Hollowed out heart

I unsheath the telescoping rod
from the vein in my left arm
connecting my ring finger
to the heart
and pierce the stale air
of dwelling in this too-small space
atop the low mountain ridge,
I scream, a hawk echoes me and
I determine to open it up,
as a surgeon might do,
and bleed out the rest of the
swollen lust built up
from impossible dreams
and so many bruised misentries
stain like scar tissue,
there is no feeling in this area
that the immune system
is ill-equipped to treat

As the resistance is overkill,
homeostasis is not a residential zone.
The needle-tip inserts alternate forms
of nourishment and necessity,
only meant to keep the heart
beating me up and down
like a closed fist
striking empty chambers.


Painting by Hans Dahl (1849-1937) 'On the mountaintop' date unknown, in Public Domain. 

Episodic

My dreams had something (important) to tell me
last night.
And on the rare occasion the
Sandman sits down,
crosses his legs
and heart,
promises not to take more than a
Soul, tells a story, and
I get up
before he can get to the point-
of dreaming...

You know, some people believe that dreaming
is reality and the Real World
is make-believe,
comprised of the stories we tell
Ourselves-
True enough
to imagine.

Have you noticed that some people
live for their dream
even when they don't understand
its language.

If we dream we have it All
and get it,
would losing it
become a dream?

Between shades of light and dark,
shadow and body,
we collect impressions of what time it is,
subconsciously we know
all the has been dreamt before.

The point of the dream
the Sandman said is
that it never ends with
Us.

Painting by Franz Marc, 'The Dreaming Horse' c. 1913 [Public domain].

Diurnal disbursements

Two night
terrors in a row
and one begins to feel the mixed reality
of day-dreams, what seems
light,
the photosphere,
assembles into bands of time
where body temperature correlates to color
and we are confined to a range,
endlessly scanning.

It seems the sensual burdens never cease,
perpetually sentenced to fixed perception
without the proper nouns, one feels
naked and utterly unequipped to resist
wishes and wherewithals,
comfort zones and one peace of mind.
In our comas, we can only succumb
to this and that-all
that we tell ourselves about infinities.

One often feels a strong momentum,
as if taken
on this ride around the clock, resigned to
eternally count our blessings.
All the nearby ember bodies are following us
and one feels curses, radiant heat, distinctly
a gravitation toward the bonfire sun
where horrors have no dark bodies
in which to hide.

Although, it is never the same as being awake.




Artwork (drawing and watercolor) by Odilon Redon, c. 1903 in[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

What are the Chances, Chances Are

What are the chances:

That your most despised frenemy suddenly found themselves 
sitting down next to you in the only open seat-


of being late and avoiding an accident-

Someone looks like you, but worse-
They are better versions-

Saying something meaningful aloud-
It becomes true-
Anything true can be said-

There are second impressions
called shadows-

We can make ourselves proud-
without too much pride-

Our dreams are someone else's-
You are the true version 
of someone else's dreams-

True love is only a test-

Chances are:

-more likely you will drown (one in eighty-four)
than getting killed by a shark (one in nearly four million)

-you will end up looking like your dog, your mate,
your old self

-the Universe listens

-fear of shadows once saved our lives
fear of shadows from towers we have built
enshrouds our lives

-nightmares are honest discussions

-Love's Labour's Lost



 Painting by Unknown c. 1892 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Confessions of Stories Never Told (mainly by Rip G. Larsen)

Sealed and steeled and
in tact, in fact, all there-disheveled

in-side the unripe, oxidized lock box, ideas

tamped down in ply, peeling brittle-edged leaves

papers, actually, assorted, fragmentary thoughts-

in-spiration in scraps, morsels and ort,
accumulatively intended

to become something someday a story,
or Open Works-en-Titled:

Idea, Plot, Wet/ Dry, Action Scenes Black forlorn (negro),

Husband and wife, Idea and Story?

Suede pages soft as tanned hides, see the sunlight and crackle

after fifty long dark years crisping in the metal closet,

delicately, I have shuffled through these-

dead mans buried confessions, yarns my grandfather never spun out,

of ideas kept shuffled up, out of mind -out of mindsight 

only to be come, unfortunately,

resurrected by me,
I see a story to be told,

another resurrection fable-
(when they were true and alive)

His lines cast Here:

***************

Go to ‘Blake’ island for mercy killing,

Witnessing of murder changes husbands mind

Convicts solve his personal problem

By killing his wife-

(he lives)

Write one about a revengeful husband who kills his wife’s murderer,

after he is sentenced to life imprisonment.

Taking down of memorial in wintry square.

Idea-Symbols that always work of superstitions that always work-have some from…(illegible)

Idea-In a human vein, tell the story of a very adroit sponge (use G.L.as example)Have this trait finally come to a climax with a human ending

Idea-Write one about rodeo philosophers who have life figured out.-Get one of these guys in trouble philosophizing about (illegible) Show his Reaction.

Idea-Two people in some environment struggling for the same thing-person detests the other for the very same faults that he has. One commits a sin and boldly accuses the other of its execution.

Idea How about using a guy who sees too much significance in each little event that occurs. Have him re-act a humorous chime to his disadvantage.

Idea    Sargasso Sea   to ships as  (illegible)  on Howard St. ---One young face in a sea of living corpses

Husband// Very devoted, sensible, Impetuous, Loves wife deeply, Patient, Noble, Drinks to relieve tension, sentimental, sensitive, sense of humor (over)

Wife// Irrational, Intelligent, Sharp-witted, has softening of the brain

Open scene with her in some unintelligible but significant conversation and action and end play with husband in some way-

Beautiful, superstitious, fearful

Vivid Night Dream                         12^th Night

Wet                                                    Dry

3”                                                        6”

Much ado about Nothing

Action Scenes

Battle with weather by man

Battle of man with man

Battle of man with animals

Battle of man with unknown

Battle of man with = -woman?  (grandmothers handwriting)

Black forlorn (negro)-His eyes and coat were wrinkled from the evening's sleep

Story?

Dumb:____

I know you are well educated but do you have any money?
****************

The wife would be killed repeatedly and in theory,
this philosophy should disturb me, but it goes

unexecuted,
the crazy wife would die following him, naturally.

The gold lock on the green box was put on by Goldy-locks,
Blondie never laughed at these names that nicked at her nerves-

nor at all his taunting confessions
she noted, (red), too late

of murders he could never commit, accepting his miserable
blue collar fate
he quit

killing his darlings,

and turning attention to himself
went blue in the face
from this treading along of
American live-ly-hood-

Well-by now
we have seen, culture kills all kings,
by this time
unable to slay
all (his)storied thoughts, he locks them up for life,
to for get it out and to be handed down
the line.



   

Enigmatic Einstein

After theoretically 'successfully' wrapping my head around

some semblance of cohesive understanding of relativity,

the Einstein kind, not just for arguments sake,

the soul relationship between mind over matter,

starts with a succession of power.

Taking all we can from one man, utility wise,

ah, needless to say, does it work?

Coming upon its inertial state, approachable this way,

it was easy to trip over that paradox that must have fallen

right off the shelf, under discovery of the missing item.

Newton would know what we should try.

Perhaps there are too many of these to count

individually. All bits and bites stored within the 

conceptually hard drive.

It was our fault for putting the poison away.

It has become so cluttered in boxes marked Unsolved History

it is now sagging our spacetime beds,

instead, this white head called it the ‘spooky thing’, so we move

away from being scared of what we cannot see.

What ever happened to Alice and Bob and their rocket trip?

Should they care they are always being observed

or the considered the being the observing party, as in-

aide, a party to the equation, without favors.

The measured sentence finds balance, busy, busy, busy

wWe real it all in and call it conservation work.

that was then.

Now we know rain can occur in reverse,

it has been shocking us

ever since

then we found spin has no velocity or zip code.

It is by close relation nomadic and

conceptually centrifugal without further observation

of just the box.

The ghost in the grey long-sleeved sweatshirt

with his ordinary pen which clamps onto the collar

by some sort of hook on the tip, 

the hugs the edge. to make it secure,

or so he thought.

And I better understanding why I dreamt that Einstein,

the apparition, a face of dreams,a symbol himself, 

reached around his neck,

grasping at air, pounding his chest for

what was suddenly not there

and had trouble

finding the words 

to mean what he said.

Some dreams are puzzling-

this is why there should always be a pen
with in relative reach.

Image credit by Ferdinand Schmutzer, Einstein in Vienna (1921) in [Public domain, Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Dreams casting shadows

One needn't try to demystify
precisely why the shadows lie
the way they do.
There is always an excuse.
Dare not to ask the old salt and pepper nurse
how she came to be the sole caretaker
of crows
and a single cockatoo
every morning, every single mourning,
she knows
they are there for her too.
The brown boy that is now
a milk chocolate man
still slices cold cuts and fresh white bread
at the local sandwich shop and a decade later
still says 'Hi'-
don't ask me why
the police roll by
and I am reminded, it is just a job.
Do you remember that riddle
about what is black and white-
I've read too much...
Speculation bleeds ink.
I think
I will never ask
why my dreams are now in vivid color.



Painting titled Cloud Shadows (1890) by Winslow Homer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Half-wit Habitat

They came to me too,
just like you, the birds and the water,
serenity instead of sheep.

Yet the insistent migration,
predictably precisely on
Time,
became
beyond mesmerising.

Understanding holding your breath,
sonar is like sleep talk, let me translate,
Chosen few.

Including the enduring frigate flyer
over vast continents of saltwater-
suspended
with nary a place to land and nest.

A rare sight does not make it fantasy,
pteridactyls still soar
for weeks and weakly
catch flying fish in the skyway,
Survivor skills.

Flocks and pods abound,
we in the middle-straddled here
gasping for air, too bloated to fly
and in one eye,
masterminds
one half at a time.
Meanwhile, we Sleep
grazing.




Painting by François Boucher, Arion on the dolphin, (1748) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

This Tragic Lovelife

Because I love my life,
all my secret dreams are shadowed in my reality Now
and I see This-a secret I keep,
I feel its loss and know This solidifies This sentiment.
I cherish the fragility
manifest in created destinies, like these
small acts greater than one's capacity,
to acknowledge
-This is Happy-
and Then
there is little me in big denial
smiling from year to year
at the missed opportunity
of being present-ly and ceremoniously
single.

Because I hate myself,
all my good intentions rot and fester in Dis-regard,
and I see that I am not alone in this,
that makes me yearn for more silence
and To Be Better
than I am
to me
We should agree to disagree
like both sides of me
in equality.


Image By Currier & Ives [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Cool as a coloquillialism

Art is no job
do what you love
and the rest will lead you astray
To Art is human
Thou Art That
I think
therefore

I project
and put out there
the Golden Rule
and a silver bullet ricochets
silence is gilt

words will never hurt
but sorry makes the hurt
go away, they say

don't look back
at the distance that enchants
your view

where dreams come true
when dreams do become
better than you imagined

save for your future, spend wisely
save your wisdom for a rainy day
spend your future, it expires today
experience is the mother of wisdom
wisdom is the child of possibility

Don't be penny wise and pound foolish
count your chickens at the table
a pound of pennies
are thoughts all the same

and endings must come,
good or bad are just
consolations
for you and me
soon to be
ancient art-
i-facts.




Painting by Giovanni Boldini [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Watering wants

Starting with a seed
that has broken its hull
which contains all spores
solidified
which is the same as
visualizing the details

And so where to sow is also
of grave significance
to its future growth.
The miracle is in waiting
and forgetting
you are waiting
this is the cultivation
of fertilization.

Nor will you know
where or when or how
until there are disturbing signs
of a breakthrough below,
still too slow
to see move-ment

Lightly,
nourish the belief
that wishes dig deep
and are just enough
to support the heights and weight
of multi-layered wants and
buried wishes
that may flourish
or become part of more
starting with a seed...



Painting By Целебровский, Пётр Иванович (1859-1921) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Seeing the forest for the fantasy

I have watched like an arrested witness,
                                                   I have observed, from inside the bubble,
silenced from interruptions,
                                                   the echoes of my thoughts reverberating,
muffled and bouncing, hollow all around me.

A slip, a fall, down a tumultuous trail that unwinds,
                                                  sucked through a straw of destiny's tube.
If you can conceive it-
                                                  you should believe in burst bubbles,
suspended amid weightless fantasy
                                                  land, ushered by passing spires,
reality-threatening a poke
                                                 around the rocky fables.
Wishes evaporate into splashes,
                                                  hope heavy plummets,
hydrogen bound heavy,
                                                 drowning in carbonic dead wait-
Oh, if you could see the view-
                                                  if you only knew...
Up the boughed birch the searcher barks,
                                                 mocking today while dangled legs,
pins pricking shins begins,

                                                 Dreams fall as rain in bulging bursts
drop-
lets,
where mystic wishes, with thin traces leave wisps and wishes,
                                                  elements evaporating before my eyes,
rolling on and back.
                                                  Walking on wine,
Turning truths into tales,

                                                 Deep, in the fabled forests of immaculate youth.

Composed 6/7/15.
Image By Ida Rentoul Outhwaite (From: 'The Enchanted Forest', 1921) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Waterfall Fairy, from 'The Enchanted Forest', 1921. 

Wet Dreams

I have been sleeping with the devil, I think.
Those that love me, tell me I'm sick.
I know they are right no matter how hard I try to fight,
to untangle the snarled lines that implicate
the heat of day and deep chasm of night,
He lives there.
At first I wasn't sure it was Him-
being so dark- you know.
After arousing amid a wet,
slimy, stone cold pillow,
my hair plastered to my neck-
strangling me-
two swollen and asphyxiated eyes
on a greenish white face looking at me
in the bathroom mirror,
confirms my satanic suspicions.

The furniture looks the same-set in its ways.
My leaden limbs ache- relentlessly shivering in quakes.
Did the dresser see me
dancing in my delirium-
must have been a dream,
since the coffee table
pleads the fifth, cowering
when asked about the black and blue
marks, bruises on my shins
it lies. No burning desire,
I shiver in icy aloneness,
tossing aside those awake-
turning down and still- not dreaming
while I burned, I feel-
He stares at me lovingly, and I know,
I have been sleeping with the devil.



Image by Henry Fuseli (1741-1825), The Nightmare [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.