“the cross-thatchety bush“
a once noble grace
older than the dirt rooted in
twisted by yarns
plated by thorns
no matter the season
the original curmudgeon
like a lair, a cave
darkness spun under the branches
a still shot tornado
in spiral dimensions
a barren pit under
of lost things, souls, dreams
balls of sport most of all
all fallen prey unto this trap
this entrance to the seven levels themselves
a land of deep dark despairs
that no one dares
reach into that space
even the thought of such
will scrape your knuckle bare
– if you are lucky,
even the squirrels shy
the rabbits, do not lurk
they will not thump in that domain
for the lure of safety
is a silent siren’s song
and like on to those rocks
where upon wrecks are wrought
so to is the fate
to those who tempt to tame
that gate that has no lock
and so does remain untouched
the cross-thatchety bush.

notes… the genesis of this might be very local, is there that yard, that place that would swallow toys or balls ?  somewhere you could just not go? physically or just by reputation? I had such places growing up, places where a baseball or an orange hockey ball would go… and it would just be considered “gone”, many years later when those areas were cleared out, by progress, or landscaping, you would find them, all those old frisbees, golf balls, baseballs, deflated basketballs or footballs and all sorts of things… so I was commenting on that, and also some higher level stuff… which you can figure out for yourself, just wanted to explain the genesis of this particular piece, which I wrote on 6.22, and to be honest this is verbatim, just as I wrote it, no edits at all…

music?  let’s do the ambient thing…

>> Carbon Based Life Forms – Derelict

I mused to this today… my mind raced and slowed down, and felt at ease…