Ex-isle

This world 

is not for breath

for feelings

also come and go.

As hard and light as 

Push and pull

Go.

Busy hands and 

bees-electricity, alter-

nating currents, the unseen

Never again 

Now

Where were we-

Many moons ago

and always one moon

stoic satellite

Spinning our own orbit

one side-sunlit

Not saying

darkness always becomes

Her-

Or shall I?

Painting by Robert Henri 'The Reader in the Forest' c. 1918 via Wikimedia Commons and Google Art Project, in Public Domain. 

Infectious

The overwhelming experience of taking it ALL in
Now, is an overstimulation of the senses as in the expectation
to make it so as we hold it in to the very top of this slippery
second the moment we notice it gone
and are left with what we do with and to this
experience
or sense of should-be-doing-
exhausting ourselves of our possibilities and
ultimate potential
contentment-
of being O.K.
or not okay
but still-
moving-thinking-feeling-not-
thinking-re-aligning
ourselves with being
ok with who
We Are


Trusting
ourselves
to heal
while we are busy
choking ourselves in the experience of
our environment
while the soul
caresses the wounds and whispers ways
to keep clean
while exposed.


Artwork/memento by Frederic Edwin Church, inscription reads "Remeber the ashy light, the black rocks and brown grass" Ecuador, Andean mountain peak [Public domain].

green light

Now

each decision

a-way, option

verb tension-

The signs were all re(a)d.

Painting by Edward Mitchell Bannister, c. 1882 in [Public domain].

Made in the shade

There are no words for this nowhere night...
The branches that lean on lusty air,
the mind that sways without care,
to This and back to That-without photosynthesis
or reason for process just in this dim moonlit
moment for rest and breath.

Steadfast in the breeze, and leaves too shiver
in a display of stirring resilience and transcendence
mocking me, I see. So-we still strive fruitlessly further
for naught and knots
where such difficulty and circularity
is always relevant at the root under foot...

Well, that is deep-
We being anew-acorn to oak; choking up
our symbiotic exchange of needs
and invisible nows, for want of more
foliage for later, lushness across a lifespan.

For Now, nothing is more than enough
to keep me here seeking a lone moment
to feel my place and lose it
all in the same breath.


Painting by Caspar David Friedrich (1819-1820) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The wind was long

If I wrote 'Now' one thousand times-
Now, Now, Now-
am I not lying? Redundantly (pro)posing nothing new
on the page-

Now, Gertrude may say
the same,
Now
there is no such thing like the thing itself,
repetition of point...
like Moore's Law-only holds so many holes
before disappearing
all together.

In soundness, over and over
is a slingshot past Here-

reason being no longer
enunciates itself
as individual
thingness and parsimony

it seems to me we should have
been focused on the duplicates

observing patterns of double talk
scholars without abjection to empty words,
placeholders or so called meta-
or merely masters by degrees

From this angle
Now was never
the center
errant signals disconnect
the radii from the thing.




Portrait of Gertrude Stein by Félix Vallotton (1907) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

When (Hi-Q) Haiku

Is it Now? It is

Not anymore, just checking

It could be any time…




Painting (oil on board) by William Etty (1841) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Standing Ovation

Now we will see 

                         what comes next

by unfurling progression 

                         or Nows in succession.

Pick one,

put it in your pocket,

feel it with your fingers

every now and then,

until its edges smooth,

and you use it for warmth.

This Now could Be

more valuable later, grow on you

by inflation of your reflection,

                        mirroring idea in light,

this is why it startles us 

                        in unexpected color,

a stroke of magenta not man made,

                        Now speechless,

too beautiful to save.

Photo credit By Unknown photo: Mcowkin (Lychakiv Cemetery) [Public domain or CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Second helpings

It would be asking too much
if someone said
wait one-thousand-milliseconds,
one hundred jiffy's,
a billion nanoseconds, or a Fermi
but really that sounds silly,
so seconds it is to please be quick-
witted, reactive to surfaces
as echoes and sound is also a wave
that warbles along at seven hundred
and sixty
miles per second,
superficially.

Just so you know, it is all calculable by
a minuscule measurement of  radiation
and reach, emitted by caesium (-133),
tiny things we cannot see nakedly
invaluable like love and currency.

Honestly, you should know also
that it takes 6 full grown alligator
seconds to gain any kinetic benefit,
by stretch or strain,
of any muscle-through release or gain.
And all should plan appropriately,
it takes twenty-one seconds to pee-
really
on average
you have been warned
seconds and faith
take quantum leaps.

In one unjust second, a bullet barrels by
two thousand five hundred feet
while a snail sidles over a puddle
cruising 1 chasmic centimeter
and in that same moment
we swallow, we make thoughts,
we blink, we take it in, more than oxygen-
we reminisce wanting more from before...

the world changes drastically for one
second, and
again,
firsts are never enough
for any one
Now.



Painting by Johannes Vermeer, (b/w 1655 and 1667) 'The Art of Painting' in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Our Lady Alexandria

What feels like Now is never heavy enough

to last longer than a Sunday.

Idle times like June, we tend to wander too far,

it takes august

to bring us back to routine.

Presently, reading.

Presently writing

Then and Now lying in front of me,

blurred by biography autonomously-

     whose voice is lost in the amplified volume

of imposition

     whose own prosaic tome is never true or tight enough

to carry the note all the way,

to cut the final folio, to fill the flyleaves.

More memory appalls dead weight

          one will carry to the cemetery, nary a soul should know  

Those things, flammable flashbacks attack hard back, unhinged

in carnation

in damnation

in citation,

My cover slowly singing, smoldering as I am oldering,

lighter 

Now (transparent)

on paper backs.

Painting By Juan de Echevarría (Bilbao, Spain, 1875 - Madrid, 1931) Born in Bilbao, Spain. Dead in Madrid. Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sharp Nows

They lived and died this way
worried all the while
about living right
and terrified of dying
and yet full motions
are always only temporary.

Just like thoughts
are born and die too soon...
So they too dreamt the night away
where nobody could say
it was impossible.

Living for today, they say,
be in the moment,
where you are contained
and less than aware
of faces, that look-
like yours.



Image by Howard Pyle (1888), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Trending on Depending

The newest Nows were kept near

the generic Common Sense

but considering the recent calamities

every convenience store

is out

of stock on bare necessities,

like toiletries and these two

hot commodities that fly off shelves

frenzied with a surplus

supply, merchant diced in excess

on a roll,

around and around

with leftover Nevers

and riddled with Logos.

Image By Walker Evans, for the Farm Security Administration, taken in Alabama USA July 1936[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

All that you cannot Here

The moment had arrived.
The time was Now.
Eyes squeeze closed,
the trigger was pulled,
the knife broke flesh,
the man awoke in a sweat.
The young woman paces, patting her baby's back,
the baby hurts, nobody knows why.
The homeless one eats steaming bread in the alley smiling,
the dog barks rapidly in anxious fear,
the tiny kitten shivers, hungry and heavy
the car impacts the tree, the glass rains,
the deer scatter,
the mountain lion yawns and stretches out,
the owl daydreams.
The fish choke on fumes,
the bees swarm the carcass,
the malaria army invades the ghost town.
The business man carries confidence in his briefcase, clearly leaking vodka,
the roof leaks into buckets of song.
The sky clears in deaf innately.
The mist makes prisms disband.
The humpbacks pick up the chorus,
the child in pigtails plucks a wild daisy,
the birds steal bloody berries.
The King holds the little prince's hand,
the boy buffs a rock on his shirt for his slingshot,
the hikers reach the mountaintop before the echo,
the historic house collapses,
the family laughs to tears,
the old woman shivers, closing the blinds on her last day.
The man and woman embrace each other.
Eyes fall closed tightly loving
all ways and for ever,
Now,
a quiescence,
a soundlessness found,
any given Time
we are Here to list in.




Image by Anders Zorn, The Embrace c. 1882-83 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Ritually Custom

'Tis a sensuous tribute to Time

that we caress the Moment,

knowing it curves and gestures

that sink into warm familiar coves,

sucking in all its nectar

as newly brewed.

Again, more, and a gain!

Let us do the steps-

in orderly,

walk with me, mirroring see,

strut through it

then and again

like it is your old house.

Right now, 

exactly like it was

when you remembered what

you came here for.

Tho never was it

the same, all most

re-placed.

Like last Time

bittersweet lingers not long 

enough.

Like seasons and seconds,

more tradition and Time

to do the same.

Plump predictions and ripe fruitions

bursting with Now

smelling like Then

we recognize This

time

as the Rite Time

to harvest

a gain.

Image By Mennonite Church USA Archives (1975 St Catherines Tradition Poster) [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.