Wont you let the wind in

No poetry-

Silence it said.

It was raining and how could we live without

The yellow porch light, that lit the drops aflame midair

sent falling matches while we inhaled its sultry cologne,

It smelled like kerosene.

Nothing should be said,

but sound jumps and throttles anyway,

hits its edges

and snaps.

Let it fly,

was another way to lay claim on wind and smoke rings.

Seasonings and salt made new flowers, steeping in the dark

deeds have been doled to uncharted territories, stay-

what else is there to see?

The words will escape me just

this day without poetry… 

Painting by Paul Cornoyer [Public domain], 'Madison Square after the rain' c. 1900 via Wikimedia Commons.

Time wasted weeding facts

I smelt the rain first
before I heard it
rolling closer;
miles before I felt it
hanging in the air,
hours before I saw the first
drops staining ground
under the built up
barometric pressure.

It shows
my doppler doesn't need
a downward gaze at holographic
projections or need to perform
a critical up-date.


By Ebenezer Kinnersley-Electric Air thermometer c. 1763; J. Mynde (sc.) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Abundance

We mind rarified
elementary considerations such as
helium and hope that just
stream out the o-zone.

While we worry about coal gluttons
and electric vampires,
the signal still comes
in crystal glints,
colors are just
extraneous.

The most resourceful
were generous
making love-
concurrently, we are
interfering.

Simultaneously
sucked in
shiny silicon i's.
Unwound and seriously
needing respooling.





Image credit Hugo Gerhard Ströhl [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sunday Dinner

Lasagna.
Wreck-tangle in layers of cheese,

I add a pound of spinach for extra iron.

It is a production, 

each layer has a plan, to become part of

an edible architexture, an assemblage,
full fromage, flagon, flag off

in red, whine and green.

Read and cook, turning the page,
the fungi’s sizzle

and The Hidden Reality outlines details

of jitters, making energy and arrays.

I stir, it pops, I read, it steams and

condenses sugars.

Put together, my job is done,
I wait
it melts
all together. 

I close my eyes for the first bite,

forgetting all I threw in.

I think I taste nutmeg, but then remember

this often tastes like M-theory.

I must have forgotten the salt. 


Painting by Jacopo Tintoretto, The Supper at Emmaus (1542-43) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Elevation in feet

From those dark mountain valleys etching destiny

like palm lines

We conjure up rain and ropes,

tethering our dreams to vibrant green acres of horizon

radiating our perspectives of

voluminous bubbling energies under

entropic skies

over there.

If only

we had more energy,

if only

more time...

We would make it up

and over and climb higher to see

what is

over the top,

finally.

The other side

is sleep.

Painting by Winslow Homer, In the mountains, 1877, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

What is Black & White and Not Read

Dear Poet,
Thank you for your diligent inquiries.
While we appreciate your work, it is not right for us.
In addition, we encourage you to continue to try to fit in-
stead fast, stand under a lone wolf moon at the howling,
or some-such-thing.
Please note-our open minded period is very, well, narrow.
Also, know that you will not be known,
yourself unfit for traditional shapes, bodies of work
form @s.
I almost forgot, Notoriety. Silly me.
You must agree, you will be not known to anybody,
you are generic,
in the white flimsy boxes with the black sans serif
font-ain't it close enough
to alternative nutritional facts?
Anyway, we hope that you are more than satisfied with this
onerous offer.
Please do not let us know later than possible.
(there can be no changes or credit).
Respectful to others,
Them.


Image credit by Marjory Collins, described as-'loading sugar in a grocery department' July 1942) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Piece of quiet

Recluse, recover

Head on pillow, tucked in, begin to think peace and quiet-

Meanwhile

A riot swings a racquet the tighter my eyes try not to see

so many sounds blanket as epiphanies.

Snuggly, cotton covers partially, crinkling fibrous shifts-

sounded, a trumpet climbs up the scales, ring in speakeasy tones

two doors down from this bed, this horizontal head.

A boxer dog boofs over the fence, again and again,

the microwave chimes in.

My son strategizes and vocalizes his next cyber move with friends in virtual vociferousness.

In the next room, my daughter squeals, secrets I guess, tamping down her girlie giggles.

The man on the couch coughs, catches his breath then chuckles at the idiot box,
in muffled notes the next door neighbors converse in tension talking circles all tied up in Nots.

A muscle car motors by, fuel floats in the window crack, the bass is left behind

on the pavement, the other side, by the five, waves of autos roll by as white noise, 

white caps, following white perforated lines, swooshing along over catseye caps.

The neighbors' small child cries in huge bursting idles this bedtime,

the grey cat on my left side sighs, letting down his heavy head, insisting

nothing is that interesting.

A dove coos to his lover, and purr

the phone vibrates atop the oaken tiny rec-table, my stomach churns bile,

Blood swirls around my wetware, grey matter, then hits the fingertips hard,
my heart sinking a steady beat,

a door creaks down the dark hall, a glass in the sink, the faucet flows, pipes hiss, 

door whines,

and falls shut.


Painting by Augustus Egg [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

At most, Fear

When one notes

the Atmosphere,

I wonder

what do You
conjure, in imagery?

A mood, light,

aura, ambiance, affect,

air, Up, There,

Ascent?

Dare we 

try to touch the ceiling, 

thusly tempted terrestrials?

We determine to defy 

our own manmade heavy Laws.

We break barriers, sound out loud, 

maximums

as axioms. 

We try to fly, defy gravity,
soar for more

throw wishes at stars

and hold our breath.

At this inclination

drops dew hover insight,
and we called it Fog,

blurring dezephyr

into

at-mos(t)-phere.

Background muzak soothes

voluminous volatiles

(i.e. such as) we hear. 

Image of Earth atmosphere taken from the space shuttle Atlantis in May 2010. Photo Credit: By NASA, STS132 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Bitter Me and Boris in February

Since it is February

my pens all lay in disarray atop my desk,

a box of tissues crouches underneath,

nearly empty on the fifteenth.

Twenty dollars, six gallons of gas,

radio streaming from Sirius, I try driving away the stillness.

Those bruised and patient pens will wait an eternity,

or February.

Nowhere are these thoughts not there.

I find serial murders of crows, low lying clouds 

hovering and bitter cold from below

all cast down in ochre light. 

I try to forget
any distinct lines

with clarity and save the cruelty 

for April.

Piercing eyes also translates 

into Truth

and the inevitable thaw, moving matters,

the fiery tears Fall with drowned dreams.  

Heavy, a serious wind is now winding down 

her watch and brevity makes beauty

of all passing. If you remember 

how purple was this February...

it must just be

Time

the words mixed

blood and ink.

Painting of Borris (Pasternak) beside the Baltic (1910), By L.Pasternak [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Omni-presence

I have seen those. They do not impress me. Showing off and it makes me want to look away.

This one sticks out, it is different that is why. It is special isn’t it super, ultra, mega, stupendous?

Indeed, like these, none of me. Look now, how nonchalantly they pass through, as though neverthere…

smooth or slimy, a greased wheel on a slippery slope all ways gets through or goes down.

I swear this was much much bigger last time. Different. There were reasons and stones. 

Last time,

I left residue and sticks in a mound.  It has been too long to see where these ended up.  This is why babies have no memory. The train still goes through. 

I heard my name called but it did not sound like mine, at first, I did not respond.  

It could have been any of us.

Now, I hear myself differently. This tunneled voice originating in the upper torso blows out something close to heartburn; milk and tears, wine and years, sweet and sardonic, work and wrest, this too will pass over me.  And I listen for harmony.   

Rainbows are too rich.

Foundations are never solid. 

Those shoes do not fit them. Watch how they walk.

Aliens, angels, guardians, demons, magi, healers, ghosts, and gods, why would omniscient Them’s-obsess with teeny humanity? Have They not learned nothing from us, taking no credit, just having a spot of fun, and making it worth their wait in astronomical units…I found out, I don’t think so

since this is Public, you look like a regular here.  

I am still new. But so glad I found you. Shall we? 

Tell me more…

about all the-while I am just observing too. Don't look 

now. 

Painting by Jan Baptist Saive (II) (1597–after 1641) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

I, Here, Rollcall

How much can a pale blue
wheelbarrow or say, heavy duty dolly
hold before the wheels collapse,
or give in, and flatten out, under the
weight of cubic yards in
troposphere?

Yeah,
we should all fear
hellfire.
The torch we carry
is a tiny match
for life.

Picture this,
the earthen crust is fourteen miles
deep,
the sky limit-about 10 miles high,
so relatively, in proximity,
we have all we need in this space
of 24...

Have you mixed your matters?

Serious as feline excrement,
one big one
is all it takes
for the cardio to come dressed
as anxiety.

All hamsters on deck,
let the race begin.

Artwork by Alphonse Mucha (1911) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Counting Sleeps: A Bah-lid

Don't I dream anymore?
How to say,
I mean the real you

pixel on a big picture,
just too much macro-clysm
to mouth out, I conceive.

Mostly,
breathing through it, as I
must.

Wanting not of mine,
not that I would
disagree in contentment.

And all of those steps made today,
left right traces
blown away...

Somewhere may we-
someplace, let us-want to
make some thing interesting
since I cannot sleep
under such a new moon.

For now,
I would join you since you too
are going my way...


Painting by Władysław Ślewiński (1896) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

US versus They

It is a plot to divide US

It is a ruse to stimulate a surplus of national pride in US

It is a ploy, we are the toys.

They use trigger words to incite, to goad and prod US along

As though branding were everything, to US

As though we wanted nothing more than blue fescue, rather than

greener grass, voracious verdant vines with bosky blades as tall as bamboo, success.

They use hot keys to gain entry into our pockets and private dark places.

They use races sorted by skins as friendly competition

They pull heart strings and the wrong note reverberates.

Here.

The game must have players who want to win.

The business must have buyers who need to lose some extra cash.

The nation needed a nemesis, they wish hate was more common than sense,

It was

Easier

To fight

US.



Artwork By Lily Furedi (Smithsonian American Art Museum) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Captains Log: February 9th 21st century

Marine fog has come

and gone all day, it is similar, the same,
the way Gaston B was obsessed with this very mist

I muse over its movements in particulate.

Blue skies peek through,

a thin cloud rolling by,

and it has settled, for Now

rested thick, wet and multiple times

it is a clear day, others say, just on the other side…

It does stop us, coordinately 

from believing what we see. See evidently

I am most grateful for our limited scope,
as far as hope floats

it is the certainty we would choke
on the very air we need

if only we could see how Primo Levi detects the miasma
that hovers above all smoky cities. 

A gritty plume, caustic and lye, and lie like

light always gets to you.

No machete necessary, under a chenille throw of clouds.

No doubt it always will get through to someone,
as it has always done,
before the big banging and seed sowing.

Before the smoke there must be fire,

Before we could relate to the sky speaking in sea,

Collecting the mood in glimmers and vapors

The fog finally makes it all clear.

It was something in the air, where the light broke in

And scattered array.

Image credit by Tuxyso / Wikimedia Commons, via Wikimedia Commons.

Where Art thou Writer?

I tried to paint black cows on a moonless night,

it never came out right, 12 times out of ten,

but then I added blue and I knew

I was not a painter,

so I quit for a bit.

I tried cleaning

Once

I tried mapping, lists, and other gists of things,

All of which turned out were wrong.

then I wrote, and wrote and wrote

without periods,

and tried and tried to stop the words whizzing

by, arrest and test, to find the best ones.

I was fooled, I failed again and again

picking pyrite on sight,

my carbon spilt into lead,

took nothing out but blood,

a flood of it and died on the page.

Now the cows can sleep peacefully,

if only I could see.

Artwork by Paulus Potter (c. 1647) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A more & A greater than

Z sing iz, the buzz on thee,

Love is too little, jolie, jolie, jolie,

Je t’adore. Je t’ aime. Jest a phaze

Pshaw, lust must pass away.

Love’s haze, amazes me, truly,

enamored in deceitful enamel,

this shine, all mine, in Love.

Trivial, no? Failure in this,

is mans kind demise,

dismissal of duality

a potential of casualty-

could be more…

In love,

first, then find.

F is force, for P, probability

E is of course our energy, and

why, z axis, a spot on a plane

two dimensions entwined,

I find lines hold space,

needing each other just as much

for meaning and definition,

listen...

it sounds like hummmmm

with i 

and feels like u.


Painting by Joshua Reynolds, 'Mrs. Abington as Miss Prue in Love for Love' (1771) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

Some Irk & Blaspheme

That is it, 

what really bothers me is those,

those people with those thoughts 

that are so sheltered, she steamed at me.

Yes, that is what I said, 

the soul is located in the brain, pointing to his head, 

this older man said.

Why must you always go so deep, rhetorically, another time she fumed.

Free! Relatively...another he replied to me on a different day.

How obnoxious! 

My son observed an erratic driver cutting everyone off, he was late that day anyway. 

Dad got a raise. He splurged on a bunch of stuff and bought a brand new bed, 

my son said recently.

It won’t help him sleep at night, 

cash cannot secure him peace, I did not say. 

Absurd. 

All           Of           It.

Blasphemy.

Words have holes 

to sift and sieve fluffing up

some irk. 

“Blasphemy is an intelligence-based skill gem that when linked to curses, turns them into auras with 35% mana reservation.”- http://poehub.info/blasphemy/


Painting by Gustave Courbet, (1843-44) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

How the ship went down

He wont go in, I asked him.
He said it is too c-c-cold.

It is February, someone said.

I thought it was warmer here,
that's what you said,

Spoke the brother man
I just met,
he then looked at
me.

He pretended to be misled
by the change in latitude.
Lightly making light
of this ceremonious process.

I looked around
for any familiar
faces.
The sun setting
cast a candle glow
on all of them.

The wind picked up
random pieces,
stirring us
salt and water
with mixed drinks.

Fifty-five and a half million lives lost
every year-two dozen ships sink.

"Relatively," I confessed,
unrelated to any
body.

And we were oceanside
all together,
a family,
not mine but with me doing this rite,

the ships sailed back to the harbor,
we all watched the pterodactyls pass
hugging the shoreline,
then seagulls in vees
watching us hug back.

We saw him now
scale down the riprap,
clutching the carved wooden box
in his left hand,
the waves rushed in to
meet him first

and he did not look back at us
looking over the edge
once.
He would not hear
the group of us
cheering
this man, these two men in the sea

fighting to stand,
fighting to let go
the sand, the ashes

and I saw that he was sobbing.
Silently, softly,
his shoulders shook
against the crisp horizon
in the last light
of that day.

He would have wanted it that way
is all his golden child could
grasp onto long enough
to say...

(This evening now gone,
peaceful bones, now resting deep
I thank the tide
for the grainy souls
it keeps
moving us
to live
without
wasting any more time)


Painting by William Bauly Lithography by Sarony, Major & Knapp [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Making myself scarce

When the door latches,
when it is only me
in this shrinking body,

when all I must do
is what I must,

when I start to feel lucky
I must be blessed,

when I am rested
I think of aging,

when I am tired
I remember dying,

when I wake up
when I reach for a pen,

I am alive. I am living.



Image credit Joseph-Philibert Girault de Prangey, 1840 self portrait in[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Eurydice got jaundice

Be cause
the slight sulphuric smell
whisked off the top
by the cool purple night
sent signals, scented
words artists understand
as beckoning

-It is safe to come out Now-

And,
as far as frequency may go
undetected
and we hope to scatter awe,
                       curiously as
indiscriminately as dreams
Do.

Why choose these
creators, creatures,
to translate such dark
thoughts to bodily form,

two birds on one stone
already shared the whole sky

what more could be said...

How could feeble eye
capture any more light
with one small grounded
sol

such as
belief in something more there
may be, brighter than this thought
could scatter its spotted array
today
sketched out in perse ink.

Dried pens and then,
bruising egos bright,
all of this goes garish yellow,
away and tinged
in tangibility, catagorically,
and it is no longer clear,

How
my fellow man,
plans to capture
all of this
so beautifully.

The artist listens
to brilliance breathe regularly
in deep starlight strokes and matches its
rhythm. and tries to remember
every thing that has ever been created
for arts sake.

It is reason enough
to wake.

Artwork by John Roddam Spencer Stanhope (1878) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Busy going down the drain with Eddy

Start here and get this over with
will you-so we can move on
with more of the same

wistful wants.
This two
let pass...

First things first,
get 'em on deck and in a row-
orderly, nice and tidy, see

things get done this way-
or do they, I pray
we are not just

tilling our rich soils
like Voltaire-infertile,
infantile and bored,

whereby garden side

resides this musing man
who gets lost with no plan-
hence without direction.

I reckon.

That is not you. This is not us.
We no longer grow our food.
Despite the growing bellies

thick with cancer,
bloated and blurred
in fact, it keeps us busy

wondering what happened
with all these weeds.
We were supposed to be a-
mazed, we can grow.

A lie, a labyrinth,
a temporary structure
lay in the dirt.

We were pulled in one direction,
despite resistance, like cancer
this was no choice,

but diagnosis.

There was only one direction,
it was a-
head.

On second thought
there is no good place
to begin to make it

in sphere

we are contained,
consumed and thereby
recreated

it keeps us busy.





Image of artwork by Lodewijk Toeput [Public domain], Pleasure Garden with maze, (c. 1579-84) via Wikimedia Commons.

Is this bliss?

Fleeting moment to
day to pass by happenstance
and happen to say




















Painting By Daderot (Own work) [Public domain or CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

super-natural and extra-ordinary

Most mistake
miracles for
just coincidence,
which is ironic

as a rule,
coincidence is when
the obstacle is dissolved entirely
just solutions remain

concentrated ad-mixtures
of luck and faith, a coupling
tangled making waves
turbid in the wake

hours
that cannot count stars
that doubts itself
clear enough

for the common kind
of man to consume
as pure prophecy
by numbers.

It is possible,
it was more than probable
that this kind
was a miracle
of just willful
coincidence.


Painting by Jean-François Millet [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

I Swear I was Stuck

So there I was
wedged or nestled
too snuggly-

No,
it was not ennui or an-
other excuse or
heaven forbid,
Newtons energetic projections
about inertia and what not

bottomed out.

It was some other
matter unseen,
pokey, a bit rigid
and there is me,
in the mid-hole,
grinding out granite--damn it-
maybe more like banded agate--shit-

trying to say
things and this like, as in,
better be, another way,
by wiggling, leveraging
without a write word in
edgewise

seems heavy
when you carry it around forever.

Remember the conjecture
about the speed of falling great
egos?

No? Me neither.
I suppose nobody knows
the right thing any more

than what was left alone

to make it move.
The words have escaped me.

Now I am free
to stay stuck--
(in) stupid silent protest.




Portrait by Franz von Stuck, c. 1900 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.