themselves

the lies perpetuating hell

and that’s the tell

who I make friends with or not

those who are doing the work and not tipping the boat

content with keeping their hands to themselves

or having an extra set to hold be more than enoughnot feigning but overflowing

contented trust maintaining and going, growing

not punching holes in hulls while I’m busy bailing out water

such futility knows only its own sorrows

now this part I do not advise

yet having jumped from those types of ships

though worn out I became a good swimmer

for having been so afraid of water

there were docks that became doors

opening to even a stranger such as me

exploring where open doors lead has been terrifying

yet not in the least I continue imagining a we-

as some say the other is a part of ourselves already

creating an orbit generating a home, which for me requires a specificity

I do make demands and not leave my day up to fate or prophets

for oh whatever god is

what else can earth be here for

but learning how to create more life

from the bounty of what is given to grow.

ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND BREATHS

Being is a held breath

and between these branches

are one-hundred-thousand breaths

toward the heaven

before the descent

back to the present.

VERITE ON PLATO

When she returned to the cave

to tell those what she saw

the cave dwellers cried out in fear

and she became more

of the outside

the other

a myth in her own world

so she set off

to then find more people gathered in caves

societies inspire insanity

the weight of solitude

and the forgetfulness of the chasm

and the totality of each form of existence.

Walking doesn’t heal pain; it only creates distance from what caused it.

© Mari Amman

Poetry, Prose &Suche VOL IV.

First edition 2023, electronic distribution. Text and Images by Mari Amman.

The poems contained within this volume were drafted circa 2006-2009, in Chicago, USA, and edited during spring 2023 in Paris, France, with the enormous support of The Trélex Residency.

Get full access to Le Lapin at lelapin.substack.com/subscribe

The time has arrived to address play with the fullness of sincerity.

Contents

. progeny . proclivity . proclamation . preponderance

Progeny

to go forth

to form an ancestry

to acquire by effort

Quite recently I had the painful opportunity to witness a scene where a strong little boy did not understand his strength and would hurt his more amicable and smaller brother.

The smaller brother began to become tricky and lash out. Less than three, he learned deceit, and the stronger boy began to take the blame, even as he had corrected his mistakes; the picture was set too late.

As he continued to receive punishment at the hand of the sweetness of his brother’s lies, he began to eat less and shrink. He developed allergies and would often become grumpy and difficult to be with.

Over time the doctors decided to take out his tonsils and adenoid’s, forever changing the course of that boy’s body. In subtle ways, predicable to be seen, these memories before the age of 7 will set patterns that result in consequences decades later.

All could have been avoided if the slap and the spanking had not been the tool of education, but instead the way I learned through pain to relate to what they really feel and think. Kids will tell the truth until they are punished so hard and then stop. Then they will internalise the dynamic in their body and it will work out through their life.

Life is not complicated in this way. Though it is often more painful for someone to say sorry and admit the truth than go on pointing at others for what they themselves had done.

WORTH IT

Rendezvous daydreams

float atop a twiddle my thumbs Tuesday

aching for the excitement of the ever acclaimed weekend

I bide my time, with silly banter and dancing

until I can be held near, my dear

I am singing a tune, you had better listen to

this woman is much wiser than she led ontobut no good at games

I’m claiming innocence and honesty

will someday win me a man

who could handle these moves

but not try to tame my soul

only hold my heart with good strong hands

- and an open mind

this time, my lesson’s been learned-

there’s only so much time left to discern

what’s to come of this

I’ll place a down-payment,

on something that could be better than best

a good night’s kiss to put those tricks to rest

tucked into bed with dreams and ideals

cooked up over-easy with some pancakes

and a side of twinkling eyes

for we lovers never say good-bye

just see you next time.

OUR YARD IS GREEN

Innumerable affairs sown

with well intended ideas

became rhetorically weeded

well-groomed beyond where eyes could foresee

the story where fancied lives

far from the familiarly assumed

tend to go drowned out, in din’d overtures

insistent on minor keys and muted beige tones

floating beneath nonplussed waves

recoiled from bites of questioning

began to mutter of built dens buried

abruptly arriving upon false consensus of concision

knowing a cost of freedom delivered through concern

if you live in a body poised within consequential lands

signified by the imaginary kingdoms

separate from commonplace a plenty ordinarily feared

lined-up, heel-toe, heal-to-tow

as far as civil structuring goes

façades conceded for the illusions of

a levelled out daily task temperament

absent from errant hairs, trimmed hedges-funding

wild rabbit hole chases fore-fronting envious glares

echo’d in catacombs of homes full of children's’ giggles

hushed by the ache of arms hugged never quite enough

makes that tickle of touch, became such a rush

idyllically inciting a joyful home instead of a dread

of a manufactured melancholy as a chic or manly trend

having yet to have heard one worth listening to assuredly say

there’s a ascertained way for the lot of us all, as one

which one, of the millions of colours the sky shifts through any moment in the day dare be lumped into notions while thunderstorms’ motions insuring green yards or brown.

PETER PAN

Apparently my misinterpretation of the situationled me blind to characteristics of a pseudo he

wannabe rock star posing sweetly

whispering promises of a somebody I'd held in high esteem

thought once to not have existedthey all said it was a match and what a perfect fit

so with that, I unguarded my heart

and left it to be eatenwithout any cause

other than the naïveté of the encounter of the surreal chain

laying before me

gnawed off while being chewed

a drop turning blue from my iris carries zero hope

for only that streams through my pupils

contracted and tinged by falsely personal persuasions

invoke the gods of logistical gears to churn to step around becoming tinged by the singe and in such depths between crests of waves

there’s no truth only the moon to turn

from where this all began.

NIGHTTIME TREND

A no patience for anything

has withered to indulging in

a click of the mouse wasteland

people have come to call the Internet

all attempts fail to obliterate the time stamp

of something with such speedy connections

barring truth from search engine optimisation

while enclosures remain historically noted

for rot from within

until the treadmill of tired of trying

rat wheel in a cage pattern

ceases to acknowledge the malaise

by conquering the profanity

of the Internet disease

spinning made upon beds

of trial decks limited to shuffled Jacks

there’s a shuffle in a slideshow

slowed from spinning under

the damp glow of a table lamp witness

passages of regret knowing no end results

from any pointed dagger

I feel you threaten with a tighter forefinger

the answer remains a choke

no? so yet again I’ll roll over

for the thing feigning of he saying

be a man

so I can exhale long enough

to see next light.

FINDING LIVING

Walking through a field of vision

a lens aimed by unfamiliar fingers

letting the breeze blow right through me

Passing walks with the phoney talks

never dipping in sticky places with meaning

allow getting by without any thought

the pressing essence of our being into form

For the first time again

I’m finding use in this life

Familiarity in the unfamiliar

As I take a big bite

From what I once thrived upon

and found out was spite

the course spit flung to ragged ground

I’m transported

to a place not in time

Or by coordinates

And that is

My friend

What I’ve come to call

Sanity.

RUNNING

Scorecards are not impressed

by the achievements humans play

to see approval

why do that anyway?

If the idea of we’re all the same

running around playing a big game

Fretting and frantic to get place to place

Where was the last pace

in the last time

You stopped and took

A good look at your face?

Unfamiliar you grew

yet spent so much energy

toward the material intently

You claimed as your personality

When we all know the ego can’t see

but waits ready to crack open

the oohs and ahhhh life

would be so much easier

if you

allowed

yourself to be.

ASIDE FROM

I

am only here

whenever the I

wants to be

Therefore where I look

Isn’t necessarily what I see

Sometimes I’m not so sure

What I make real for me

Is necessarily

what’s best for personal well being

living in this so called reality.

NEW DAY

The movement created inside my mind

from the glimpse of skin the eye retrieved

triggered a reaction in my heart

commanding my body

to coil upon itself

within its source of glee

flowing entirely free

the source of the new

to be found

existing

he made clear he had pursued

to tap from

inside of me.

WILD PETS

Beauty and soul

if only that mattered

in the world

those believed to be learned

better keep humble

though anyone can be

nothing special

never back down

even when someone strikes

on the face or ass

glare back

dare them

try again

remain a wolf

at each day’s end

never some man’s dog.

SWIM AND GENDER

Humans dive underwater

Feet to sky and head to ground

first breaths air chokes with bubbles

those lungs

can’t drown thee now

when under such a spell

contained by the surface

the soul gets

wrapped me up

in his lies

a history of mad women

institutionalised

“without a purpose"

My nerves snapped at that

and bones howled for all to hear

And every day since

my body grew stronger still

Afraid and yet able to stand

Here and witness the lie

to simply say goodbye

Calm and unfettered now

A disposition I can hardly believe

The emotional mess of me

Would have been able to embody.

NOTHING AS EVERYTHING

Keep your focus

you sway so well

paving roads

from swipes called destiny

Fated by beliefs

an endless fuel of ignorance

as bliss addiction

Keep your ears

to the winds

feeling forests

for their loves

The rest is noise

the background

sustaining

nothing

we know is everything.

A GHOST NEVER STOPS BEING INVISIBLE

Who I am has no name

What I do is all the same

Passing by some time with messages

For all people fighting for their lives

Breath in and recognise

Life is already given

And you don’t even

Have to believe in

Past lives or future demise

All that you making

The sounds you are saying

Make all your dreams

And fantasies

Real

I can recall

Many years ago

Wishing for adventure

Lamenting empty passport pages

And waiting

For my friend

To join on a voyage

Of our creating magnetism

Guided by forces of love

And free from fear

Off to the unknown

I wandered

naively

Trusting and making

Actions beyond

the insurmountable shaking

Rising from the seat of my soul

Deep down below where

Life promises

Emergence

I mustered my faith in love

To join in his arms

He loved me and he left me

To walk in the cold

After he had attained his wish

He always asked for more

So I gave all my time

And all my energy

To making a smile on him

For it was his joy that made me happy

The more

I poured

The smaller I became

And when he claimed

All wrongs my fault

I hinged my mind on every word

And believed all apologies

Why a girl

Would remain

Alludes my mind

years after

today

And so I left

To show all his fears wrong

If he could have faith

In all my motives that I said

Always did remain

So when I returned

I tried to still be good

But had so much pain

I could no longer serve his needs

And so I went away

In the very house we were to call

A home I became

A ghost screaming to leave me alone

Who could have known

The power of a man’s vision

Could transform a woman

Into a projection of a past

She knew nothing about

But only know the desire

His wish for it to be buried and cast out

And so I sing

Not for forgiveness or even myself

but to a day my name

be invisible to service

if love gives healing

then where is my understanding

Those who can’t or refuse to see

Call me weak or call me fearless

tell me to just change my ways

despite their appetite souls

my whiplash dizzied by their power games.

© Mari Amman

Poetry, Prose &Suche VOL IV.

First edition 2023, electronic distribution. Text and Images by Mari Amman.

The poems contained within this volume were drafted circa 2006-2009, in Chicago, USA, and edited during spring 2023 in Paris, France, with the enormous support of The Trélex Residency.

Get full access to Le Lapin at lelapin.substack.com/subscribe

The senses are yours to compose a world of beauty with the might of your mind.

Contents

. repose . recoil . rigour . resplendence

Resplendence

to shine

to be beautiful

to glow with splendour

DREAM

This morning (it rained)

I must have nearly diedfor (behind REM eyes) in my sleepI dreamed of an entire lifewith few things no body could tame

with the blame of their exonerated shame

for the pity they failed to exhale from their soul

a dream has little to do with what we thinkwhen there’s no photo

but pure happiness

honesty and heart

that sort of pure leaves no room fordwelling in the past or even

what kind of stand is used to rest our hats onmost breath instead of fixations

permeate the energy for changing

the imperfect, and loved(reflects ourselves at a level)so when we look back at what could be

we care not for

any sort of tear that could sneak down the cheek

there’s no rack for despair

in this dream

only a feeling the vision is shared

inside the soul of a gentleman(sweetly) seeking to also love

so sincerely.

TUNED TO THE SAME BEAT

Please, please, please- pretty please

oh won't this you I’ve grown accustomed to

remain an acquaintance tuned to the melodic frequency

rhythmically synched within

beat, the beat, the resonating thump musters a bump

in my chest cavity,  a well chimed in a personal journey

in sigil to the a could

may dwell long enough to become a would

instead of bound by what I should

rhyme, a rhyme- rhyming with time

suddenly incapable of escaping my mind

the down and nearly out is barely looked upon

or considered

stride, stride, as I stride along

creating a vibratory humming sound

with vocals prepped

ready to burst into song

flown, blown, and sewn

into a great lakes bluster

of a city suburbanites go heading in

travel towards

an illusory escape from the reality

those invisible lines are drawn between

lives all the same.

PIECES OF TOGETHER

It's been forty minutes in a bumper to bumperhead to tail-light situationMellowed by some new age woodwind tunesI safely sit strapped to my means to see him machinehurling now through this existential continuumat mile per hour speeds of which I shy from mentioningoccasionally muttered under my methylated breathknowing my arrival stems

approximately five minutes earlier than planned

I resign to the velocity in which I remain in a whole piecetemporarily and tenderly reminiscing of a morningfrom a recent experience induced of a drugno market could make followed by the picture I mentally made in the pancakes as flowers blooming

between the tines of my fork

this gesture made a fullness of wonderment

in the absence of being witnessed

miniature moments allowed everyday redundancyto seem brighter than the analytical appreciation

I had bitten off with a degree

righted by the wrong worry of thoughts

misconstrued for meaning amongst the lot

possibly provoked by a pace comfortably patternedin the grid of our universe we stopped to findtravel times assuming saner speedsallowing the trigger of a parking break lever

on the verge of snap

a much needed nap.

INCONCLUSIVEToday I sat and thought awhileno-wait, I ran in circles around a theoryabout the separation between the body and mindalways vying for first in line.inquiring at which is better or worse,and found out quite finely the notion

was intentional in its quotient for existential angstsuch distractions about perceptions of glasses

full, empty, half, or what angle

have little to do with the particles

constituting air and mass

formed whether we think about them

or not at last

our subjectivity forms

a solipsism for existencewhen objects become mental events

for tyrants pulling the strings

you can forget about what you thought you knew

since reasoning has a logic

the so called universe could care less about

as the physics tends to the billions grass blades

sprouted and bent beneath daily chores and rituals

our minds are given less weight

in the contexts of a situation on repeat

unresolved as if a dream

or a memory had nary much a difference.

PANTS

Seams running miles of inches beyondthe heels that shifted fromgrinding the ground

into an inhale-able substancethe dust brings our bodies back to reality

in time the miles of walking out now

become white-out between the lines

of a story blocked-outthe memory underlies the stickiness of the substance

if only the truth could be trusted to be known

would we dive in knowing someone would save us

if drowning was a real risk and offer a towel?

to pat temples of fear sweat drops

dry in time for the dance party

we could serenade each other around

a rolled up towel

for example —

to erase the weight of the memories

our dancing legs try to erase

through the memories the scent our sweat carries.

WIND

An abrupt shift in pace. A weekend of inspiration,

forgetting expectations,

exceeding limitations,

the wind I loathed so long and so much,

may have done — all the good.

© Mari Amman

Poetry, Prose &Suche VOL III.

First edition 2023, electronic distribution. Text and Images by Mari Amman.

The poems contained within this volume were drafted circa 2006-2009, in Chicago, USA, and edited during spring 2023 in Paris, France, with the enormous support of The Trélex Residency.

Get full access to Le Lapin at lelapin.substack.com/subscribe

The senses are yours to compose a world of beauty with the might of your mind.

Contents

. repose . recoil . rigour . resplendence

Recoil

to retract

to quickly refute

to perform disapproval

HIT IT

Deadly drops disdained

kneecaps to floorboard

at green and blue inducing speedsbleeding out in salt-baths

with sweat from the eyes

in an attempt to extract his

egotistic pride

all fours out the pourshow the hell

does anyone dare ever ask why

when we know — how cowardly

and morally insufficient

an expectation from a date

to repay with bodies

there’s no romance in

booming an object

not even barely scraping bottom

but claiming an assumption

no one has any thing to loseis a point where some time

life will find

no more reasons or excuse

to respond with love

to the birth of new life

instead of the ignorance

of strife.

THE ALL ONE TRAP

Figuring out the I or me is not thewas to became or am

some kind of cyclic game

of gnostic misanthropy

so if I’m not the me and you’re no the you

then who

do we own our responsibility to? some kind of rhetoric paving imaginary streets

where garbage blows about freelyin the something of not a me

that carries the delight of songbird flightthat doesn’t exist unless in reference to a tree

how many more metaphors can we

weave our way into each others skinas those past, present, and futuresoils are comprised in being

not this or that but everything all at once and yet not at all and always never and foreveruntil what a trip

we’d better get back home

and avoid the solipsism of self help

and short circuited soils

diluting our souls.

TRAPPED

Droplet dotted windshield view widewith faint murmur of a creepinganticipatory sighI just drivemy foot put on lockdowninhaling an earthy lung charring steamweaving through lanes ofintermittent illuminationI can see from within

I’m cloudedand in the darkI can see the volume at which a frustrated mind shriekspick onea route

that can’t be taken

not yet how could we

move into that way just yet

without being

allows a bit of space

a horn and light and yet

we the entrapped

don’t get anywhere in life.

TIMES UP

A folding chair creaksand tucked away are memoriesof dreams too feared for existence they bulge at the seamsas lightly lined irises gleamunder a hidden din of

just enough sleepto keep up

while wearing down

through a disco of directional dissonancelevelled by a demeanour andbland ho-hum experiencesamplified in well made nauseation

a numb

deafeningly silent enough

to succumb

to try on

being in love

with a fightround a ring

a dance knocking toe taps

at the very least

to every beat, a chanceof the vague possibility

to rationalise a stancepushed that way tight on a dare

to tango I bet we all thought

it was easier than that

to focus on a comfort

in structure

to sequester a cryfor the triumphant

bet obliged

the rounds only last so far past sun down

there’s just a bit of time now

before the alarm commandsup and at the whatever

you said yes to yesterday.

PLATONIC FORMS IN THE WIND

The sort of Sunday afternoon napping comfort blewin gusts and rolling blue-hued grey moisture puffstipped my nose into such windsclosed lidded I stood, grappling for groundingthe directions ficklemaking a mess of tangled strandsof lengthening browncan't quite touch what may be signsso holding up a licked fingerdoesn't seem so sanitary anywaythere must be another way to read this wind

in such a situation I’ve allowed myself to get nestled inrequesting a detailed explanation

unbindingembracing

change without a leashwafting through an undermining society

I see no benefit in the dominance hierarchies since there’s an unknown experience to set off into

where known issues are addressed

and small sacrifices of focus are made

to benefit the rest

I’m always amazed how much can magnetically be done

by grazing the hand that which extremity touchesthat felt the beat of violence at the hand of ignoranceand a silence

vibrating from internal forms in our landscapes

commonly characterised by smoothly roundedkindergarten cut out shapes.

SPRING COLOURED SKIN

The winding bike path I taketransforms my sight momentarily into the image of a mountainous Colorado viewan escape from an SUV landscapescreaming so loud, get the hell, outa here!in that momentarily hostile naturedrawn from a wind whipping my cheek skininto buttery softnessdeep within

I long for someone to feellater or soon this experienceinstead of some technological messagesjarring in screens

meandering thoughtsI really scream now to put to an end toscreeching – halt - stop!time mobile palm device interface

has no place

in my ever expanding sense of space soaking in the vitamin D pumping intravenously

sitting in trafficI’m sipping on that which feeds this bodyand replenishes this mind

now is no better time

than yesterday’s so hesitate shall we not

to drop the misery

and let transformation

begin.

NO APOLOGIES

Worshipping practicality, preferring straight linesbuilds muscle easily loves to loathe Charles Bukowskipacks two months stay in a baglibido like a cat in heat

with the persistence of a nun on a missionbelieves men better take some responsibilityand just stop just talking aboutfiguring your s**t out — is this what we permit as a man?

an adolescent in wrinkling skin? no way does such banality fly with meno apologies, or patience

for sorries without change anymore.

These re but a few simple things

yet there’s always more

than whatever perfume and soft skin

applies towards appreciating

domestic aptitudesanyone with heart

has a soft spot for puppies

and babies

and if not a vase of flowersmaybe just a petal or two.

WEATHERMAN

The drop their heads backgaping-pointed fingers to the skytaking sharp breaths inrelieved in sighs of wondermentis that nature's display of soft cumulous clouds floating delicate and strongbut deeper than mind paid to surface awethere more if you’ll go further willing to graspat the inquisition to attaina thorough understandingof what creates the show — as my grief for superficial state of affairs subsidesI’m able to see quite plainly nowhow sweet a man who grows an affinity forlife bonds with nature throughmeteorological enlightenmenta deeper kind of love than say

mere infatuation or lust

within each of us, is a weatherman in waittaking interests in how clouds know

which way to goor the purity of droplets as they kiss our cheeksbinding our histories

to the story of our lands

we lay beneath the books

some hands

have yet to write.

STANCEThe orange sun did set in my dreams played last nightand I just missed the moment for the perfect photographedframe-able picturesque sightsettling for the video type memoryI keep rewinding, fast forwardingthe play in my head knowingto make wear on the imagetil they jump, fuzz, and fadethis afternoon I decided to make new motion pictureswatching the cross-alley door banging in the windamidst the dead still is all around us nowcharacterised and brought to lifeby half sorts of smiles mustered isolated we turned to our sides

side so no one sees my criesand upon paths I make doubtblocks hindering my strides

in making all sorts of connections and plansthey were so beautiful, yespeaceful and realistically attainablelending themselves to hopenot only selfishly but in offering humanity a handin the pursuit of each sun rise

a day comes no companion can

comfort the uncomfortable stance

of knowing we are each our own.

FLIP FLOP TANK TOPS painted toes slide to and froskimming over TV screen fuzz blur pavementmy denim pants actually fitthey don't dare drag on this grey dayquietly illuminated by eyesabundantly rested cheap coffee tastes so wellwhen appetite for chewing is nilif only I had a sprinkle of cinnamon spicemy pockets would feel richby a soil stabbed with miracle growmy green has made way for blooms of orange, red, and yellow.

KEEP

My heart hollowed,been scooped out by you.all for a meaning,that can never be oneto understand.conceived with hope,devised of a plan,once believed rightfully true,unjustified by an emptiness-followed by a longing for a shared embrace.time to fill the space.pour in me truth.please remove-theweight of doubt lingering.when potentialfor somethingso unbelievably tangible,dangles in view.still within reach.keep.

SAID AND DONE ANOTHER

So my guys’ friend comes by from time to time

respectable and dearclaims he be allergic to time

so I demand

he "just stick it to me, what on earth you mean?”as inquirer seems to fit my skinbetter than the grommeted black bandI forgot was left on my wrist

he looks sideways

wondering and shakes his mop

I see not so much the accessories are unworthy of trusting

but if he claims he’s not drinking

as a means of peaceable living

his lies are vies for my eyes

I just let fly and offer the taste of ideas born oftick-tock around the clocks fastingto revel in the vibrancy of pulse beats formedby letting our organs breath

so I have still not his answer to his detestation for time

and I witness him in my sober

hidden behind our shaggy hairdos

and I turn my back

to the lie for the truth my guy is sweating boozedripping like he knows he’s in luckknowing better

than to hold onto those pants

I wore a dress

as we would dance

and phone lies won’t work

when there’s a real dance

with our chances.

© Mari Amman. All Rights Reserved.

Poetry, Prose &Suche VOL III.

First edition 2023, electronic distribution. Text and Images by Mari Amman.

The poems contained within this volume were drafted circa 2006-2009, in Chicago, USA, and edited during spring 2023 in Paris, France, with the enormous support of The Trélex Residency.

Get full access to Le Lapin at lelapin.substack.com/subscribe