My Problem

Hi. I wanted to explore some of my problems. This won't take up much of your time, but that is my problem.


My Problem


My problem isn't you, my problem is me.


I want you to listen for more then thirty seconds or 250 characters. That's MY problem.


My problem is that I want you to not get bored when it's not about you.


My problem is that I want you to enjoy nuance, difference, difficulty, and long sentences, inclusive of commas and semicolons.


My problem is that you fear the unfamiliar.


MY problem is that you neither know what you want nor have ever explored why you want it.


I don't care why you're overwhelmed by your job, my problem is that you are overwhelmed by the fact that you're overwhelmed by your job, don't have the tools to talk about it, and pretend that you are not and that you do.


My problem is that you are so afraid of the truth about your life that you cling to demonstrably absurd "truths" about your life that hurt and destroy others, daily, rather than consider any alternative.


These are my problems.


What are your problems?

Ein Witzermärchen

Ein Witzermärchen


Nur ein Witzermärchen:
How does it go? Like an

Old riddle, cliché, or
Joke. The clown approaches

The kid with the balloon
And pops the balloon.

The child starts to weep. The
Clown laughs: the air is free!


L. Steve Schmersal, Ein Witzermärchen, June 2016

I Post Song Lyrics Sometimes: F**cking with the Altimeter

F**cking with the Altimeter

Give me some love.

Give me some love.

Give me some love.

God save us all.

Give me some love.

Give me some love.

     Give me some love
Give me some love.
        Give me some love
Give me some love.
              Give me some love
Give me some love.
              Give me some love

No more flowers for you. 

  Give me some love.
So when you see an empty face
     Give me some love.
you'll know it's supposed to be a clue.
           Give me some love.
Not just a mishap
some kind of creep forgot.
   Give me some love. 

Now, tell me, how does paralysis feel?
       Give me some love.
Like you're trapped in a light beam
           Give me some love.
part of the atom stream
   Give me some love.
that oozes down through the glass.
   Give me some love.
Enough for me, you can't
                      Give me some love.
penetrate my physical field.

Zip with silver airplanes quivering down.

Under the fuselage.
Elementary aeronautics ground.
Look at me now, I'm a wreck!

How 'bout a kiss?

My oxygen's lost in those lungs again.
How 'bout a kiss?
Somebody give me my oxygen.
   How 'bout a kiss?
I need to breathe.
       How 'bout a kiss?
Before I forget.
            How 'bout a kiss?
i'm going into oxygen debt.
                 How 'bout a kiss?

I think your flesh is separated

        How 'bout a kiss?
from the sins it commits
and that explains
  How 'bout a kiss?
why you smile when you balance
         How 'bout a kiss?
on your stack of regrets.
    How 'bout a kiss?
Nobody's with you this time.
How does it feel?

One flight down
the aeronaut was found.
Under the fuselage.
Friends leave before
we feed the carnivore.
Look at me now, I'm a wreck!


Such a pretty bird

Such a
Such a pretty bird


Such a

Such a pretty bird

Brainiac

F**king with the Altimeter

Bonsai Superstar

1994

We Stand, Not Quite in Lines

We Stand, Not Quite in Lines


We stand, not quite in lines,
Waiting, looking downstream;
There is no stirring of
The air for some time, then
A wetted finger might
Know. Now, a penumbra

Hails us from the dark, from
Deep inside the tunnel,
From the direction whence
We leave, then a single
Eye flashes, then two
Where one once flash'd, till

The breeze a wind becomes
And suddenly in glass
And steel, repeating only
I only see my my
My face, my my face, my
Face. My face. My face. My face.


L. Steve Schmersal, We Stand, Not Quite in Lines, June 2016

Liebestod/Schadenfreude

In the man's own hand, supposedly. In that Wilde hand.

It really comes down to the question of which you love more: the thing you love or ruining the thing you love or ruining the love for the thing you love or ruining the love of the thing you love. Unfortunately, all of these things may be the same thing. 

In a funny way--both in a way that amuses and a way that is strange; when apprehended with both senses, perhaps in an ironic way, in an uncanny way, which is not to say, in a queer way--this explicates Schadenfreude better than any literal definition, since, of course, the joy we feel when touched by the knowledge of the misfortune of the other must only be an echo of the joy we feel when touched by our own satisfying, familiar misery. For misery loves its own company, as we are told.