The early bird on the horizon line

A line
           is thrown out...there
A line is
           connection of the dots
           summarized by stretching spheres
lined up
like ducks
cluck clucking
in a row
Row,
row your boat by
                            parallel plotter
                                                   navigating the stream
                                                 
Tow the line
                    holding by a lifeline
                                                    hiking the EKG
Wait
        in line
wait for it
               carried down the line
               a vibration
               a sensation
                                 The Ripple-
                                    -r-i-p-p-l-e-
                                         effect
a lure lingers on the line
                                  barbed edges await
                                                                 an inevitable lineal fate
a direction
                 to take
                 to make
out side the lines
                            a circle of infinity
keeps out
               traps in, depending on where you begin
a snap is shot,
                     tracing the trajectory
                                                     tightening the arrow
in array
A line
          a single point of origin
                                              genetically tangled
entwined in limpid lineage
by dates and fates
                             times arrow
                                               on a string
A line we follow to the T
A line we cannot see
A line we fall for
hook
line
and
sinker
The line is cast
we are the worm.



Image by William Blake [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, from Jerusalem-Plate 78.
                                 

Half the battle

I know
we know more
than we know we know

I know
knowledge is power
when acknowledging our weaknesses

I know
to not know
is knowing more than nothing

Nobody knows
the potential possible
when getting to know someone

Nobody knows
all there is
to know about anything

Ever

Nobody knows
what you know
I know
you
never
know

I don't know
anybody
like
I know
you.



Image of painting by By John Henry Henshall, Thoughts, 1883[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

i contact

i want to be alone with you,
she said
her lips were puckered
but she made no sound.

It has been
so long
since you're looked me in the eyes
and meant it.

You've changed
is it Time

What has come
between us,

she said touching the icy mirror.




Image of portrait (color plate) By George Eastman House from Rochester, NY, United States [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

What may be

We learn what
maybe means early
an intro to possibility
when taught to ask if we may
and not if we can.

We meet our will
timidly at first
with a
might

Maybe hovers between
Yes and No
not asking for direction
but offering two views
if you can conceive
per chance
each opportunity
is another
may be

Mightn't maybe
lean a little
towards
sometimes
now and again
in between was and is
are and am
evermore and anon
what may be

No, not now.
Maybe
Later the chance passed
Some time
asking is the action
moving from may and will
be
willing to move
inside the ing
of Being
just maybe.

“We know what we are, but know not what we may be.” William Shakespeare

Image By Theodor von Holst (http://www.rossettiarchive.org/docs/op77.rap.html) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sweltering in suburbia

He is winding his cobra hose
into a giant pot
it knows the way
and conforms to its coiled state

He checks his wrist
as the Cross's sprinklers cough and sputter
erupting in four corner rainbows
just for the latch key cat to see

Beads of sweat match the dew
as he knits his brow

She buses the kitchen
tidies and tucks, neatens and preens
applies her costume makeup
before choking herself with cultured pearls

She grabs the knife noting the missing
empty vase, with a handheld guillotine
poppy heads will roll, the daisies do nothing
and the hydrangea trembled in sweet defeat

Her paper mache skin tears on a thorn
nearby, she sucks up her own sap

Somewhere a horn blares
two trumpets picks up the pace,
accordions shuffle along
a guiatrrón leads the falsetto

Her heels dig into the Bermuda sod
as the peeks through the fence, tipping her toes.
An entire expanse of brown earth contrasts
the blue-white linen in milk chocolate hands.

The thick brick woman on the other side
pins and shuffles along a line, barefoot
a little dog prances and pops at her feet
carne roasting wafts in the wimpy wind

As she moves along, some are dry already
pressed and flat, stiff without starch
same as paper doll clothes with foldover tabs
her yellow tooth sweat stains circle her silk pits

Night and day
they do not say
or share a word

Next door
the paint has given up on its tone
the grass doesn't bear fruit, or wishes
laundry is pressing itself in midair

The Senorita hums and smiles blindly
Blanca sighs and tries being kindly
An alien in her own skin
not knowing how to begin
a new accord.

Escaping from the scalding sun,
Blanca goes back inside to hide
The Senorita stays 'til done
her side wafts with pride.

“El que más temprano se moja, más tiempo tiene para secarse.”

He who gets wet earliest has the most time to dry.

Image of painting by William Aiken Walker (1839-1921) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A poem weaves to night

There was a little poem
who lived in the Land of Language.
He went about his daily deeds and duties,
somewhat similar to yours and mine
as makers of our days and ways,
in pursuit of a perfect pleasure craft.

The little poem moved along,
one step at a time,
like you and I,
but on legs of eight,
which Occidentally caught the light,
sometimes,
like lines
(except not an octet).

He worked alone and in the dark,
the little poems eyes adjusted and accustomed
this way, preferring this process,
hiding himself during the day when others are out and about
and get in his way, breaking the connections-
concentration of the grand design in his mind.

Relentless still,
the little poem weaved his words all night,
starting over, adding on, redesigning
his cozy mental matrix
made for suicide moths drawn to
the light.
Blinded with sight,
blocking out the newest sign
a reinvented lyric, a trap in translation.

Lost in Confusion,
stalled and flailing-
signals are sent, along these lines,
the little poem reads the notes,
gathers and wraps more than needed
the little poem stashes his words
for other webs to weave
spinning their marrow
for a tomorrow
he never saw.


Image By: Luc Viatour [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html), CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/) or CC BY-SA 2.5-2.0-1.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5-2.0-1.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Taking in the Aether & the Higgs Ocean view

You see
             the problem is:
I need someone to help me figure out-
or to talk to,
theoretically,
hypothetically
(poetically)
I muse
in a place
I cannot quite describe
I will not come near
being able to show you
the particles
flying and suspended
suffocating the air with the dots
of the question mark,
Specks
they're sometimes called

I see them flying in the air
suffocating and thick against each other
compelled, repelled, forced and willing
mixing cosmic stew, stars colliding
thick with dark matter
Sometimes
I could choke
on the chunks of thick loneliness
attractive pollution, vaporous resolution
the pressure we place
on a black hole, I feel
                                    my heart exploding
in symmetry                with infinity

You see
these words
this world
-what's the matter?
the anti-matter and all that allusion
the illusion said of what should
particularly
not see

I feel them touching me
like gravity-a weak force
but you're not floating away
                                             from me yet
                                                                 just expanding your magnitude
So how do I show
that I know
                  the connection-in reflection-
the theories of strings beyond beings
staff that carry the notes
                                      that fall on deaf ears
like blind stars
like us
who would rather
Not see
the day come of the dying sun
with no one
to talk to
but someone not looking
and
saw it too.


Image By NASA [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Image taken by ROSAT shows confined hot gas captured via X-ray providing evidence that the gravity exerted in groups and clusters of galaxies is attributed to dark matter.