Running to Stand Still

Perhaps we are our own mirror
and only disown them to glass for an ideal.
Then, we remain several steps behind
the formation of our dreamed imperatives,
a purposeful mist that drifts along the contours
of starry-eyed simplicity.

Deep understanding of the world
(the intricate chemistry of tumult and silence,
ruminations given in error, earned in humility,
dispersed into nurture, joy, and grief)
is the hard casing of our reflections.

Why can we never move closer–
only evolve within our own vision or
along the surface of others’ fragile esteem?
Belief must suffice, whether
      god or void,
      nuance or instinct,
      spare islet or mountainous sway.

We will inhabit these fictions
      as flame makes the darkness
a mere memory,
and behold what cannot be real
without us.


Copyright 2014 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.

Robots by Implication?

Note: This post was inspired by the following blog post–
Modern Trends


As technology advances, so does comfort.
The machines undertake more and more of our burdens . . .

I typed these words on a machine.
I posted them via an assortment of machines.
You view them in a projection from a machine.
(Pardon my dystopian bent,
However a question arises:
When does an organism cross the line
Into existential subservience?)

Perhaps we communicate, you and I,
One human being to another
Aided by an efficient electric enterprise.
And perhaps it is the machines volition
To feed each other electrical impulses
In intricate and at times wild patterns.
(Yes, we provide the input; we are
The eyes, ears, mouths and fingers.
But does it mean the same to a machine
As we see, feel and expel it?)

. . . Whose experience predominates?


Copyright 2014 by Michael Marsters
All rights reserved.

Torrential Narrative

“Something is coming to me . . .”
Rilke once spoke of ideas as a coming storm.
Who advocates for silence?
Our creative enemies remain nameless.
We see evil as cold, calculated, robotic
Because the warmth of emotions
Complicates the prospect of righteousness.

The way forward is simple.
However, I keep trying to convince myself
To extend beyond my contentment.
These philosophies swarm overhead,
Hover the shape of my malfortune-drenched identity.
Strange shapes or perhaps only shadows
Of disposition rain down all around.

I wish these clouds were but a dream,
The only part of us we can wipe away
Without the loss of experience.
But I must lay a mark upon every drop,
Arrythmic to their cascading,
      Fallen upon the last
Unfinished; continuous; from sea to sea.
“. . . creativity is the unknown possible.”


Copyright 2014 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.

Clutch Cola (TV Commercial Pitch)

SCENE: A hallway lined with vending machines.

A man approaches a soda machine and buys a can of CLUTCH COLA. He cracks it open and takes a drink. He turns to a woman who is passing by.

      Excuse me.


      You don’t know me, but…I’m Brad Pitt.

The woman looks him up and down.

      I think you must be mistaken. Because…I’m Brad Pitt.

      ANOTHER MAN (popping into the scene.)
      I beg both of your pardons. (emphatic.) I am Brad Pitt.

Succession of CUTS TO various locations, with the shot directly on a variety males and females from ages six to sixty, all holding a can of Clutch Cola.

      I am Brad Pitt!

      I’m Brad Pitt!

      We’re Brad Pitt!

      I’m Brad Pitt!

      THREE OLDER MEN (in unison.)
      We are Brad Pitt!

      TWO YOUNG WOMEN (in unison.)
      We’re Brad Pitt!

CUT TO a broad shot of a large crowd all holding up cans of Clutch Cola.

      CROWD (shouting in unison.)
      We! – Are! – Brad! – Pitt!

1) Popping soda can top.
2) Ice clinking into a glass.
3) Soda pouring from a can (no glass visible.)
4) Mouth sipping from a straw (top of glass visible.)
5) Same mouth (nothing else visible) saying “Aaaaaah.”

SPLIT-SCREEN: A can of Clutch Cola and a still shot of Brad Pitt.

      NARRATOR (voice-over; synced with captions.)
      Clutch Cola. (dramatic pause.) You are Brad Pitt.



Copyright 2014 by Michael Marsters
All rights reserved.

A Reflection on Mortality

Who am I to have faith in the watercolor notion
of human civilization? Though it may unchain us
from the mundanity of survival,
      I do not want freedom;
therein lies an invitation to loss, a wide door
into Death’s labyrinth, souls mired amidst
the dusk-like sediment of complacent fears.
      We exhaust in pleasure,
wilt from loneliness.
      And self-mockery is all that sketches us out
as living, breathing, mobile if not
consequential beings.
      We do not ripen.
Some impurity prevents our soft blossoming
in the transcendent ecology.

Needful desire will not sustain.
I will run and run and run
until my essence washes across the timeline.
      Capture me in the strokes of a moment.
Forever is not always
      but an indelible once.


Copyright 2014 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.

You Don’t Have Time to Read; I Don’t Have Time to Write

________ _______ ___ ______ __ __ _______?
_____ _________ __ _____ __ ____ _____.
___ ______ __ _______ ___
( Anything ___ _____. )

___ _______ __ ______ ______ __–________,
________ ____ _____ __ _________ ___–
__ ___________ _ __________?
_______ __ is _______ __ ________
___ ________ _______ ____ __.

Possible __ ____, ________ ___?
____ _ ___________ ___ ______
( ______ ___. )