in the awakening
might I tread lightly on
as the sky explodes with dreams
spread tethered out on cotton streams
a requiem for a thief,
for I am-
a consumer of all things
until I become threadbare, myself
a baron of composition
bereft of fruit
to wither into the aether
to claim my time
to cling to life
I, survive.
notes… we slide in and out of this existence to fast in cosmic time… I hope this is just a train stop in the converging line of time and dimensions…
fallen
the skylight is round, I’m not sure how long I have been down here, seems like a lifetime, and I’m told by the suit behind the booth that is all I am allotted anyway, choice or by chance? I’m not sure frankly, these parts are not friendly, not deadly, just keep to your personal space sort of place, a pale place, there is enough light to survive, thrive? perhaps not, when moving about you lose sight of planes of existence, this all seems normal until you catch a beam for a dream to ride up on, what is beyond? and why do they look at me with such disdain, shadow faces sneer, canines glean, do they not see? the up there? monochromatic shirts, brown shoes, unisex doors and signs adorn the shoals of this box, everything is a box if you are contained, only if you see the walls, why did I have to look up? what evil impulse and seven years bad luck cause me to break the mirror in pieces so willfully, on the floor, there has to be one, a floor, but just a blurred mist where my feet should be, with a solid form, I am walking on something I pronounce, a dervish whirling, spinning about, the dos-si-do I do with my fellow captives, although they seem to have the arrogance of freedom about them (they never look up, really upward), and I do not have shackles per se, where did this seed of thought sprout, instantaneous? subcutaneous? every thing has an origin, that much I am almost mostly sure, did this come from out there? or in here? and how will I ever know?
sincerely,
searching for meaning
(unknown who found this note or who may have written it)
notes… one of those that just popped in my head, as if I was thrown down a hole and muddling about with fellow unawares but yet I was aware of whence I came, sort of a vision, faceless faces except for the mouths, rounded features, almost like animated stick figures but more like mannequins… that was what was rattling around my brow in this piece… as usual, all comments, thoughts, eyes and what not are appreciated. you could be watching law and order or something instead of browsing my page (because somewhere, at all times law and order is on… I tell you…)
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…
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…
I am a river
without a sea
without a delta
on which to embark
so I am a route, incomplete
