Size Matters

How big is an idea?

People have said the internet was HUGE-

I haven’t seen it

with my own eyes, it could be all lies

like conspiracy and particle theories.

I know some HOPES are grander than others.

And I’ve carried some burdens bigger than a bus-

but I think that most people care less

about microscopic entities that they cannot see

or things that happen too slowly…

Have you ever stood

barefoot in the shoreline

Feet in the foam? If so, you know,

water always wins The Sands of Time.

Teamed together they make us pearls

of wisdom, bioluminescence,

a light within that begins

when one Believes

without sight

a tiny wish, a photon, a want to

that turns with light into a neutrino

that gets excited and becomes an electron

before any quarks form.

I think ideas matter,

stemming from a soft grey area...

And then there was light!

And then Atom,

and then we gain momentum,

molecule by molecule,

we are busy making molehills.

So blood is thicker than water,

and the homo sapiens denser than air-

I swear I saw a flying fear,

and my dear

it was GARGANTUAN!

Just like that GIANT ego, those

greenish, meanish miasmas

that all seem and smell the same.

So many slippery minuscule ideas,

evaporating into invisible shame,

hoping to erase your name

in the sand, 

eroding where you think 

you stand.

Image of Sea Wall at Bald Head Cliff, York, Maine 1901, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Innate Instability

Madness is

hearing voices.
No, that was my conscience.
Madness is
multiple personalities.
No, I am a caretaker, a writer, a witness in one.
Madness is;
Deep Depression, Soaring Elation, Paralyzing Fear, Boundless Joy.
No, this is the ride we're on.
Madness is
germaphobes and hypochondriacs.
No, there's a pill for that.
Madness is
the noise outside, the silence inside.
No, these are creature comforts.
Madness is
learning and forgetting.
No, practice is process on repeat.
Madness must get easier.
Madness is mostly
living on language.
No, that is poetry.
Madness is
intimately knowing death
while casually living life.
Madness is
arguing with ones self,
And now I'm Mad.

“I'd rather have a free bottle in front of me than a prefrontal lobotomy.”-Tom Waits

Image of painting by Hieronymus Bosch (circa 1450–1516) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Queen of Quirk

You are wise

it is said

better at analogy

You are tender

to all others

rubbed raw inside

You are smart

sometimes it hurts

with knowing

You are creative

making messes into

unfinished mosaics

You are so shy

paranoid of persona

better to be banished

You are pretty

much a pansy on a pedestal

dropping in the hot sun

You are so thoughtful

there's no more room

for empty things

You are nothing special

You are something else

You are finding yourself

lost in the crowd.

Image(s) by Russell Lee [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Crowley beauty pageant October 1938. 

Balancing Banality

It's too early. Only 3:20.

Now I'm late, it's already 4:18. Up. Slippers, blanket, shivers me limber.

Coffee on, kitchen-sink light, electric fireplace on, computer, charge phone, let Smokey in, let Bandit out.

Log in, open tabs, feed cats, get coffee, stir, sip, must pee, wash hands-warm...

Go through stacks on desk, left to right, read, reply, read, save, share, send, read, post, drink coffee.

All done, next?

For daughter waking up, more lights on, TV, News on, make more coffee, write, watch, read.

Poetry, philosophy, physics.

Stop. Take daughter to school. Thoughts…

Kiss. Goodluck on your test! Rah, rah!

More thoughts.

Done? Home? Yes. Next.

Take shower-towel-smells moldy. Hot water hits head, goosebumps.

Get ideas-hurry, hurry, hurry!

Warm soapy shave in fast strokes, lather, rinse, rinse, rinse.

Hurry...what was it...down the drain-

Next. Clothes.

What do I want to look like today? Someone else, for sure.

Preening Takes Way Too Loooonnngg!

Done getting ready for nothing. Next?

Shoot, chores first. Head down. Sleeves up.

Laundry, dishes, straighten, sweep, trash out, beds...8:17. What's for dinner tonight?

Do crossword puzzle, drink green juice. Nourished. Done. Next.

Shoot, where was I? Who was I working on?

Learn, learn, learn. Write, write, write, there-right there

I am, somewhere

aware.

Nope, Stop. Drop it. Head Down.

Pick up daughter, lend her my ears, shoulder, back.

Stroke pretty little fragile ego. All better.

Done. Home? Already? Okay. Next.

More laundry, more dishes, check the mail, bills, bills, bills.

More coffee. Read. Write. Read.

Interruptions-water plants.Done. Next?

Dinner, studying, Jeopardy, read. Think that I should be writing.

Read in bed. Still think that I should be writing.

It's too late. Read.

Escape, wander free!

Oh! There's me-right before I sleep, a peak, the top of

higher consciousness

falls back into the deep...almost

Done for the day

until the next

thing I get to

do over and over

and over until it's all over.

Unless

I look Up and find

it's a brand new day, never

Done before...

but will I notice?

Image By Marc Stone [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, 1939.

Finding your voice

I've seen it before and

after all,

it only happened once

upon a time well

spent, broke, long ago back

then when 

ever you were told

to speak

easy, think twice before

crossing the line

drive thru and through

a glass looking eye

lid, keep it on, preserves

or jam, like free-style and ad-

liberty to justice for

some reason

a cause and effect of

listening between the 

sheets, three to the wind

and rain and rapt on window

panes in the

riddle me this

one time, one point

bullet in the chamber

hallways that lead

by example how to

do it yourself, dependent free

will to say

what you mean 

and nasty and quick

like, Its My Life

or Death Wish.

Image of painting by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Veronica Veronese, 1872 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. "Se penchant vivement, la Veronica jeta les premières notes sur la feuille vierge. Ensuite elle prit l'archet du violon pour réaliser son rêve; mais avant de décrocher l'instrument suspendu, elle resta quelques instants immobile en écoutant l'oiseau inspirateur, pendant que sa main gauche errait sur les cordes cherchant le motif suprême encore eloigné. C'était le mariage des voix de la nature et de l'âme—l'aube d'une création mystique. / Lettres de Girolamo Ridolfi

[Suddenly leaning forward, the Lady Veronica rapidly wrote the first notes on the virgin page. Then she took the bow of the violin to make her dream reality; but before commencing to play the instrument hanging from her hand, she remained quiet a few moments, listening to the inspiring bird, while her left hand strayed over the strings searching for the supreme melody, still elusive. It was the marriage of the voices of nature and the soul—the dawn of a mystic creation.]"

Panthera poema

Crouching in the shadows

its form blends into the pitch.

Pads perching on pillows,

lightly as an idea as not

to break a thought...

Whose scent fills in the breathing air,

sourcelessly seeping like smoke

with out fire. The spilt perfume vial,

wafting with ripe open stamen

acid breeze that chills your nape.

Of carnal mists and earth dusts,

pores choking on essence

smoking roar that singes

leaves, flashing green torches

smoldering for three days-be four-

Envy eyes curious to find

fresh tracks laid and lining

the way to walk without a 

sound, reason. Knowing 

you know it's there.

Indivisible pre-occupation with you,

incensed and bemused by notions

elusive to all traps set, over-gliding

to terminal reality

true never twice.

I prey the stalking, we share,

means we smell the same.

Image by Singer Ron U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

“...understand the nature of that illustrious vernacular that Dante claims to be tracking down like a perfumed panther, 'whose scent is everywhere but which is nowhere to be seen.' (DVE I, xvi, 1).”**-Umberto Eco (From the Tree to the Labyrinth, p 297, Harvard University Press, 2014).

** “It was thought in the Middle ages that the panther had a richly perfumed breath and left a trace of its passage wherever it had been. But, for the hunters who attempted to trap it, it was practically impossible to locate. So they would smell its perfume but never success in catching it. This explains how the panther became a metaphor for poetry itself.”-Umberto Eco

Close your eyes and blow

Close your eyes and blow

Your wish is my command
The voice would
Beam.
Thy Will Be Done-
would be added
for reassurance and
-brace yourself-here is where
CHANCE (in mighty fine print)
stands
smalland(wedged)
b/w Now and When
what you want(ed)
blows up
to the surface, swerving
amongst chandelier blades
whipping cream
making a breeze
Come and Go around again,
Like karmatic vengance which has
been like you, doing like that
never this now
never this same alike (and again)
selfsame
as wishing thy will
Be come
some one
over there
who Will want
every thing you have
right Now-
for wishes, all ways
(taken for)

granted.

Image by Marjory Collins of Dionne quintuplets, 1940 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.