Under the see

Here, you in the middle.

Music in dancing smoke.

Dense vaporous heat wrapped in red

ripples and shards carry and throw

light bent, fractured panes

strewn before open eyes

widely receptive, a hungry glint

absorbing the whole shaft.

Do not speak of experience

like goosebumps and coincidence,

deja vu and waking dreams worn

on this path. You picked the way

reflected back in pouring pail eyes to

spinning sapphire seas stuck inside your inertial feeling.

You cannot tell

of the way the moon

holds onto you in the crook

of its long arm showing you more.

Or how the sun

seduces you under its warm endless well

of desire to strip you down, and suck you up.

Do not try to repeat what was implied

in the language

of hummingbirds that hover,

of cats that crowd around you,

of swaddled babes enrapt,

of elderly enduring and shaking

off your ghosts.

You stood under all too well. Father time and Mother earth,

hospitable surrogates serving

senseless, undecipherable epiphanies.

You see.

Image of painting by By William Savage Cooper, Phantasy c.1896 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Oversight Counsel

Excuse me-
have you seen my epiphany?
It was about yay high-
pretty round-ish
with flecks in the middle?
Someone said it should be
passing through here around noon-
but I did not catch the Time Zone
I am in.

I am scanning the
event horizon
to spot that little anomaly-
sometimes it looks like an arrow
but most often it
blends in with the background.

It is reckless to lose ideas, I know,
someone else could pick one up
polish it, call it a gem,
and get carried away with it
along some locomotive lines,
who knows
where they’d end up.

This one ran away from me.
Negligence, yes.
I wasn't looking-
forgot to pay attention-
to all those stolen seconds
I took for granted, as though
they were lukewarm and left over.
I understand why I left me too.

If you see anything
that resembles nonsense
it was mine.

Composed 1/4/16.


Image By Creator:Eugeniusz Ludwik Dąbrowa-Dąbrowski (cyfrowe.mnw.art.pl) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Fact checking poetry

As a matter of fact

you are on to something.

The fact of the matter

is something is amiss.

Is it in the hypothesis?

No-positively not.

Ninety-nine times out of a hundred

or ten times in a thou-

what does it really matter?

We miscalculated the value,

somewhere-

the watch ran away with the moon-

explained in this extrapolated theory

that the influx of  people penning

poetry is directly related to

the fast fading of fact, in fact,

the disappearing of deceptions by

professional misconception has

unveiled the real knowns and 

now no one really knows.

Yet, the fact remains,

after all accounts have been accumulated,

matters like these have become buried

in crypts called His Story.

Cold and dormant, leaves upon layers,

monotonous markers

building, folding and compressing, 

finally, erupting with sulfuric poetry. 

Image by By Vihljun (Own work) Sakhalin Volcano mud 6/2010 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Diluted Theories

It began with a wave

the First

to lap its raspy tongue on the shore.

The wave was a force.

Invisible dynamic energy.

The wave carried fields and lengths of Time.

Duration plus location,

across distances of open

impetus

or seize to be

and cease to be

settled at any place on the horizon.

Re-conceptualized as

the First notion

that there was more than 

the ocean can explain

than can Be

contained in a grain of sand

just like all the rest

folded back in

to tide and time.

Lost to see…

Composed on 1/4/16

Image by Gustave Courbet [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

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.

The sound of falling stars

How does happenstance

happenever?

Does the light fall

thru (by accident)

or intrude only where

there are openings?

Even chance

offers probabilities, (unless) useless,

I guess, all is risk

(in)sound(less)ness

listening for a serenade

out There, 

in the near future called

Hope or Wishupon.

After all,

whose to say it

(was) all was lined up 

that way,

and this was going (all) ways

going to (all) happen

any (which) way

the circumstance of chance

happens

to 

fall

up

on

us
?

Image By NASA/Bill Ingalls [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Perseid Meteor shower 8/2015.

In the Zone (everything flows)

We have been put in our place “Now”

some feel trapped “Here” -in this dimension sandwich-
Between the roof-sphere-sky-bread
the floor-terra-granite-salt-meat.

Chin up, wi-fi buzzes
humming high-pitched all ways
electric energy
flows
Every Where
we insist on Being.

It originates and stimulates
somewhere
too far to hear
below
the lines,

of sedimentary sheets
compressed in ambient ambivalence
resting in a peace of a kind,
we minded and kept in our place,

like calm, comfortable creatures, calculating:

Where is “Here”
No Time like “Now”

with or without Us
life flows
with no End (in-sight).

Image By NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Atmosphere of exoplanet taken Dec. 2013.