Synchronized subsistence

How the greatest life

can only be attained

by the destruction 

of previous lives 

re-positioning, per se.

Nothing is unchanged

by time moving 

so fast we cannot feel

where momentum 

begins and ends

And again

that wonderful life

felt slow

in coming and

so fast in passing

All at the same time.

Painting by Edgar Degas 'Four Dancers' c. 1899 _Google_Art_Project via Wikimedia Commons in Public Domain.

As the crow flies

On still days

with drooping flags

and contented leaves

Sounds somehow soaked in

between the crevices

of broad daylight

I sit as still as my body

Allows

shuffling feathers

a crow passes by 

my hair

Lifts

and the clouds tip-toe 

Along the rounded horizon 

I don't see any

Evidence of spin

and even while held down 

in place and time

I feel the thousand 

mile-per-hour trajectory

Of every thing 

and cannot help

but try to follow

Which way

it all goes.

Painting by Akseli Gallen-Kallela, ' Boy and a crow' c. 1884 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Found art

Another day rolls by
                             and I
along with it
                             incubate.

I try
to focus
on a
single
spoke
           in the blur of spin
one catches
                    light,
and squeezes
it
into
sound
            high above
the audible range
            one carries a note,
and belts out
                      lashing with it,
create, wait, create, wait, create, wait
                      bare-backed
swinging both ways,

naturally
and only
                     through the gait
                     known distinctly
as your
body
and work
as an address.
                     
A watch swings alongside
reminding me of the beat.

It is time to hibernate.

I count the cat's eyes
           staggered and lining up
in the middle of the street
until the glare
broke
into poetic little pieces
like litter.





Artwork by Robert Delaunay [Public domain], 'The Tower and the Wheel' c. 1912-1913, located in the Museum of Modern Art.

Light-years

The mid-September moon
rests its heavyset bulb over in the West,
while the new days sun
stirs behind the
Eastern shoulders.

The sky mixed the lights
just so-

-no conclusions could be made
mid-stroke.

What feels inexplicably
right about certain alignments
gives us false hope
that the observer ultimately
affects changes.

There is more in a moment
to grasp
than our primal hands
can hold onto.

The season changes
its mind-
even if,
the movements
were always the same

-the differences became too small
to notice
the rate of spin
unravels
in astronomical units.


Painting by George Hemming Mason, 'Harvest Moon' , c.1872.

In other wor(l)ds

A new day called my name in the mouth of the mockingbird.
In the bullseye of the black widows web,
light is caught in crystal sections
as it tends to happen-sometimes
we don’t hear these things or fail to notice
where chimes and footsteps flail in midair

we were suspended there.

I proceed to contemplate the unwinding of
allotted time, in all its shrinkage and compression
I stuff what I can in my pockets
and balance my left foot precariously
upon the nearest dark cloud that appears
solid enough to leverage my being upon
while I levitate upon
accumulation.

At least, in this way,
the sacrifices won't seem so removed and far
fetched, as stars for life cluster with emission,
timing is everything
and nothing.
The silence can become crippling with
such volume of errant data,
unsynchronised heart beatings
in unison making static lines blur.

Meanwhile, the earth rolls inside of its shell
as if there were nothing to see here
in Turtle Town.
No lingering, loitering, savoring, reminiscing,
embellishing-
making no more mention of
names of things.

The best of it is yet to be made our own.
I take in the wind, I take notes
as I go
this way-paraphrased-what is said sounds familiar
as if we have heard it all before this way
our re-membership lapsed into disparate sounds
it sounded like a name.



Photo By Claudio Giovenzana (Claudio Giovenzana www.longwalk.it) [CC BY-SA 3.0 or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Quicksand in the hourglass

Turned overnight into the shadow,
an ominous space easily overlooked-

devoid of light in this dire dilemma
of grasping at grains, starlit seeds of time,

accepting these days that display
traces of altered spin-
and small places
for sin.

Take out the woven-store the sheer.
Year after year, resort
the bookshelves
by ilk
and most pointed dagger,

Titles,
those names mean nothing
-Placeholders-
arm your selves
about the fire and ice, in these
extremities, inside and isolated,
the glass steams up,
the walls smolder around the skins,

and the colder they get,
the deeper they sink
into the thickest of thoughts.

Tucked in this virtuous blackness,
the rest had no peace,

and the sand moved slowly
towards what could only be hours.



Painting by Sebastiano Ricci, c. 1706 in [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Two ships atop the sea

Far is relative to center

the mid-hole

from which we pivot

against the magnet that repels us.

Hang on-

filaments frayed figure eights,

the vapor traced apparitions

by degrees, the skin tightens.

Drawn toward

warm is closing in on sought,

locating by looking, two palms burn

like wicks awash in golden light.

Where were we? Trajectory fell

plane flat, or rock bottoms held on,

we know what happens

when we touch the spinning Top. 

Painting by Émile Vernon [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Choral motes

Doomed to repeat,

Implies inherent circularity,

As if our orbit

Could interrupt

With just knowing the segments

Of hilarity,

Propulsion just doesn’t work that way.

In microcosmic scales

Up and down, within spins

All is held together

By this

Revolution

From cloth to cloud,

White was ideal as open, pure,

And alone

The maker makes more mess,

The observers became obsolete,

And cursed the eternal stream

Of colorists, art and first impressions

And one was moved

Spun around again,

Up and down

Came together

As if they must.


Drawing (lithograph) By Odilon Redon (France, Bordeaux, 1840-1916) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

When in Still(ness)...

They also called it an Empire,

and it was empirical by nature, 

such vast open space.

Larger than life, holier than thou, cliché ridden and

doctrine infested-martyred and named Rome.

But what else could they do

but try to live most-ly

in the little time they lived,

in their little worlds they called homes

making cities, breeding atrocities, too close to comfort

any one or another.

Some chose other-wise;

the exile, the recluse, the slave

those submitting to suicide,

and Then death was revered, a danse macabre.  

Otherwise, it all seems similar-ly

tied to one another by Now and Then.

A full revolution must be given time

to come full circle. Whose to say we could see it move

around so little.

Anyway, it could happen again.

And it could be that we, lately,

have been simply spinning much faster

From the top

All looks still…

There-

The people were all in tumultuous states

of vertigo-

But none said a thing to one another.

Watch they way they talk-

It was all in circles;

Copernicus to Dante, Socrates and the wheel,

and assorted likewise misappropriated

little narratives.

Later on, we read about the fall of Rome,

too easily condemning this ignorance

of inertia, or how our standing under

the weight of air, held us down

to inevitable endings with variable speeds.

It is hard to hear the words Here

with all the rubble in between the teeth

and wind inside the ears,

or see how much time can change so little.

Here we are,hoping the All’s wishing well has an end

in good being, every thing-

although at times

it feels as though we were falling

a little faster

but we could not know

having never felt vertigo.  

Painting by Josephus Laurentius Dyckmans (1845) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The top spins on top of the world

It was always about time and place.
One Geologic Positioning Series

Stay still, finding location.

The matter remained
evidently encapsulated
for posterity or hermetically.

You see,
May you live in an interesting time,
is said
in jest.

Though, making it so
makes it so
living our story this way,

nowadays
it is done
this way.

Eventually folding our pages back
into strata and pulp layers
kneading condensation
to make sense in story
smell right.

It was from the East,
the scent carried, the wind
was metallic and heavy with
dry pollen.

We can hope this time
the butterfly will navigate
independently.

It seems lately
the bees hear first
and respond quickly,

making honey with
putrescence
in time for another
Revolution.


Image of  (sketch) The color top, 1877 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Luciferins

Burst babies
thought Up
by condensed concentration
Stardust dynamo
make more meaning
while you're Out there
Gold has become worthless...

What will we inherit
or will we let it rest,
and settle Down
under pressure
pushing and pulling at the same time
is nothing,
stretching and squeezing time,
we do this,
pliably trapped inside a movement

We float-we spin-we suspend
judgement-no-Light-
weight-less
we wait until it works out

a match made in phosphorescent phantasie
we are dynamic
charismatic we create
we panic
knowing
THIS


Artwork by Mihály Zichy [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Revelations

Some days
                  I see everything
just
                  as it should be
Grateful that the sun blazes
                 safely so far away
Lucky that the moon is so close by
                 and I still cannot feel
my own heart beat
                 or sense the spin,
a feeling of reeling along
at more than fourteen miles
                                   per minute
still.

How far
                I've come and gone
making a present of the past
pulled into others gravity
and laced in fine ribbons
                of harmony.


Most days
it seems blinking and breath
                                  proceed without
preference-
                                  all the same
never was needed nor noticed
how it all blends together
                                 by degrees
always perfection
                                 in reflection
just
Today
I said
It has never been Up to blue,
It was
Always red.





Painting By Otto Freundlich [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Earth in equipoise

Home,
the word hums
and soothes in smooth repose,
perpetually proves, be-
longing, to know hospitable
conditions are predictable.

We hold these truths
in suspension,
taut in timely tension,
grounded in granite,
equating gravity
with magnanimous motive.

She spins out
like a top
to a point
where sound and light
are white
in stasis
harm-ony
equate-or
aligned in orbital
epi-phany.
Home.


Image taken By NASA/Scott Kelly from ISS 7/19/2015, Moon, Venus, Jupiter, Earth [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Spin

According to the variables,
the rules were elongated.
Black time flowed fast
on an interrupted smooth plane.
There were too many similar pieces
in play and the moved spaces
never progressed wayward
along the spherical borderline
overlapping soul and self,
Venn inside, categorically
trapped, unable to trace the way
to break the line that labels, rates
and places apart flat out
otherness, the other coin side
limited by a the double dimension
of peopled perception, angle of the arc
along the rim of the never ending
line that flows back into itself.
It's your turn to spin.