Still

Still life was a blur

<the streets were still at 3 AM>

whist was little wind

caught calm

in a difference between light

and the eye-

still and coming steady,

yet unsettled between a particle or a point.

Line like a wave, bent along the way

solutions becalm the whitened caps,

allay this urgent need to re-

tranquilize together

and sync without dupes,

to parse with perfection

connections hang on,

to now, never was,

still.

Toward or away,

It fades

once death has taken shape

of a relative theory explaining

why you are 

still

here 

noticing the calm collected

as a safe place.


Painting by Vincent van Gogh, Still life with Quinces (1887-1888) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

(forever) Haiku

particle & wave
Light like Love; impossible
to keep-in one place...


Painting by John William Godward [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

What goes up?

In response: it is unpredictable
Whose to say-
They know-
As though tempted to laugh aloud
in the face of morose climes, and
inhale all, indiscriminately.
Felt a scream well up,
savored its aftertaste like a wave
wash over.
Neutralized and
thought long about taking a trip
anywhere away without aim
now
the timing is never right.

What's wrong?
They say that's not like you-
And it is positively not attractive-
you couldn't agree more.
As a tiny and compliant
particle of the whole
that changes matters,
reactively
by the slightest exposure
to radiant negative energy
and bursts into nothing again.
You'll see,
it always works out in the end.







Image credit via Wikipedia, postcard series, The Dream of Flight.

Feather Duster

A collective flux of humanity
each a mote point, asserting non-space,
and carried into the strongest current, alone
only to settle,
scatter the matter
atop the surface only to
corrupt the reflection.

Iotas of equality, wanton of will
in this form invisible, divisible
and particularly unattached

loosely liberated from titles.

Breaking fields, bumping along,
cluttering the reception, static
speckled somewhere, between angled
pieces of we, as ashen air,

suspended and taut the heaviest,
scattering a smattering
of our particulate atmosphere turn
back into stardust, visible vapors
 rain in shafts, even when we cannot see,

which is why
dust lingers here at high noon,

mocking notions of clean.

Image by By Dana Berry/NASA [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Black hole devours neutron star, taken 7/21/2013.