Brian Looney

Poetry. Art. Yoyo.

Eggshells for Eternity

Brian LooneyComment

What is life but a series of incarnations, which last so many months or years(if only we might endure them)?  We mutate, we grow dormant.  And then, in sleep, we kick the shell.  We awaken to find a gleaming fracture, which widens whether we like it or not.   

We know not where it leads.  "Inside" was all we knew.  And then, we find, our world is but a membrane wall whose confines we've outgrown.  The cycle repeats, a fresh incarnation, each world larger than the last, but steadily growing smaller. 

I wonder at the final eggshell...or is it eggshells for eternity?  One after another, and life is just another shell to leave behind?  Wishful thinking, that.  A fuzzy teddy to have and to hold as this shell spins.  One shell at a time, I always say.                         



Erzulie's Happy Tea

Brian LooneyComment

My Erzulie’s making tea, making tea.  I can hear the kettle rumble.  Never does it shriek.  My Erzulie’s making tea.  It isn’t green or white or red, nor is it yellow or black…oh no!  My Erzulie’s making tea.  I’d share the recipe if it wasn’t Divine.  My Erzulie’s making tea.  I drink it on an empty belly.  My Erzulie’s making tea.  First thing in the morning.  Must not eat for hours.  My Erzulie’s making tea.  I ain’t scared of nothin.’  I am feeling well.  I divine the Truth. 

With loving eyes, she watched me quaff it.  She brushed my hair behind my ears.  With loving eyes, the only constant.  The body melted down around her.  With loving eyes, she watched me quaff it.  My Erzulie, making tea.  She loves me incapacitated.  She loves me seeing visions.  She loves me seeing her.  With loving eyes, she watched me quaff it.  Administered like medicine.  My Erzulie, making tea.  She serves it on a silver platter.  The lights take on a greenish hue.  My Erzulie, making tea. 

I wonder where my days have gone.  She brews it double strength.  She knows I take it straight.  My Erzulie’s making tea, making tea.  A moon so bright, it might be sun.  Mustn’t stare directly at it.  I dip my finger in the stream of light.  I paint my face with it.  I rub it in my eyes.   

Tea so strong it charms the snake, fractals taking shape.  My Erzulie’s making tea, making tea.  She keeps me well sedated.  She knows I can’t say no.  Tea so pure, the walls will breathe.  Tea so fine, my love runs lucid.  Higher, higher, high above.  I have only her to thank.  My Erzulie makes me tea.  I must remember to say grace.            



Brian Looney

The pursuit of happiness is a flat line that gobbles up your time, that may or may not in the end deliver.  The pursuit of happiness as a philosophic the end is limited.  Happiness, in the broadest sense, should never be the solitary aim. 

The simpler the outlook, the easier the happiness.  The more complex, the more elusive.  Shall we limit ourselves, our ever-growing awareness, simply to achieve a dull contentment, the dull contentment of an animal with a full belly, and the innocent, the naïve sleep which it accompanies?  Let me be alone with my ideas; let me ponder on a half-empty(half-full) belly. 

The dull smile of a full belly offers its own rewards, to be sure.  And, to be sure, it lasts so long as the mind remains inactive, running on the same old gasoline, following the same tired track--with a belly full of happiness, a life devoid of bile, which never truly sees a thing, and(as a result) is undisturbed.               

To Know

Brian Looney

A deliberate thumb skips the songs.  Skips the songs because, wearied by the present, the head looks toward the future.  Skips the songs(amusedly) to identify the next(shuffled) song.  An irresistible urge to know(and possess) the name and feel of the next(shuffled) song, because the feeling follows the naming; the feeling is an instant thunderclap.        

The Best

Brian Looney

For the last, we return to the first, we recreate the first.   For the last, we return to the best.  We use the past to map the present, forgetful of that unexpectedness which clarifies the best.  To recreate the best, we travel the present with a map of the first, the route which led us to the best, the first best, an exploration in causation.

Like a gambling man who rubs his lucky rabbit foot and perches in his lucky chair, who seeks to tempt the best, who thumbs his ear in peculiar fashion, as he laces up his lucky shoes and flicks the brim of his lucky hat--and the best of luck to him!  He returns to the best; he recreates those leading actions, seeking perfect recreation.  He returns to the first; that first-first best.   

Once we have exhausted the best, our perception of the best, the cycle which seeks to recreate the best, the cycle which inhibits us from discovering another best, a newer best, which excludes other bests, we succumb to the reality of the one first felt and deny all others. 

And then(we feel) we've plumbed the possibilities of the best, because(we feel) there's only one.  And then(we find) we've reached the last.  And then(we find) we have grown old.  


Brian Looney

Illuminated by a moment, too fleeting to capture--although I seek to bottle it for further study, to improve upon its nature.  So that when it comes around again, I will recognize it instantly, though perhaps I will forget the texture of your lips, perhaps you will remind me of them.  Without a shred of malice toward my grand design.  You can be sure I'll know.

Open to receive some part of me, to consume some part of me, though I wish we could receive(remind) each other equally, illuminated by a moment, far beyond your reach, and you'll go home to him, and well you should, because I only give a part of me, illuminated by a moment, and then I give it grudgefully, because you are all muscle.  I know the moment when it comes.  You'll come to know it too. 

When my eyes go vacant, and I'm swept away, and all you cup within your hands is vacancy, as I forget the texture of your lips, you will go home to him.  I cannot take you where I go, but I may tell you of it, but not if you go home to him, still you will go home to him, because he makes you feel alive, and you seek something tangible, and I cannot take you where I go, illuminated by a moment, I'll forget the texture of your lips, because they will not matter then, when my eyes go vacant, and I'm swept away, and I become unworldly.