Written in stone

All in 

One moment

I understood the

Buddha's parable about walking

with a stone in your shoe-.

I suddenly knew

It could happen to anyone

Anytime 

and after inspecting the painful

if minuscule annoyance

I found the stone

Made of calcified fragments, merely

Memories compressed and pushed out

like bone spurs sloughed off 

and re-attached to thought

Like a tumor.

Every step, someone else's shoes -

That was

Us

Now all that is left

is the loose stone

from the right shoe. 

Painting by Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1841-1919), 'Woman tying her shoe' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Run-on sentences

Keep reading as if the book

were a bible-
Take it with you,

I plea-

You can fit in

a few new affirmations

now and then-

Other currency

is needed

to retain

value.

I beg you
to commit
to memory
the lines,
(psalms)
that will save you
from having to make
up endings.




Artwork credited by William Etty, in National Gallery of Art [CC0], Public Domain.

Three bars

ATTN: s p a n s
have shrunk.

Our opposable thumbs bent back-
ward devolving in
QWERTY
case(s).

Connections are compared to signal strength,
the invisible lines we weave like webs
entangle everyone where wifi may be free-
for all-(paying) Customers-
staying safely inside
the gridlines.

Tipping is no longer
an indication of gratitude
for the service provided by a server.

There are no more bag people.
Paper or plastic?
Paper breaks down
into change.

The chip
did not deter identity theft.
The chip finds lost pets.
Everyone wants someone else's
wallet, until one realizes
'we carry no cash'.
Everyone wants a companion,
that doesn't care how much money
they have or owe.

Listen,
everybody is-
interested
in selling
you (on)
their junk (bonds).

See,
everyone is watching
your feed,
none are buying
your story.

Freedom fighters are all
chained to their cause,
the wealthy
are anchored by money
and the drifting souls drown in a sea
of selfies, imaginary images
of the good side
alone.

A lone observer
does not participate
in-
justice
spread
faster than 4G 5G.

New message Alert!
Precedence over Presence,
interruptions are multi-
tasking opportunities.

Our memory
re-written for the best utilization
of available space.

We should be doing something
(more),
we should go,
we should have gone,
we should be
(more)
(there)-
I swear
to never regret
intentionally doing nothing
for nobody but me.
We should turn off our location and reach further
blindly feeling our way around this life
we hold in the palms of our crooked hands,
rather than simply progress
across the monkey
bars
just to reach the other side
for fun.




Image of Radio tower, Boston College c. 1920, Internet Archive Book Images [No restrictions].

This 1 day, death is not near

It is called a veil
or shroud
for the way it
reveals itself
to be a cover
where the light
gets in
there was space for this
exchange
of dark(ness) and light(ness)
or public and private.

Lifted into a demanding
presence
we find ourselves
lingering
in graveyards
as though this was defiant
or exertion of our will
remaining
from youth.

It is between discrete moments
when the warmth moves through
the atmosphere
sometimes sinking in
while touching us deeply.

Our memories turn to life.


Painting by Miner Kilbourne Kellogg [Public domain].

Blind i

Losing one's eyesight is the prelude to
insanity,
indirectly.
The words lie there, lined and
blocked,
and the Brain knows what to do,
but can no longer sharpen
the peripheral
imagery with ease.
Poor lighting perhaps
not more than denial
that it was all a blur.

My grandfather had Alzheimer's,
I used to think it was called 'Old Timers'.
My grandmother got glaucoma,
we don't know when it started,
nevertheless
we never saw each other's point of view.
Makes me wonder which is worse...
I think up and makeup
for fading memories, visions,
and finally, recall, I remember
what I came here to say-I now see
Time erases All



Image credit By Internet Archive Book Images [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Marker

It occurs to me that a threshold

is essential for crossing over

leaving one place, entering another.

A transference or transcendence

if done intentionally

the past stays outside.

It occurs to me rather suddenly,

despite making plans and beds,

tucking corners and ducking blows,

this was all about some body, 

a place to rest

and what to do with what remains.

I have reconsidered 

that it may be the most selfless thing

to be buried in a plot, or swallowed by a sinkhole, 

instead of scattered

to sea, disbursed widely

without

a mark(er), a fold or ripple,

a place

where others can go

to meet with Memory.

This is the last thing I can do

for those whom I held the door for,

for those that may be missing and seeking

my presence-

No body

needed more than a place to rest. 



Painting By John Singer Sargent [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons, 'Open Doorway, Morroco, c 1879.

The storm has come to pass

We didn't have any pictures, she told me.
My mother said the only thing we had from him
was the toy chest he made that we kept inside my closet,
the one I used to climb in.

I'd hide in the darkness, inside the closet, inside the chest-
and I tried to believe, maybe it was all about him.

My mother has many pictures from when I was little
of my step-father's rock-and-roll band. He played guitar.
And in those old photos, there in the middle of the bass drum,
where the pillow for practice goes,
you see there is a little curled up body,

unmistakably my own.
Even long after I've long outgrown these small spaces,
I can remember feeling this heartbeat
like my own-

And I recognized, it was not about him either.
There were pictures.
She lied-plain and simply-I found-
I liked to hide
myself too.

And I can still distinctly recall feeling the floods
of darkness and thunder washing over me,
but there were no pictures of this I could find.

My mother would remind me,
not of myself.

Blonde and radiant, back then
she was more like the sun,
and likewise, one learns
too much exposure can lead to cancer.

It is the smell of rain that takes me back, the storm
that delivers these dank reminiscences,
dropping memory all over me
wet and vivid, here and now.

And under this heavily cloaked night, the sky hangs
starless and preoccupied with pushing clouds around,
building up pressure and waving flags,
whereby I cannot help but find that I share
a stark resemblance
to thin air.




Photo By Adolf Zika (Adolf Zika´s archive) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sensual segments

The lotion in the squeeze tube

intended

to protect this crumpled 

and creased rice paper skin,

carries a strong scent, evocative

of all the horses I once knew.

The big baby boy finally comes along,

appearing one month old

already.

Somedays, like other times,

Her voice soothes

but most often it seethes

something in me.

Crap-

that coyote in a boat scared me!

the visitor exclaims-

pointing to a small hanging sculpture

Of a baby fox sleeping soundly in a hammock.

I knew it, but did not say anything

This time

it would be easier this way...

The numbers man heard poetry

at night.

It scared him. 

This time

he stood too close

to the source.

Contagion is terrifying.

Warm spreading in back of the head,

happens with Prozac

and Jazz musicians,

I have been told.

It may spread further

than just here.

As we were like this

One time

found in familiar fragments

of others, 

clarity comes to the assembly

in single file lines. 





Image credit By Clyde Waddell, American GI's at a bookstall in Calcutta, 1945' in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Photographic Memory

There was evidence.

Documents that document what was evident then,

for now.

The documents were both rare

and fragile.

Some small rectangles, windows of film

frothing with substance, like acids and bases

jaundiced or molded and shriveled.

At times only the negatives

remained. No resemblance.

It is hard to see the value of any one.

when every person is packing clouds

with images.
Transitive types still holographic despite

imaginary inks and multiversions,

a.k.a. avatars, space holders, facetime-streaming

proof-until Poof!

What memory?

There is no evidence.

We were not there. 

Image of Martin Shaw, 1929 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Shadow lands

Consulting the calendar

to measure the finite edges of days,

proper rectangular weeks,

Lifetimes.

Using a ruler, I measure

the distance between

solar cycles inside

circles spin squared up,

and churn stuck in corners 

and lurk in boxes,

Leaving us to use the same angles

Over

And over,

Holidays make tangents, or triangles,

Between meaning and moment

This second

Memory, like haze that fills with light

remember the fog backlit in sun, rolling

over it,

The wind, the wave, the change,

The ends,

whites and blues

begin blending new for someone

We one knew upon a time. 

Image By OSU Special Collections & Archives : Commons (When trees and shadows make art) [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Passes thru

The train rolling through town

sends in its signal 

                   with the intermittent whistle which warns

of something more than arrival, delivery or destination,
crimson, or even hot steal.

It smelt of cinnamon and sueded leather,

Bark and skin, the warm coat.

Two young men, 
                         friends since childhood, 
Skype and catch-up on nothing new.

They live close to each other, 
                         only one hears the train first.

The little girl that left the boy 
                         in the woods to get lost herself
was kind enough

to think of bread for later so she could come back

to him, but he was hungry and took care
                         of himself.

She cries about choices to another boy.

She was the wolf that howls at the passing train, sirens song,

a puppy in a dogs coat.

Tracks made for trains are best for drawing lines, 
                        demonstrating the forging of space

between then and now,

                                    here and there

one nose

smells first

and hides in his skin.

The other clearly hears
the passing scream left behind
on warm steal lines
                        without a second glance

he knew there will be another
                         soon enough to catch up.
He takes off his coat.  
No longer in a hurry 
he thinks in all directions,
and decides to walk
without destination.




Photo credit by Carol M. Highsmith [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Write hot, edit cold

None of it was good enough.

So you see, here, admittedly,

I understand the fire, a self-starter,
it makes decent fuel

the words work better than well.

It means I too- must end this way,

plain as day, Cremation

and yet

Fire scares me honestly.

It may be a miserable moment,

the next page, the new leaf, the blank slate-

Wait-never mind-what was said-dead-again.

Each time it becomes easier to name the wrong noun,

confound even myself, crosswords no longer help.

In other words

I shall not say,

See me

and I will match you.

I am simply sulphuring,

reeking with green steam.

Saturated, and I am too porous for this

laughing at my whole self,

the incompetence I relied upon 

and moments reborn

into better than imaginable-Memory.

Pretty-

All ways worth the weight in white.

Angels giggle at these simmering sounds

mistaken for a narrow fellow in the grass

making coils warm,

it was all the write words

fuming in the sun

without a bone to burn or pick

the ice ages will do the rest.  



Painting By McCord, George Herbert, 1848-1909 (artist); L. Prang & Co. (publisher) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Fits of all-timers disease

You must find it in Here

and protect it when you do.
Fight for it, for now,
if that feels right.

Do not let it wander off...

That should have been enough to know
all we needed
something special left for us-

most certainly we will know it when we see it.

Perhaps other things came first, easier and
stood taller,
in your face,
consuming precious attention, a natural resource
short in so many ways
making us feel we need more,
we feel need and have to have,
what we think we need for others.

Listen, that forgetting feeling,
somethings are slipping,
the way guilt works its oily way
inside to undo forward motion,
or recognized

as the inability to see
likeness anymore
it was lying there
when we passed

over the top,
afraid of depth, holding our breath and
acclimating ourselves,
we forgot what we came in Here for...


Painting by Félix Vallotton [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Signal

Blue screen drama fiend

what have you become?

Turn it off or someone will,

you won't remember

but you won't remember

given enough space.

The smell doesn't count, the color couldn't care to stay

it was "This-ness" and by the feebleness of narrow hands,

grasping

Did we ever listen while thinking of something

better we could say...

This was not electric; magnetism is not magical.

Sparks happen. Predictably we promised.

Revolution and Industry-

you'll forget what these did to we.

Don't look up, what is done is done, thy will

and guilt gone!

(on Sunday)

See? Forgotten verboten. Fuzzy. Atonement.

The power we ceased to possess,

Eternally, not youth but

goes by Memory,

like calories and ergs,

also

measured by the byte.

Painting by Ilya Repin [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.

Shrinking Heads

They used to call them shrinks in slang.

This was a term when I was little.
And couch time or psycho-
analysis, psyche-ologists, undoctors with talk shows
was all the rage this term, shrink, 
made me think of voodoo, a secret serum from
head doctors. But nowadays we have BRAIN,
and the human genome project, AI and h-3

And thankfully,
someone just told me
something is happening to the frontal cortex,
of the human being-being busy;
because busyness wrecks
real concentration.

It could be fake news, you choose.

Once upon a time,
I remember memorizing phone numbers.
I remember every license plate
on every vehicle in my name,
but those were just a labels

like shovel and couch, doctor or woman
and I dug in deeper and found it is true. All of it.
It is frightening.
This cannot be happening, it must be only temporary.
What does it matter if we forget-
this too shall pass as short term.

I don't know anymore.
Always being right
tends to make one go in tiny circles.

Fear was all the rage.
And instead of screaming Fire, or Liar,
the roof began to crumble under
the weight of the clodded up canvasing
sky gathering clumps in furious spouts
of dirty watercolor,
meant to stir us.

Iron bars,
lashing at the trees and they scream.
It Is
eerie, some never heard it coming

or understood what it said.
(SH, RBTL, SITD?)
Terminal. The terminal. Terminus.
Communication was the key.
And oration from alabaster towers of babble flow,
throwbacks, boomerangs and borrowed times,
did not fit all skeletons.
It is a combination lock anyway.

Radical is bad, gay is not happy, no mo FOMO,
do NOT wear a hoodie or hijab,
protest and appoint, Act Now, undemocratically,
incivility as seen on TV versus Reality,

no need to worry.
Temporary occupations are hiring the easily entertained
or unemployed tools, oft utilized by
tightening nuts down to nationalism,
and their infallible dependence.


I forgot why I came in here, I forgot these are all names.
I forgot all the names. I forgot my name. I forgot this was the same.
I forgot to go. I forgot my place.
Then it came to me,
only temporarily.

It should be powered down, rebooted, then defragged
down to one, for focus. Ahead, and swollen baubles or egos,
ergo,
what does it mean to grow smaller
over time, we cannot even wrap our head around
astronomical units, lightning years.
or by electro-therapy injections we become
shorter, shorting out, shrinking from commitment
to deep time.

Slang was just another name
for small.
All the time
shrinking.



Image By Paul François Arnold Cardon, Photograph of the French psychologist Pierre Janet (1859–1947) by Paul François Arnold Cardon a.k.a. Dornac (1858–1941).

The Humble Home

Sow and germinate our Pride,

stretching our will and want to cover

what we made need-later. 

Iniquity, I admire this perfect little life 

I have made

to dwell in and upon,

check in and out as I please...

What it seems-better to me-is my reality

I forget...why did I come here, compelled-

so I step away, hide things from myself,

to discover If 

I like those memories,

Truthfully.

Like you, before me,

I see anew at half way through-

though it was forced upon me 

by reflection,

Virgil left a note saying 

the rest is up to self sufficiency

Trust me

in finite, it is not complete.

Not for me.

So proud I am, but ineffective.

Standing here before you,

not knowing why, unable to convey

all the answers in art, the way I see it-

it pleases me enough to persist, as though

amour-proper was more than acceptable. 

Painting by Sanford Robinson Gifford [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Dude, where's my car?

The usual parking spot
taken again!
It shouldn't bother me-
since these arrangements are all
temporary.
A reminder of routine,
a barb to burst the bubble
feathers to rustle and I was flustered
as I looked around to make sure I had
everything
worth stealing,
holding nothing of value but the health
to walk,
I locked the sad car
a block down the street
by the Montessori school-closed on Sunday.
I tried to shrug it off when looking behind me
I see history-
blinding me-
replayed out-a memory
in bursts of heliographic signaling.
The old apartment with an ex,
the sun glinting on the front window
of the dark living room, the two
fields below, the
dark stairwell in the middle,
the figures fighting blurry...
I know I am seeing too far
too vividly.
So I walked the other way,
               don't look back
again, I tell myself.
Turning the
corner
home
I wish I could forget such trivial things
such as where I am parked
or how I have lived elsewhere
too close to home.



Photo By Härmägeddon (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Isn't that touching

Felt again-
it will never go away.

Now we know. And must go on
even more
This is just as important

we hope

everytime more
can be enough
for now
-waiting-

We live
all the while we say we feel
Alive

sometimes, like memory
of morning sun in autumn light
cast down on dry dirt
heating up
the surface
even more than before
the first
time

And Time
again

open to the sense of it.



Painting by Alexei Harlamov (1840-1925), Portrait of a young girl, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Rememberance

I see myself
in the thicket-as a little girl
with a gleam in her eye
and beat in her step...

She skips along the wooden planks
deep inside the Olympic rainforest-
well ahead of the rest.

She hums
and notices her small feet-
Left...
Left...
Left-                 Right-
Left-
(and nothing but gingerbread left...)

Sing the Song, they pled,
their wise eyes smiling wide
and iron-shod feet shuffling
a long...

"'Twas in Yokohama,
I met this-black mamba-"

No, no, no-Not wrong!
use the words I taught you,
my grandfather groaned.

"'Twas in Yokohama, I met this hot mama
selling radishes, octopus, 
rice and dried squid..."

What was her name,
the other old GI Joe requested-

"Her name was Suzuki,
she was a sharp looking cookie
and she was built like
Brick Chicken House!"

The old men giggled gaily
at the little memory
of their recondite life, that day they
Left the wife
lost in translation
under tropical reverie
the next generation, skipping
a long...

"Chick-a-dee, chik-a-doo
chick-ah-ku, chikaku"



Photo By Unknown or not provided (U.S. National Archives and Records Administration) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Conifer seedling arising from charred Timberland (post clear cut) Olympic National Timberland.