trails

Vengeance makes a map

old wives tails and medicine

man show now how X

crosses paths never worn away.

Image Title "After the battle Company G 32nd United States Infantry' c. 1898 in [Public domain].

Sea minor

The day you were born
It would never be the same
as it ever was.

This day, at that time
started this life
                       from lives past-
Passed through you to you
creating something
from some things that were before
you arrived as you.

This time and time again

many things came first
many more things will come to pass
none have counted you
in years
             -as the last

-pushing through, pulling you-

The only time you
were you,
we met
            through others
matters were made

any day now we will change
-back-
into strangers, fate carried vessels
pulling our chords,
                              the other way.



Painting by Ivan Aivazovsky [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

Act your aim

When we stay in line
like good little pixels
stacking up our boxes
edge to edge
we may notice
the oval, all circularity
is pointed, adjacently
and saved, if needed.

Connections and karma
are just
arrows attempting to be
boomerangs.

Hunters and gatherers,
acting in accord
with the right angles,
took shape, called it chalice,
and carried it with us
empty-everywhere

beginning and ending with "Fire"
-there was nothing-
to hold us together but the sphere.

1st(Top) Painting by Douglas Volk, 'The boy with the arrow' (1903) in [Public domain or CC BY-SA 2.5 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5)], via Wikimedia Commons.

2nd Image Info: John Gower in a portrait from a book with his Vox Clamantis and Chronica Tripertita in Glasgow Univ. Lib., MS Hunter 59 (T.2.17) folio 6v. This is from a revised edition of the book published c. 1400 (before Gower's death). Gower is depicted as an archer with a bow and arrow. Gower prepares to shoot the world, a sphere with compartments representing earth, air, and water.
Text on the above image in one version of the Vox Clamantis reads "I throw my darts and shoot my arrows at the world. But where there is a righteous man, no arrow strikes. But I wound those who live wickedly. Therefore let him who recognizes himself there look to himself." 

gains & drains & when it rains

If I had a grand

I'd call back that 

paralegal named Gabriel

and retain his professional services 

and following his advice, proceed to 

take out my hammer and

nail that lying selfish bastard to the wall.

He knows

most of the gist already.

It wouldn't take long to catch that Gabriel

up to date

nothing has changed.

He knew this would happen. 

I have waited impatiently.

I am working on this.

I want justice.

I want to feel it is fair for us two,

minus ethos and numerology.

Wrong or right 

redemption is truant. AWOL. 

-cognito err go some-

The Karma 

must have broken down 

in the median 

hazards on, hood up,

awaiting a ride on my back,

again. Help. A tow. 

I am Lost en route.

And although not generally a vindictive

Entity, myself, 

I'd really like to make 

it hurt, permanently.

I'd prefer to take more 

than that idiot has

left from his gambols and gains,

that would be a nice Rebate. 

At least a little freedom, breathing room

sometime somewhere soon...

I know space and air is expensive.

There is no room of my own,

I can only afford to share.

He is taking too much

for himself, 

except accepting 

any responsibility what-so-never.

It could be just me, broken 

without any money. 

If I had a grand 

I should want to take that Stanford class

instead of making such poor investments

with my free time. 

Yet we both know

grand ideas, worthless pennies,

are all I have thought

left.

Painting by Juan de Flandes [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

 

Her voluptuous parabolas

All
who have seen her
swear they have never seen her
happier, lately
while she laughs, letting crickets go.

Her curves always know
how to smooth things out
and the way she walks begs forgiveness
as her karma rounds
every corner.

Softness was her style
to say it supply-

it could stem from her blooming chest,
crimson raw cheeks, her velvet bleeding lips
or lilac silvery strands


her glare goes right through any apparitions and by
body, somehow she knows the bright angles
to the long equations...

At night she paints
the smudged sky on her arms.
Before sunrise she weaves weak
words stained black. They don't smear-
she won't use them-in the light by day
she tends to others angles
in her smooth parabolic way.

It seems she just sashays away,
her every day face
acting as the fulcrum for all others
a round nowhere to stick
around.



Painting by Edgar Degas, After the Bath, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

What's the Matter

I am an unstable lepton seeking opposition.

I had a chance to be an undiscovered pentaquark.

And, like you, I prefer symmetry in my fractals.

And am particularly attracted to magnets.

What's the matter then?

Gravity bums me out.

It’s constantly micromanaging, like Time itself-

read on the face, I've seen the circle of life,

but I prefer triangles.

I think wealth should be calculated

by Karmic Score divided by Faith.

The way it looks,

I will get to watch

two Haley's comets pass, elapse

(in my little blinking life).

I used to live at the seashore,

where there are 1,440 waves

that break every single day.

And even though I move around,

(often in circles)

and am not there to see the crash,

I know those waves are still

breaking

(without me).

Nobody can remember what it is to be an American anymore.

America isn't even 500.

Didn’t we manufacture ancient history (yet)?

Monsters make earthquakes.

Geologists think about flatware.

Their i's bigger than their plates-

the I in inertia, that is.

And anthropologists are making strides,

measuring footprints in lieu of the gait.

I never want to grow out of my imagination,

I'm waiting for flood pants to be back in style.

I've accepted my death is nothing personal.

I am not sorry,

(anymore).

The possibilities of a fractal

The way I see it-

art contains real magic.

Like blinking, or like an automaton,-always on.

Projecting its wizardry when no one’s there to see it.

A child is a miracle-

of busy blurred lines.

Making it difficult for others to focus on them directly,

blinded by their angelic buzz of innate electricity.

Art is the grandchild of God-

or whatever grand-father you Believe in.

It’s immaculate conception and delivery are born proof,

of a source, the straw that was pulled, the ignition point.

We are the ghosts of our grandchildren.

Now.

We have to pave the way, clearing our Karmic path

to Here.

Art arrests shape-

holds it captive-

to represent-

likeness-ness.

Our family tree,

rooted in our orchards of History,

bears ripe fruit of juicy inspiration,

tastes like sweet familiar childhood in the shape of a fractal.

Image By Randomness (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons, 'Fractal face of Beauty, 2008'.