“Facade”

She chaotically spun through her days as

a jet with one engine so counterfeit.

Yet subtly landed with the grace of a swan –

the waters of her known placid persona still as glass.

 

People noticed not her askew orbit for her joyous nature,

the endearing smile painted on the face of her plane;

a clever front to the perception of people of proximity.

She noticed always her askew orbit for her contrived nature,

the commandeering smile painted on the face of her plain;

a clever front to the perception of people of proximity.

 

The dejected quite calculatedly acted the opposite, she cognitively contended.

Our kind shares smiles in a clever front, and all is mended.

 

She were as an orphan child that would paint the canvas

of possibility with a brush of bleak, strokes of solitude;

she’d bruise her horizons’ skies and slash her aura with a forsaken knife,

tendrils of her heart languidly ribboning to the floor as unwanted film.

 

The people of interest could look up and regurgitate the carelessly

chewed on colloquialisms “I’m proud” and “you’re so sexy.”

Her mask contorts into contrived countenance of joy.

Her facade is controlled chaos, coordinated anarchy.

 

I saw right through, yet yielded was no revelation about her true self;

I knew her routine descents, her paradoxically perilous placidity.

Through them, through anything, she was always beautiful to me.

 

She couldn’t endeavor for a single right for

she fornicated with vain mistakes and spite.

Yet inspired me – to quietly fight as I linger and write.

My own chaos a comely kind of incalculable creativity.

 

I stand erect through my days as a precarious building of beauty;

the architectural masquerade of civility and structure,

yet subterranean foundation seconds from collapse.

The waters of my own known placid persona still as glass.

 

A mutual understanding of what’s dutifully fake;

a self-serving service of spurious sanity naught a mistake.

A jet spinning out of control can land so pretty as well,

a beautiful building can be on verge of collapse (who can tell?).

 

I acknowledge the shared experience and its comfort.

“What do you mean?” retorts her beautiful mouth.

“I am so very happy.” So she claims.

I currently perceive the engine’s dancing flames.

 

Tony Blau Veldt, 05/20/2017

 

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“The Deer”

The obtuse obstruction of man guts the

placid lawn. Drawing mortal focus

to the dichotomy. Human and nature.

 

The deer with majestic insouciance trots about.

Nose down, endeavors not for eats.

Only aroma. Aroma and peace.

 

Nature. We’re no longer a part of thee.

Ascend above biology, yet not to be free?

Fences divide more than just places.

 

My deer thinks little and fears less.

She is content.

She is nature.

 

She simply is.
Tony Blau Veldt, 04/30/2017

“Frettie Edgy”

The essence of existence manifested itself

in the curling of Frettie Edgy’s tongue,

the maniacal biting of his fingertips.

And why he eats and why he breathes.

Why wars are fought

why lovers are sought.

Why the Earth turns round

why laws of physics are bound.

Bite gnaw think bite gnaw think

Bite gnaw think bite gnaw sleep…

 

Guilt is his many toothed-monster;

gnashes and tears at emotional gizzards.

A bird of prey.

His head a trough,

his heart a buffet.

 

Bits of nails thicken the atmosphere like sawdust.

He bites as a cartoon character eating corn on the cob.

The 21st century anxious people make a hazy cloud in a satellite photograph.

(“Commander to base – did God unleash a plague of snow?”)

He lays down with a book and 45 minutes later has

perfunctorily snail-crawled his way through three pages

for he bite gnaw think bite gnaw think bite gnaw sleep…

 

Where are Frettie’s people?

Where does Frettie belong?

When Frettie finally tries to assert himself…

people tell Frettie he’s wrong?

 

Who can Frettie possibly trust?

What can make Frettie strong?

But then if Frettie is too nice…

does that also make Frettie wrong?

 

Who is Frettie?

Why does Frettie be?

Frettie is you.

Frettie is me?
Tony Blau Veldt, 03/26/2017

“Defib”

So alien comes a sensation so real, so acute.

Foreign agent, bacterium, like an end to Wells’ invaders.

Feeling makes extinct the cancerous species of a psyche.

This numb denizen has brought much fatigue.

Content in the biome of an insidious brain.

This is reality and it’s truly frightening.

 

“Stop”, they say.

“Man up”, they say.

Coax the sky to not be blue.

Tell the sun to not set.

Implore time to stand still.

 

Cleaved heart and taciturn soul.

Inhalation of vampires takes a toll.

Tony Blau Veldt, 03/12/2017

“Lassitude”

Unto thee, my sweet unknown.
Thee, the one exceedingly unborn:
return, save me from myself.
Save me from all else.

The blank documents taunt,
the empty notebooks stare
(an anathema, their glare).
The former canvas of life –
the tree of autophobia.
The once ink of providence –
the murky oils of solitude.  

Greased fingertips massage sullen temples.

Wrinkles in a forehead, the canyons of suffering.

Countenance is a sort of poetry.

Our unique despair is something to be embraced as our own.

Agony environs identity.

A pleading surrogate serenity.


I need inspiration. I desire sincerity.
I want perspiration. I crave vulgarity.

So dearly, do I miss thee.
The soul murmurs.

The entirety of being trembles.
Isolation is neither romantic or lyrical.

In your absence, life is utterly colorless.

The sunrise lacks sensation.  

Honey a deficient nectar.

Love is a word.

 

A forest with no scent.

A garden with no color.

Lips with no sweetness.

Velvet with no comfort.

Nature with no sound.

I beg of you, muses:

return what it is you took.

Purge me from the purgatory,

release me along with my book.

Tony Blau Veldt, 12/26-12/28/2016

 

“Mr. Ladybug”

I set up my laptop at the table of the coffee shop with intent to stare blankly at a document and continue to feed confounded temperament whilst my fingers atrophy from my infuriatingly vacant nature and ensuing agony. I’d like to meditate on every paradox and uncertainty to life, yet, under the incalculable weight and ubiquity of the innumerable, I find there’s too many to possess a whit of an idea as to where I ought begin. So many questions, so little time. An endeavor to write about life, such a wide array of colors on the palette. Crushed by too many opportunities – yet another paradox to add to the self-sustaining pile. I imbibe my caffeine and think. I voraciously devour my fingernails (“what flavor you got today?” – Grandpa) while I anxiously tap my feet. I sip some more and think again. Rinse and repeat. An hour will pass. Nothing is written.


The little guy crawling down the wall catches my eye. There is wonder and bewilderment in his eyes (I can’t see his eyes, I just feel their loquacious and inquisitive nature) as he tries to make sense of what’s beneath his little feet. Mr. Ladybug.

 

He operates on pure instinct: sleeps, eats, takes in a joke or two,

gets a daily walk in for some exercise.

And has lots of ladybug sex, of course.

Bred for keeping nature’s order.

Bred for the cycle of life.

Bred for this particular climate, this geographic area.

And that’s it.

Not bred for the Industrial Revolution or the Age of Enlightenment.

Not bred for religion or war.

Not bred for the buildings and vehicles.

Not bred for “America” or “the midwest” or any other

arbitrarily assigned name or invisible boundary made by my species.

Only knows to fly around and laugh with his mates and

eat lots of delicious little aphids.

Were he to fly to the other side of this road

he’d be in a different city.

And that’s probably too bothersome and

busy for his cute little head.

That and that he’s used as a

logo as agencies against violence (“against what?”, he asks).

That and that he’s used as a

universal symbol for good luck (“good what?”, he asks).

That and that he’s probably not

even a “he” even though I’m saying he is (“Did you just assume my ladybug gender?”).

That and that my species refers to

him as a “bug” though he’s technically not (“um….Coleoptera.”).

That and that he, in the miniscule nature of his existence, had to be what made

a big, powerful, intelligent human like myself think deeper about life.

I’d say thanks, but flattery doesn’t benefit his kind. He’s a pragmatist. Too busy thinking:

 

“Get your shit together, humans. Tear down this damn building so we can have a few more trees – more shade, more aphids, more oxygen, more spiders.”

Me: “…sure about that last one, little dude?”

Mr. Ladybug: “Hey, it’s the cycle. It’s order. It’s life. Neither benign nor malicious. It’s bigger than you and I. At least it’s natural. Very little about your species is, anymore.”

 

I’m put in my place. So I embellish my fantasy to make myself feel better. Mr. Ladybug aka “asshole” puffs his cigarette and snickers at me: “God is dead. Nobody is above the ueberladybug. Nobody.” So I crush that little bitch under the heel of my hand. Gone. Ceases to be. Snuffed out of existence forever, not even to exist as a discarded fragment in other Ladybugs’ dreams. “Ueberladybug is dead you pedantic little bitch. Yield to the enormity and impermanence of God.” Mic drop. Akimbo on stage waiting for applause that will not come. Existential humor is lost upon the vapid audience in my head.

 

I brutally snap back to reality. The quaint little guy has no quarrel with me.

He’s still crawling around trying to interpret our unnatural world like a newborn baby.

He tries to make sense of this wooden wall and its hackneyed beige tone.

He tries to make sense of why this coffee shop exists.

And why the coffee costs money (“the hell is that stuff?”).

And why there is money at all.

And why the door is replete with locks.

And why security cameras are covering all possible angles.

And why business owners are cashing in on grounds that once belonged to a different people.

And why those people displaced the people there before them.

And why those people displaced the people there before them.

And why the people sitting and ignorantly sipping their coffee don’t wonder these things.

He tries to make sense of all that is unnatural.

Of why we humans can’t just evenly contribute to the cycle without espousing greed.

“Hey little guy, don’t bother attempting to dissect the lie”, I say with a sigh of mental fatigue’s exasperated cry. “It’s not worth the headache, trust me. Trust. Me. Little man, take me with you into your life.” He does.

 

We snack on the delicious pollen and race the wind and laugh and play.

We fan out our beautiful elytra to make the lovely lady ladybugs go crazy.

He orders me a ladybug beer (it’s free) at the ladybug bar and we jam to some ladybug tunes.

He takes his goofy little buggy arms and gives me a brotherly hug.

“You know what? You’re not grouchy at all, Mr. Ladybug. Tell me again the meaning of life.”

He stares, perplexed. “The meaning of what?”

“…life?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Why are we still sitting here, human? Let’s fly over to the Grub Hut, there’s deep fried aphids and a live band. The night is young!”

 

I brutally snap back to reality. I am in front of my laptop at the table of the coffee shop staring blankly at a document and feeding my confounded temperament whilst my fingers atrophy from my infuriatingly vacant nature and ensuing agony. I’d like to meditate on every paradox and uncertainty to life, yet, under the incalculable weight and ubiquity of the innumerable, I find there’s too many to possess a whit of an idea as to where I ought begin. So many questions, so little time. An endeavor to write about life, such a wide array of colors on the palette. Crushed by too many opportunities – yet another paradox to add to the self-sustaining pile. I imbibe my caffeine and think. I voraciously devour my fingernails (“what flavor you got today?” – Grandpa) while I anxiously tap my feet. I sip some more and think again. Rinse and repeat. An hour will pass. Nothing is written. The ladybug crawls up the wall – curious, whimsical, excited, puzzled. He is not special, he is not divine, he believes neither in heaven nor hell, yet he is not worried. He’s just doing his thing. I am in front of my laptop. Nothing is written.

Tony Blau Veldt

08/27, 11/27/2016