maelstrom, male storm, hurricane and gone…

maelstrom, male storm, hurricane and gone…

oh your ennui, henri
the plain rain of henri, you would think a french sounding fellow would have a bit more flourish, no, just a wet blanket really, no howling or even soft blowing winds for that matter, just straight up and down rain, what a pity for a hurricane, once downgraded to a tropical storm, no more, just a collection of clouds with a core, a big messy spigot floating over central park, poor barry manilow, at least he got to start, I can only imagine the mass of rats running relays in subway tunnels, backstroke? I suppose there is a rat stroke, although I hope not see it in person, leave those olympics to the feline persuasion (hopefully hunting the things out to extinction – although I know better), maybe pizza rat will make a pizza raft, quite the tik-tok that would make, fivel would have nothing on that take, or even nimh for that matter, I can only imagine what might lurk in the flood waters of the city, perhaps like that scene in star wars, as I imagine the contents of a garbage compactor are much the same as a city street swept by water into pools of filth, so I suppose henri, after all, had some teeth, gummy-drooling wet ones gnawing and swirling at ankles and feet, I shudder to think… thank goodness for the suburbs…

e·qui·poise

e·qui·poise

(when a word spurs a thought…)

e·qui·poise
/ˈekwəˌpoiz/
balance, the easiest to understand and the most difficult to master (if such a goal can be truly achieved), the word (equipoise) reminds me of horses, for obvious reasons, and that may be a lesson, for the truly great ones combine speed, strength and stamina, of course that is for racing, and perhaps therein lies a key as well, knowing what race you should be in – or in a race at all, for just as fortuitous as a horse that carries a cart, or lovers in the park, a component of balance is finding your talent or at least the zip code in which it resides, for there are probably too many of us enlisted in races unsuited for our particular gifts, for horses are not alike, so many types and breeds, dancing arabians, driving stallions, brute clydesdales and more, those little miniature ones that are all the rage, can we find balance in general when we are galloping on the wrong path? yes, at some point humanity is the same boiled down set of DNA but in a day to day sense we are our own countries, and if there is a tempest within your borders you surely can not reconcile with your neighbors, so I wonder, how better to chase the ideal, this equipoise, maybe this all culminates from realization and not overt relation to society at large, to learn to quell our own little city-state, to be truly happy with the construct of what we are rather than chasing what is told to us about the gilded castle tall upon the hill, let the fields overflow with the wildflowers of our unique nature, for trees to grow in anyway towards the sun, let the world interlock like puzzle pieces fully formed, but only until we reach a balance, an honest brokerage within ourselves.

the mind wanders (–)

the mind wanders (–)

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my mind wanders when driving.
driving.
lights bend in the fog
mailboxes flash reflect
thoughts wander
‘when might I see you again?’
around that next corner
around the bend
not likely
for you are dead.
I can only hope
that flame ignite
to immolate, yes, immolate this dread of passing.
one day, from then, then to seek
your light
a torch, so I might bear
lead me down some other path
and there
we shall meet again
and talk
of common times
in common tongues
in a new place
outside of time

‘parachutes’ …/

‘parachutes’ …/

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I can not explain the why of the exact thought, but when I think of sky diving, I think of a blindingly shiny aluminum plane with perfect rows of rivets, much like a vintage airstream trailer with wings, WW2 era propellers rumbling madly, making conversation mere bursts of short screams, one of those cool logos emblazoned on the side, an old cracked but comfy leather cap keeping my skull nice and warm before the plunge, no one else on board, at least in the jumping area, I suppose I am alone, aren’t we all when we enter into this doorway, a lighted path that delivers us here, into life…

waiting for your perfect time, instinct, guesswork, a push, who knows, seems like months incubating the decision, knowing that at some point you will have to jump, we all do, maybe we are already falling, I suppose they did not coin the phrase ‘terminal velocity‘ for nothing, quite tongue in cheek really when applied to this side of life, well, the only side we know and can discuss until, well the coin flips, or lands as it were, as all things must and all things do, standing there, waiting your turn, the door opens, the wind rushing in, you can not quite see the ground, just the clouds, funny I thought heaven was up, not down…
and then…
the release. . .
nothing is touching your feet… air is all around, a free fall for all in the throes of gravity, or the inevitability of gravity, you might catch a glimpse, of the ground that is, a free fall like a free will, indeed…

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I wonder how many parachutes I have left, cats seem lucky in that regard with their defined nine, magic in their spines, ‘three he plays, for three he strays, and for the last three he stays‘, I wonder if the same could be true for me, finding out for sure would be the daunting part, how many parachutes do I have? and why do others have none? a strange conundrum, for there are times that could have been my time up, but not prescribed, so not done, the randomness of the universe at large, all this molecule soup roiling in the cosmic cauldron of all? or a written plan, the invisible road, a string theory that leads to a thread distinct destiny for all the world, and in my years spent, in and out, thwarting death, once more I might reach for that cord, and find nothing left, might I make it to nine, like a fine feline, or perhaps be greedy and aim for double digits…