foot locker-
if I could have a set
of different feet
a different path
where would I arrive
and with who’s baggage
as I am known to do… I call this “haiku” feel… because what does haiku do? catchy but deep, well, at least in theory…
the drab
…when the traffic is like a box of sardines, I mean, we all have our colorful box we are in within the box of the lanes of the road we are all funneled into, this was one of those mornings, I was actually in decent enough mood, got out early, but something about the combination of a grey autumn day, no leaves, barren trees, feeling eyes baring down on me even though, where the hell am I supposed to go? god forbid I leave an inch of pavement in front of me for the car behind to see, you have the weavers who think that mystically or magically they will find a path, as you pass them sitting in your same lane time and again (and the little inner laugh there in), and then there is the drab, surely made worse on days like these, maybe it is the general consensus of consciousness of the melee of drivers on this path, maybe some public pathos that permeates and amplifies the dread? why are our roads and bridges and barriers so bland? so barren, so utilitarian, so matter of fact, broken cracks, barren sand, scraggly weeds entwined with garbage lagged on the edges, I wonder, if even only for a moment, or just some break in the haze, if these non monuments could be given some aesthetic artistic arch – perhaps funded by a local business or such, to bathe these like-artic shores with some inspired light, some architectural flair, something to lessen the obvious blight, would that make a difference in this daily flight? I think of European cities and all the ancient machinations there, perhaps a dream, or a dumb American’s idea of Europe I suppose… but I propose a splash of dash, is that too much to impose on our dreary roads?
and the rain finally came.
commiseration and misery, not the same thing, on this rainy day, how soon the tides sway, a grought they say, yes, and I can attest to such lack of rain, these many days, no, months, as I could almost feel my lawn leech and pray for moisture, I am not a slave to my lawn (like my neighbor who labors over his constantly for a green state admittedly better than mine, so I guess the grass is truly greener on his side), but, a beige carpet is not the most inviting thing, although my passion is really my bamboo babies, nine tribes (varieties to you), some people collect stamps, me? bamboo, and how they have shaded me these long days, an indian summer dragged on, and more poor babes looked forlorn, against a sad canvas of dried out lawn, so of course I fight, this natural cycle of life, hosing them down until yesterday, when blessed rain finally came, of course though the rain was not alone, it came home with a chill, not enough for frost but enough for bone to chill, and now, after praying for such relief, a mere 24 hours later the drought seems like a better mistress, how the tide sways, how soon the grey drapes drag on the psyche, but I look to my bamboo, to see the subtle glee, and quite imagine the relief my plants must feel, they speak to me from their finger long leaves, perked up with what must be a chlorophyl full hope, from dire droop to upward slope, so matter my human doldrums I must look around, to see how the earth now soaks up the life, the water, a gulping sound inaudible to me, but with which I am surrounded. and I smile at the rain drops now, some still suspended on the window still, waiting to gather or just evaporate.
stain’e
‘I could change my name, you know’ he said, internally
a face, a place a time a place
for what would matter then
a new thread to a new garment hence
but then, no cleanse can absolve
that warrant written on the soul
scarlet red
the mark
for none to see
and all
let them eat cake.
a mental exercise, why? just popped in my mind (as most silly things do)…
what if I was cake?
would that not be a wonderous thing, the joy, the trees of light, a forest of a number, a name in script applied with sugary frosting ink across my brow, like those temporary tattoos you can get for two quarters, the smiles, the songs, the merriment of it all, the gathering of friends and family around-
but then, that first cut, then some more, the once flowing name now smeared on lips and napkins, mere crumbs of your own reflection, your body doled out among the ravenous minion, candles blown out, a quick rise in the sun but now you are devoured, lost to a gut, the only remains a photo on a social post.
perhaps you are lucky and were born a wedding cake, with sentimental figurines adorned, not completely torn apart like most, you survive like some white ghost, in a freezer perhaps, like some ted’s head, hoping with all frigid hope, for no divorce.
upon the found
“upon the found”
for what ever we might know
from that first moment
with literal life line cut-
eyes wide open cried
to that light of experience-
crawled,
for now upon what we have found
we always knew
we were always bound-
upon that fate does ride our book
words written, time to took
to this journey now
upon the found-
we have always known
what to do-
sheathed in this shroud
of the world abound-
naked in a mirror then
such is now, should we look?
the complications of age
just make shores seem distant
but we have the means
to ever cover the distance,
so may I lay my temples down
in this foundry spent
ah, the forgery of the now
for ever we have not changed a single beat
removed from that bathing hollow
to eyes wide open cry
inner counsel does indeed
sew our truths from our own seed
betrays to trust to quick ends
while stark facts lurk in our descent.
musing on Miranda
dearest Miranda;
might I reside in your tides for a time
to bathe in your other-worldly light
to concede the life outside of mine
might I float-
upon your swollen plains
to the hypnotic din of alien waves
and breath-
whatever air has developed there
to become
a member of life unseen
from our distant peeking sphere
the inspiration… ‘Study shows Uranus Moon Could Harbor Alien Life in Subterranean Sea‘ (nerd poetry, go with it eh?)
these waking hours…
these waking hours, into the dawn, I drive, not such a noble thought, or experience I might share online, but so, as the days draw smaller, my alarms do not falter, and there I am, between a car ride, traffic, and working man, left to see the sunrise, not as a joy, but as to where to aim my visor’s eye, maybe I should pause, and admire, even for a glimpse, the sun peeking out, over the snake bridge, behind the city that towers over the landscape in that direction, and maybe those sun’s rays come beneath my skin, my eyes, my mind, and bathe them in the eternal medicine of a rising sky… for many days may be grey and glum, so inhale in deeply from your souls the days of blue and sun, like today.
if you have been with me for a long time, I opine, on many things, I also regret, more now less, about not posting sometimes, as if the world might end if I don’t post in a certain time period, I have, of course, tried to free myself of such bonds, so you might see larger breaks, or quakes and lots of posts in the wake, this is to be true to form, I don’t want to force anything anymore, even if certain things seem to draw more eyes, I aim to not bend to such will, will I? I am human, and can not ditch all base desire, no matter how much I try, and I am, to be pure, because … what’s the point not to be? a crucible of me is what this should be, I am gainfully employed, in fact, probably over employed to the point you might be amazed I can post at all, but such as my inspiration is, these are moments, literally, like now, I am writing this direct after posting the above, I hope that genuine aspect comes through, these are all drafts really, but so is life… or at least that is my take, and well, this is my take even if I am talking to you.
the fall, of course…
we all fall down
life leaves unto the ground
once the green vigor of youth did thrive
now colors burst then lost and fade,
in a flash of a blink of days
the skin frails now to brown;
we all fall down.
any excuse to post some Toad is a good excuse… somewhat popular I suppose, super stars to me and my ears… catchy but not crap, amazing vocals, great arrangements, simple yet complex enough to chew on… damn… loved these guys… and about the poem, one of those that came to me on the drive home, which is sometimes a pain in the ass, I literally have to repeat the lines to myself so when I pull over I can scribble them down, I was, of course you might have guessed, in my head hearing “pocket full of posies” in my head… strange how the world works…
floating dreams
the sun forever on my back
for I am a lucky seed
trapped, here on this sphere
for might I be
thrown into a big red eye
a maelstrom of unending mayhem
or other places – none
ah the sweeping life
of atmospheric phenomena
Shades of My Garden 