3
Jul
In ancient Pre-Christian times,
the Cross was a Sign of water,
like Pisces becoming a Christian fish.
Conversion of Symbols.
You can call this a hymn to a storm,
a psalm if you insist;
poem on a storm,
poem by a storm,
poem for a storm,
poem in a storm.
but it’s really just a random observation that
happened along during one of the breaks
in the clouds.
The music behind it is merely the wind picking up again.
You only imagine the thundering
of some great celestial overture,
hear me, I’ve listened
til my ears bled and never heard anything but wind
and once,
the whip crack of a shattering tree.
Remain Nameless.
Watch at thoughtless squiggles
inching down a pane of glass.
Watch lowering clouds
with a lowering brow.
Write messages on clouds
as they slink by,
Ashen, sullen and unwelcome.
28
Jun
Inner storms are contained
by force of will.
He says he can’t win.
Don’t laugh, he is truer than even he knows.
Give in until you get your way.
When it’s important, truly, give it your least
The God of Practical Jokes
will see you through.
There are two paths, direct and NON,
which is French for No.
The atmosphere still raises the hair on your arms.
19
Jun
Seeds grow, it’s what theyre for.
They start small and expand,
think of it, the Big Bang writ small in
something you can hold in the palm
of your hand.
They turn into trees- some of them,
the more feminine ones, have enticing smells
pretty plumage;
Natures way of making more, of attraction-
like the flowers that smell so nice
to attract bees for fertilization- the flower
is really just the sexual organ of a plant.
Its all about reproduction.
Ever smelled a magnolia tree in bloom?
Heaven must smell like that, but for innocence,
for youth and simplicity
see the apple blossom, see the round fruit growing
and see that one blossom on the ground
shriveled, the Universe contracting.
The potato salad is behind the deviled eggs.
Some cold night, I’ll use the mold to poison someone
I love. Maybe it’ll be you.
Roaches carry up to 37 different diseases.
Mash one into the potato salad
for extra flavor. Extra risk.
It doesn’t take bullet to make a gun dangerous
it’s just a smaller version of a crowbar
with a more convenient handle.
That hangmans noose is all wrong for you,
the rope needs to bring out the color of your eyes,
contrast sharply with the bulging red of your face.
It’s all a matter of perspective- theres a million
ways to murder. Sleep easy,
I’ll wake you up.
The pattern forms- grows from one cell to many and starts to develop.No one know why the brain quirked right instead of left. Maybe the burgeoning belly of the whale-mother tilted south for just that little while longer- even two seconds can make a great difference- it couldve been a different sperm and voila son is now daughter or daughter is twinned but neither is what could have been.
I am a chain of accidents. Believe this.
A tree is not blue, yet water is every color that ever was. You doubt, but the amniotic fluid was opaque and there are mornings when my eyes remember the way sound vibrated through the opacity- not my ears, this was not about SOUND, it was the sight of it, the shimmer of what was this universe I crowded, central.
I feel like Im telling a story in a language no one else understands.
I remember birth. I remember the crushing and the tides and the smell of myself, remember the heat from the incubator and the gargantuan faces that made me suddenly small, but still central.
I remember my first word. Sorry.
There was a black spider that walked across a white wall. It quartered around for a while, back and forth and fro to finally be smacked by a newspaper, aimed by a hairy hand. There was also a bell with a dent in it, if you hit the dent it sounded like a thousand bells all going off in various keys, but the rest of the bell sounded thumpish, and almost but not quite off tone.
I know what it’s like to cheat death.
For I have been a small collection of cells, growing. Eyes seeing, senses birthing, mouth stretching to make the word form and succeeding, the spider dying, the hairy hand of action- the bell rung every Sunday, even if only in my mind; and I havent the language of myself for you but you also have no language of yourself for me and we struggle past imperfect understanding with the hope that some of the words pass the static and get heard, maybe understood
Recent
Toe wiggled back and forth-
such absorbed concentration
like a child, discovering
the tiny miracle involved in the simple flex
of a little toe.
Past
when I was ill he brushed my hair.
constantly during all the long nights
when I sat awake
he even dreams of it now,
long after -
that I’ve never forgotten.
Future
She needs more than I do
or have to offer freely. Life does not fit
in a frame, often it overflows
boundaries- how two people achieve
the same goals different ways
is a mystery.Maybe the biggest one of all.
Present
The real ties are those that anchor
souls, like yours to mine or ours to any
thousands of others – rope is escapable
where Fate is not.
Chains are assumed willingly –
and for us all, we take them for our own reasons
some of them are visible, some, no.
16
May
The answer lies in misdirection.
Try the oblique approach,
do not head directly to your destination,
a straight line may not always be the shortest
route between two points.
Remember the tesseract
and keep it wholly.
If you live in three dimensions but only see two of them
you will limit yourself, it is a blind spot in your thinking.
Try to see it.
Draw a picture if you have to.
Remember the oblique approach,
try using the corners of your eyes.
You can’t fly
all the reservations are full and you can’t get there
that way.
You build a giant slingshot in your mind,
but will never find hands large enough
that can pull you backwards enough
to achieve the velocity needed.
We hate you.
We all hate you.
You will never be loved
by that cold silver nightlight either.
It is not your sanctuary
it is no refuge
it is not your destination.
You can live, struck by lightning,
but if you breathe in right at the correct moment
there lies your path.
5
Apr
You may try to pin me down,
it will be like chasing quicksilver-
a bead or six or eight
will escape your trapping thumb
your encircling hands.
We either boil in the sun
or freeze in the endless dark.
The universal shape is a circle
everything revolves around a center.
So the answer to your question is that no
I have no new thing to say
no new or amazing discoveries
no new and startling philosophies,
We are all still here, spinning in circles
We are all still waiting.
No one knows why.