there stands no reason
to interrogate the vulture
for we know where
his beak has been
in between
flesh and bone
in between.
-function;
not I, peacock.
question the nature of self, or at least look in the mirror for the reveal… so? what’s in your nature?
proof of life
I see the words
I recognize the form
but can I ?
(actually show this)
am I this
am I here
and who will know
“might I walk you to the moon tonight?”
and whom am I talking to?
myself, that inner voice, speaking right now actually
but to what audience?
just the inner auditorium made for one? perhaps
often right, there is ecstasy in the ordinary
driving home, typical highway
night has been looming sooner, as she does in fall
how soon we forget, and then just accept
so distraction can be a slide into the dreaming world
“may I describe the moon tonight?”
or more simply the sky, more a scene
like flying over a silent desert,
after a day of scorching infernos downward, blinds eye
now resting, under the gracious umbrella of night
as the lamp lens intense set
the landscape can sigh
as majestic purples multiply
and mate, with curtains of magenta
forming layers, like tourist sand in bottles
the colors inhabit the boundary
impregnating the horizon with splendor
until full surrender, inhabits
my focus is trained only on that above the horizon
not the wheel in my hand, the artificial lighting,
the concrete cells and paved grounds
the reality that surrounds, softens as I fly above into the night
I imagine laying prone, only to peer upwards now
the moon, but a quicksilver-sliver, a wink,
not a quarter full, just a peeking-boo
a november moon
as cold as the waning light
there to bear witness, through the night
and I feel I can hang a hammock there
from star to star
under that silent tide
on this ride
and so I might.
notes… I found this on my desktop temp folder, forgot to post it when I wrote it back in November… so strange, these things are almost like children to me and I would have sworn I posted it… but I looked back and had not (but soooo recall the creation)… one of those I wrote driving home at night, the muse sweeps in, sweeps away the banal, plants a seed, I try to be the good farmer and raise the idea as my own… that’s all I know… does it work? I suppose you are the last word on that. Do you dream of flying off into the moon when stuck in traffic? (and should I tell people to play the song before reading the post? hmmm… I am willing to take suggestions on that one, I always thought it was obvious.. which it isn’t I guess, the rule is not always a rule, savy ?) … and your time, thoughts and likes are greatly appreciated, have something you want me to check out ? say it… I’m not a mind reader…
the desire to
lock myself in my own room
spin a yarn for a time or two
as the outer light does fade
spinning round the barrier
a protector, a soft wall
but yet a border just the same
so I might pause
and rest
ahhhh, respite
no, waking sleep
ability, to transform
and emerge
in time
-to fly (forward).
crows on the rooftop there-
what are they trying to tell me?
(light signals switch, black eyes twitch- looking)
they are not permanent residents
at least not in this noisy cloister murder contingent;
occupying whole oak tree and surround
what is so special about this house (now)
what draws them so here and near
why do they understand better than I
they possess any land, under, the flown sky
notes… sometimes, OK, often I look out the window… and wonder, what draws a crowd, what is the call, what am I missing? something? or nothing more than a dinner bell? or deeper?
imagination is on the wind
sometimes drying on the vine
or a snake through a valley slides out into a plain
flat-up-face-frolic lounging
in the mist of sudden rain
taken to steering flocks, of wings
teasing out sculptures from moisture forms
at times brash dervish made of hell-bind-self
to the quiet mind, a rested leaf
underneath, a blooming tree
gossamer seeds, floating about
like armadas of tiny balloons aloft
who knows where they might plant
and sprout out a thought, from the land
– or not!
a muse walks into a bar… and how would you know? maybe the peanuts make a face, or bubbles begin to race, condensation sighs, or a barstool sings as it rides across the floor, their is music in even the most mundane, after all…
I wonder of the running machinations
processing in those memory banks
that still dream in DOS
connections soldered
into the past
by their own regard
notes, I wanted the lines to have flow – but not perfect flow, like a machine that is input in / output out…
the nervous ones
perhaps the influence
of the gray-
amorphous
an endless ceiling of fog
a oneness
concealing unknowns,
outline angles shadows dart
to and through
to and fro
back and forth
more chaos than dance
less grace than chance
the lack of pattern
the lack of calm
in this suffocating dome of visual dissonance-
for even a tornado has form,
the world
all very still now
save- for the nervous birds
panic set to erratic
their movements
eat at my will
gnaw the ends of my bones
as they prattle back and forth
notes… just looking out of my window at work, one of those rainy days well, that does not rain, sort of dreary, and in between, I would rather have rain, and it was a weird day anyway, I got home @ 3am from work, I was converting a supermarket computer system in Hempstead NY… I do enjoy learning all the little nooks and crannies of the tri state area but those hours you always run into all sorts of construction, it is a bit disheartening when you are trying to cross the verrazanno at 3 am and you have to navigate all sorts of orange cones and what not… it is a bit surreal… most of the world is asleep (at least locally) but you are chugging along trying to get home, and still pacing $13 tolls on the EZ pass… and as usual this is something I wrote off the cuff, a few adjustments here and there but mostly as I jotted it down today…
“a hope of light”
and reminders, signs, talismans, so obvious as to be screaming whispers vibrating in obedient corners, all there – hidden in the plainest of sight, a hope of light…
as today I was a wheelbarrow more than a man, drawn out like a mule, to drag payloads back and forth, never in balance like once was new, and gravity has a way of multiplying the trade pay, the yoke, the wear, and there is less lubrication these days between the ground pounding and my bearings, even I would admit the tread is worn from sun and toil, but I would argue there is still good rubber there, but after the day the wheelbarrow must go back in storage, to the garage home, bringing dings, dirt and memories caked on, reminded, nothing is ever new again once out of the box, certainly not now these years of use altered… so arrives home…
the patience I might have left the house with a full tank, that has now been spent, every inch of me ready to pounce at every little non-event, of words, of even good intent, even though I know, I am a porcupine wound, can’t everyone just see, just read, the glaring signs, and make no sound, shall I pass by, until at least I may come on down, or let the tension un-bound, I manage not to wreck the crew… somehow…
so, not wanting to tie myself into a fight or fits, I park myself outside, look upward for some guidance, to what is left of the fleeting day sky, and to be entranced by – the hope of light, that promise, the next morning, another glory yearning, and the next, until there is none, the rest seems to slip away, the tension locked in my jaw starts to fade, the pressure in my temples begins to contract, a breeze comes along to rest on my cheek, a family of deer creep along my yard, unaware of me being disarmed, for maybe a minute ago they might have sensed the will of a frothing hunter out for blood, but that base urge has melted down and gone, replaced with thankful tranquility, a cure for humanity, or perhaps just the elixir to wash away the non-humanity we engage in every day, so I bathe in – a hope of light…
dear, my dear
born again?
must be september
but I can not seem to remember
musket balls to remote controls
I will not swear fealty to cross that moat
nor believe the stories you untold
over brook and crooked back
banish me then
from your impossible lands
where to tell time I had to face
the dire clock’s of dali laced
no, no mad hatter for me then
I’d rather fare the lion’s den
so I might now
exit stage right
(to all a bow
to all a good night)
notes… my notes, have this as “jumble” because… well, if you are privy to me I would say it is obvious… but I always am speaking on many levels… well, ok, often is a better description of assumption, this one has levels to it, I am referencing things in nearly every line, I do that often but not always, see how I can weave a maze of my own post? that’s fun for me, words, thoughts, a playground in which I bound about like a kangaroo hopped up on speed, g’day mate let me kick you in the face like a joey in rage… man I need to cut back the caffeine … or not…
Shades of My Garden 