Depth perception

With ten thousand neurons 

in one single suction cup 

on an octopus tentacle,

could even you imagine

what it would feel like

when touching

anything-

each other-

No contact-

like eye contact.

There may be a nest 

of tangled live wires

behind the wall

behind our masks

we are currents

of electricity.

And as the eel shocks every-

thing but itself-

we have so many blind spots 

not baited eye-

spots-as fish-

Don't you wish 

chameleon when needed to be

or to know so much

feeling

with only the lightest touch...

Photo credit: 800px-Octopus_at_Kelly_Tarlton's, October 2012 via Wikimedia Commons in Public Domain. 

What was the question?

Time, like money, isn't tangible 

Neither is love, truth and what

is real-

made up, rounded off, different

for you and I-

what is real...

And yet, some

times

are frozen or elapse slow

and many too fast to enjoy

Enough-

What about dusk-sunset 

or dawn, or the times

I look at the clock and it's the same

Times-day and night.

Well, what about a pastime or a memory,

Truth be told from one 

person in a place with

Nothing-

is real

for you-for anyone...

Do blessings count?

Photo of Woman at spinning wheel in Studeno na Blokah, Slovenia taken August 1962 in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons. 

Sense making

Some-things 
Stirring
But you cannot see It.
Less than wind
must be
that other
Dimension You
Feel but cannot
Touch.

Tension
and tingling, and tummy flips
Come from
There. You can smell
Rain
can't you?
Never-mind,
I think
I have asked before...

Painting by Alexander Helwig Wyant, 'Wind Clouds' c. 1927 via Wikimedia Commons in Public Domain.

Pro Noun

When it is said

Something told me

Something made me

I sensed something-

where is the body

of the thing

that sometimes

does not resemble

Us

Like things

that feel or don't feel

Right?

Aren't we feeling

Some

Thing...

Artwork by Robert Lewis Reid, 'The Mirror' c. 1910 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Over hear

I know it looks like
that
but things aren't always as
they appear,
Projection like protection
is from another layer,
a down souljacket, feathered
to deflect harsh elements
that pour in mammalian pores
poor us,
it is not like smell
is a choice, or to touch and not
feel they all are
trying to seem and seeming to try
but not really
the application of.
Polished is not
unblemished but accented
by the distinct lilt of singed seals
in the air, where a voice trembles
as it is shattering the still morning air
by spidering the panes at connecting
angles, a jade of view
wearing purple dawn under 

muffling mists.
What to where,
is unpredictable
with wisdom or sense,
like accessory,
essentially we look away
and close our ears
to shelter the self
under the breath.





Painting by Eugene de Blaas (1843-1941), 'The Eavesdropper' in [Public domain].

A sense of place

There was this song I have never heard
but its rhythms told my body that we've danced before.

In the yellow sunrise, the old farmhouse glows
like a candle in the road and looks as though I've lived there before.
The side door, if I remember, is unlocked.

The old woman that peddles vegetables every day in her blue bin on a bicycle,
I've never seen her before, but I bought some more Romas anyway.

Tulips in the garden are breaking their silence, like the mockingbird
the chorus, the words, I've heard anteriorly in this same spot before.

I thought by now I'd be pining for the giant hewn tree,
the shade it once made-but the roses are blooming,
and I'm left feeling stumped.
The grass is greener.

The new postman, who sometimes rings twice
because he forgets where he is at,
delivered a package for me down the street.
A neighbor I had never met brought it over to me,
like long lost friends, it was good to see both of them.

At home, I have house-guests
I rarely see.
Teenagers, some call them.
Outside, I feel out of place.
Inside, I feel too big in my own space.
Today, I picked up a peculiar novel
idea, and went with it.





Image By Yinan Chen (www.goodfreephotos.com (gallery, image)) [Public Domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

9 Lives

The cats that have made my home theirs,
the same two cats that don’t get along,
the un-partners in feline crime,
Smokey & the Bandit, ogle me-eerily
I feel this, but they
look away when I return the long glances.
And I feel fine-but there is a chance,
most likely greater than one out of nine,
that they see more than me.

Two gather a world

They were sloppy and all over the place

But you said they were neat and saw where they were going

Instead of seeing white as work to do,

You saw the space as everything

in a corner of infinite potential

You saw the all books pile up you cared not to read,

you knew there were poems being written you wouldn’t like,

but listened to all the summaries intently

as though these beamings held up the roof.

Needing you to say, I like this view, you did.

And on the Future we stood atop,

not under, Trust

and knew it to be seaworthy,

come a flood,

having sailed and proven so

in worse storms than before.

This is why they call ships She

sails catching wind, why the butterfly

has nothing better to do but change into more,

We can pitch caution

And roll on, we were on track ,

you said this time

let us be wreckless and lucky

like you little lady. 

Painting by Arnold Böcklin, Villa by the Sea (c. 1871-1874) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

You for ick & X-Stacy

Tantalize me, blind me
with only the very tip
of touch
by bare skin, finger-
tip and thirsting tongue
piquancy tastes of infusion
and shutterless delusions

Sip and savor
thick honeyed pleasure
open viscous and slow,
collecting each drop contains
seven heavens
in one sin

Shall we begin
by a scent
magnet eyes,
enrapt by craving
connection, in conductive curiosity
never killed the unseen energy
crackling its static ring
of five
alive
ones

And generosity
left to ecstasy
takes lying down
where I would
see
in twice meant
lurid along making life lines
by hand.



Drawing by By Toulouse-Lautrec, Henri de (Unknown) c. 1896 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

(in)Tuit

The silent one knowing,
failing how to say
without both saying
and knowing wrong.

Is indignified by others,
esteemed by self-sufficiency
and exhibits a corresponding
lack of regard.

Not you.

It was another time,
and always the same
we made more than may be
handled, physically, intrinsically-

Innate to few, too few,
find efficiency fair enough
or judicious for All
intents and purposes.

Say nothing (more).




Photo (held) By Smithsonian Institution [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Doris Caesar, American Sculptor. Description from Wiki "Doris Caesar sculpted expressionist figures of women, religious figures and flowers. She used distortion and an emotional, loose style in which the unsmoothed thumb marks in the clay remained as a textural element in the finished bronze pieces. Over time, her style developed to be more smooth-surfaced. She was also a prolific writer publishing "Phantom Thoughts" in 1933 and "Certain Paths" in 1935."

Noon at the lagoon

I tried to walk it off
                               (instead of keeping me in)
                             heading afoot toward the lagoon
                                     (a Tuesday at noon)
For peace sake,
                        with the marine layer pushed back
                            convinced, I headed onshore
                        (at times against the salty breeze)
Attacking it sideways
                       and I knew my grandfather would have said
                                              Invictus-perhaps
                                                  (I plod on)
Not exercising, I stood out,
                         with my pedestrian thoughts
                                       (aimless wandering)
                             but I find sense sometimes...
At the lagoon, bright blue-green
                          speckled with orange
                          Garibaldi all along the riff-raff
Ah-the smell! Simply incredible, soulfully edible,
                         (through rose colored glasses)
                                        savory and savoring the solitude...
And I did find what I was not looking for-
                                        On cue-loudly from the rocks below
                                        a ground squirrel stood chirping, erect,
                                        ear piercing, his body jolting- he sung
                                        (bellowing for none)
Happy with his little self,
                                         a lone mammal on the precipice
                                         squawking on a Tuesday
because he had something good to say,
in a barking beechey marmot way.
                                          I think he said I should stop
                                          (chip) monking-around
                                          I heard him, loud and clear.

Winning the Lottery

Wealth is having more than you need.
I, too, am guilty of this.
I must confess,
I have laundered some change,
this week.
The same exact six cents
I keep finding in different denim jeans.
And when I think about it,
having an extra six
sense-may not be worth anything
solid, except an extra thought-
that buys a cents of monetary health.





Image By Elembis (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Nowhere near

Sometimes I catch a glimpse
but it vaporizes before I can show
or understand
what I am seeing
And then I know, with certainty
what shall not be muttered
tastes much sweeter.

I muse on such savory moments
when I know I see
but cannot show
licking lips, in a daze

These are not secrets, No!
There for All to notice
particularly
some note just for You

Alone with these notions
all absorbed in Nothing
I present Myself
Outside
sensing atmosphere
Playing the game of

“I was Here.”

Image of painting by Arthur Wesley Dow [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, The Derelict(Lost Boat), 1916.