(1) climb will I see paris before I die? to savor love upon the bridge of locks hide’n dance n’the shadows of triumph rise in the tower on champs de mars n’dip my bones in the river siene
to see the frozen steps of everest be fed from the kindred spirit hands of tibet brail-read the walls of the khyber pass and flow into the ganges herself as everlast
to witness pink waves of flamingos island hops the flock n’galapagos count time with a tortoise there with an iguana squad scout the surf shooting salt skyward with a puff
may I lay down along the nazca lines and so align along orion’s belt all, before I die, will I see paris, one more time?
(2) stuck on an island divorced from pangea long ago “will I see paris before I die?” I asked the also flightless kakapo “surely you did not expect me to answer, for that would be absurd” I thought the bird might mutter but what is more absurd than a flightless bird? “have you bothered to look in the mirror?, SIR” rocco concurred fair point, for a stranger in a strange land a spectrum island if there has ever been even in this waking dream I keep thinking I might run into a hobbit or two surely up for a brew or some song and more ale or two but the maori tell me of more a place to jump into the hereafter if only I could muster the muster to disappear into the tasman sea
notes… again, I stipulate, that sometimes things just come to me, or occur to me @ random, this is one of those works, just random universe influenced onto my thoughts, I can not explain it fully nor do I care to, at this point in my life I prefer to let it flow, so here it goes…
driving up from the beach that final time, at least this year, I feel the need to stop, say thanks and goodbye to this little stretch of sand that has been my companion, why? I just do, maybe I am preparing my mind for the drive home and all that comes with coming back to the world of real, I pass some deer in one of the longer driveways, staring at me curiously, surely they have seen cars before, I mean, I am on a road and they are on a driveway, but deer logic might be different than mine, or maybe they know I am a stranger and can recognize out of state plates as mine surely are, my headlights play games, and look like little flames playing off mailbox reflective markers, the hour is late, not quite dark yet, I should have worn my glasses, but I know this road well, no way this road would be 35 in new jersey, no way man, sweeping sliding turns up through the cliffs with no street lights save for one past where I am going anyway, how I might take such things for granted, you usually don’t see the actual top line of your lights, the exact height, here, always, and your mind screams ‘turn on your brights stupid!’ and of course look out for deer, I do both as the curves and blindspots require, my finger on the hair trigger to turn them off should another car come this way head on, no one does, this night at least, I turn into the last turn at my gate, pitch black aside from a few lights inside one or two houses, the occasional big screen seen, but everything else is dead quiet and sleeping, I treat my car like I am sneaking home on toes after a night out in my teens as to not awaken my folks, I pull in the drive way to park, tomorrow I depart, for home.
the random photo in the bathroom the frame is a bit crooked or is the line of white tile beneath something is off someone is wrong
running into the sunrise a neighbor directly black suit neon shoes
the sun looks more like a gestating star with all the gases orbiting round converging into the core
a pure black cat sitting on a lawn like a silhouette prone, ears up back to me my luck I suppose
an accident on the southbound side tarp over the car, meaning mile marker 96 I notice no, more distance has passed since I am supposed to feel something aren’t I? should I meet such an end at any time not the fairy tale sleep I promise myself traffic is backed up for miles south
over the snake mountain bridge the sun has burned through now a jewel nestled in swirls of mist the empire state building stands the middle piece the land between quite unremarkable but the skyline – as you might imagine on a day like this
notes… this was an experiment of sorts, kind of stream of my consciousness in shorts, literally the bombardment of rampart in my mind as I woke and drove to work this am… I don’t record myself I write these in my mind as I drive and repeat them like a mantra, I lose some lines here and there, sure, but I really hate my voice on recordings, it does not match the voice in my mind, the voice I speak to myself always in is not what I hear in there, if you know what I mean…
the night chorus is deafening, a competition? no, more like a party, a rave, perhaps to woo the parting season out the door, is september really up the block? hard to believe the speed of such things, and yet the plague remains making this all one strange stretch of life, will 2020 (with hindsight) become, in all memory, ‘the lost year of covid-19’, finding it’s way into global history like things ‘the dust bowl’ or ‘the great depression’, hard to tell when you are living the thing that will become a historical mark, back to the night outside, or more precisely surround, as loud as the din is (and it is) I find silence in the solemn solace slow march of the clouds, the half moon provides just enough light to watch the gentle behemoths sail on by, stars peek-a-boo, all covered with this loud blanket of bug noise on the ground level, I imagine this is what a hot swamp sounds like all the time, I can not say this is a pure lullaby but the longer I stay to listen, the sneak sooner this seems soothing, the world lays wet from a fresh storm just past moments ago, sparks, flashes of distant others occasionally light the corners of my visible box of sky, but always the sound, like an old coach’s silver neck whistle blown gently but every second without fail rhythmic, waves of this sound, in and out, up and down, tidal sound, I am gladly drowning in the aural sensation, only to be awakened, damn them, the damn devil mosquitoes, their minions making sure I am bound to not dull or not dwell in the symphony, or maybe they are the surrogates or the forward tentacles of the sirens, drawing me in so they may feed on my literal life blood, and I succumb as much as I can bear to endure the performance sung, the odd moth crashes into my hair, stopping there but with wings still flapping, so close to my ear as to hint at invasion into the my inner sanctum, sending skin bumps up and down my spine electric, hairs on end, discomfort, I twitch like a mare, and buck like a bull with a rider, I shake the stowaway loose, I try to again focus on the sky and sound combined, the inverted river flowing above in moonlight, but damn these blood-thirsty beasts, for at this party, no, for at this feast, I have presented myself as the main course, the last engorged orgy before the sleeping season, my legs like stalks of blood sausage presented, pulsing pods of insatiable distraction, and to prove an axiom I slap some flat, there are no free lunches here ya’ bums, and with that I retreat to my sweet air conditioned bubble… calgon, take me away…
the morning shuffle, daily, I have been trying to pause for a moment before I hop in my car for the morning commute, to just pause, take a gander around, maybe spy the sunlight creeping through and around the branches of the trees that tower over the backdrop of the house, maybe find a squirrel milling about, a flock or one of the local birds, get lost in the minutia of wondrous nature, of the natural world around even here in suburbia, for just a second, take it in, ingest it like a day’s nourishment if you will, take the feeling with me to fuel some sense of wellness for as long as I can stretch it to last, to remember my place in the universe, the wonder of a planet spinning all the time, my feet quite tethered to yet unaware, but this morning I was in a rush, in a huff, no thinking about doing the right thing and enjoying a moment in the proverbial sun, of course there was none, sun, that is, this morning, just ominous grey swaths haphazard across, blurred and bound I rushed to my car unknown to sight or sound, just on the mission to get to work by nine, on time, or else, but sometimes life intervenes on your own behalf, out of the corner of my eye, down the block, enough of a ways I had to grab a second look, a neighbor, whom I could not identify out of a line up for my life, walking a dog, but not a dog, quite obviously a young one, a puppy, just the word rings the brain and resets perspective, ‘a puppy’, some sort of husky mix thing, paws more like over size rain boots two sizes too large, curiosity streaming from every posture pose, leash taut in stretch directions as all things are new, I wanted to pause and say hello but time would not allow, but time did allow enough, for that moment of puppy love, and things seemed more alright, for at least a few moments thereof.
my suburban jungle, the town of my birth, although the town I grew up in and knew has certainly grown larger through the years, still recognizable as the same animal as when I was a child, perhaps some of the habitat has changed, so, this is my domain, and surely I should know all the creatures great and small, human or otherwise, within my bubble safari, but alas, I have spent 48 hours romping in the wilds of new jersey, taking in those foreign sights, sounds, scents of another world not so far but far enough from familiar home, and now returned, sitting out here, I am finding the noise, the human traffic absurdly loud, a rattling diesel truck, a jet that seems to be roaring rumbling 10 feet above my head, various cars and their various escalation of rates of acceleration as the sound finally reaches me, bounces off and then Doppler effects me as they pass, the chatter on cellphones as others take their nightly walks, I have seen them all before, they seem like strangers masquerading as my neighbors, I don’t remember their manner being so distracting. can a mere 48 hours away have gone and transformed me into some feral new jersey man? nell jersey? (although my powers of speech and distinct joizee accent remain) I suppose it is all what you become accustomed to, acoustics, visualistic, olfaction, all those… the local mosquitoes are quite bothersome but not nearly compared to their giant cousins the unrelenting torrent of greenheads that ransacked my legs, I stroke my chin, damn, I need a shave, time to get back to this reality, this civilization, and readjust to the current situation, my re-urbanization, re-insertion into the matrix I am used to, knowing that some piece of me is still in there for the out there, wild, and ready to roam free, wild, feral, should the chance provide…
(of course this is part of my porch series, no cool remark tonight, just the post, disappointing? cool..)
the heat, the weight of a summer day yoke the intense concentration to hallucinate the air above the asphalt groves a belly dancer, undulating a snake charmer, hypnotizing the air like a stagnant pool shade retreats looking for itself the air so damn still a pin could drop and never hit the ground statues sweat without pigeon feet the silence of the wild is the sound of retreat as night, sweet quench-cold drink, approaches… lies just out of reach fierce the brave thunderstorm would be a most welcome site I consider melting into a puddle instead of the sweltering boiling in my own skin even a lemon ice is a blink reprieve how I wish and beg for the night to draw the earth to yaw how I yearn for that sweet refrain oh, the coming of the night if only for the time so I might close my eyes and delve into that sleep to gather back my rivers for the coming day and flow into an endless ocean carried on a dream on the calm cool ocean a feathered kiss a breeze…
notes… I wrote this out on the porch tonight, it is what I do, or have been doing for a year now, damn, it is so much better in the summer, sitting out on my perch… er, porch, just riffing with words, this is all off the cuff stuff, some slight word changes but all written in a blink tonight, in the moment, could I perfect it ? hone it? hell yeah. but that is not the point, the point is raw, deliverance, me, my thoughts, you dig it ? great? not… well I still wake up in the morning… I think…
and if you did not get fair warning, shame on you… van halen was once the king of the damn world for a time… there was something about the maelstrom, the collection of those guys at that one time and the times at hand… all I can tell you it was a thing, I imagine that is why the Stones still tour even though I think they are completely droll…
be a cliche, today was that summer day, hot, sun bearing down, blacktop hot enough to burn bare feet, I think my plants have adjusted too well to this year’s heavy rains, they have become accustomed to what seemed always available @ immediate now, so we share that weakness of assumption in the snapshot, so, just a mere two days without storm and they all look thirsty, sagging in the swelter, not wishing to see them suffer further, and quite proud of my shiny green thumb, I unreel the hose, and let loose the valve, left squeak, left full turn – squeak, left full circle – stop, I hear the flow rush of the water filling up the coils, I reach down to grab the the iron spray-head, forgetting it was sitting in the blistering sun all day, and damn it’s blazing hot, I juggle and fumble just to squeeze the thing to get the cold water going, I spray my hands immediately, sweet relief, I shower my bamboo, my pride and joy plant wise, my personal banzai, really, each year as it grows into a bigger ball, some of the water hits the driveway, and turns to steam immediately, and there is that smell, not of water, of the chemicals and minerals in the water, escaping as gases in the steam, definitely metallic in nature, one of those smells that remains utterly distinct in life, lake water, charcoal on a fired up grill, the first cut into a ripe pineapple, technology does not seem to touch these things, they were the same and are the same for a hundred years, to generations of summer culture. So, this is a holiday, seems like another day to me, admittedly I expected much more noise outside than this, it is rather quite calm, maybe the heavy weight of the sun has beaten the starch out of life a little today, and the world is in resting phase, but I am sure, on the night, will come the fireworks, to light the sky, mark the occasion, scare my dog, overtures and songs, a holiday throng when fireworks are certainly foreign born. For me, nothing is different tonight, just sitting here contemplating life, fate, the past, the future, what it all means as if I have the means to solve this puzzle in the first place, as the sun sits between the V of two branches, I understand how holidays can isolate, make you feel lonely, all the joyous sounding around, and you are not part of it, of course some of that is by choice, yes I must confess I am not the social butterfly I once never was, has this past year been better, yes, by slow standards, although change happens all around us all the time, inner, personal change does not seem up to speed, the relics of the past, deeds, memories, they are bindings much stronger in comfort than landing first foot in the new world, landing, with wonder, and fear, will that new land be as “good” as the old I left (or should have fled), the fear, even if home was built on the cold stone face of misery, misery loves comfort, for even the walls of a prison can become familiar horizons, to the point where beyond those walls no longer matters, this is why I struggle to construct pillars of reminder, the truth is rather easy and consistent in most things, we know what is right, what must or should be done, in our deepest well lurks the truth, what we know, that our days are quite literally numbered, there is a countdown as to which we are bound but not allowed to witness, but we know of it’s existence, do we all live in the moment, as if this may be our last minute? do I? maybe this is my reminder, my map, my guide, taking the time to let the “important” world slide away and just consider thoughts in writing, and maybe the rest will arrive, in it’s own time, trust not in despair, you know what is there, trust in the fact, that you are alive, you have a choice, choose the nuptials of love and hope, whenever you can, fail, more than succeed, likely, but it is apparent, that for most of us, this was never meant to be easy…
oh yeah, this is part of my ongoing porch project thing… just me, sitting out there, playing guitar more lately but also with my little notebook scribbling all this, I wonder what my neighbors think….
that first dandelion has appeared in my yard, sure enough to be followed by more, is this that produces the roar of the coming season with that golden mane? the transition of land, the prey shall inherit the earth from the predator, I quite see all the harbinger’s of spring in their many forms, the golden locks of golden rods, the marked pinks and purples of cherry blossoms, daffodils ranging on ‘scaped frontiers, even as I count these happenings the shift seems an instant, is the world a touch greener every minute, each moment, or are my eyes just adjusting.
I watched a cardinal below my window, in the bush, hurriedly and meticulously crafting a nest, flitting off like a bolt to gather more building materials, placing them with expert instinct feet and beak, then sitting upon them, shaking her tail furiously about to settle the lot down, shaking her whole body with decided fury, and settling down to check the foundation, over and over and over again, I watched the process, careful not to disclose my perch, or my intrusion into family work, and on I watch, wondering, wishing, wishing I had such singular devotion in my own daily pursuits.
Part of this post is from a poem I never finished, but this post and that poem have been rattling about my mind as of late these days, here is the unfinished work:
the harbingers of spring o’ soon upon the gate announcing the guests arrivals golden locks of golden rods rows on rows of cherry blooms sunlit hours stretch ’til moon the flowers of narcicus peak the boughs
I kind of like sharing the truth, or unfinished work, I am not some robot or perfectionist anymore, I want to let people in to see the inner workings, I do not have much free time so I write when I can and spur of the moment most of the time, it prevents me from posting everything I want but also holds me to the reality of what I got… any and all eyes on this post, thanks, that’s all for tonight folks.
Shades of My Garden 