Practice: ars oblivionalis (art of forgetfulness)

Don't forget
fingers wag
feature flicks
with you
in them
Don't forget
they ask
my name
return it wrong
as though
I forgot
all along
Don't forget
the warning
lost memories
are golden
Don't forget 
about my
filtered words
trickle down
your neck
Don't forget
why
you're here
you chose
to remind
and return
the thought
I lost
but didn't
Re-remember
my name
the same.



Image of painting By Arkhip Kuindzhi (1842-1910), Moonlight Thinking (http://gallerix.ru/album/Quingy) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Counting Elephant Leap Years

That elephant over there,
kneels on the keystone,
reciting a thousand names
that run together.
Vedic sounds coated red,
through lucid mists
he said he stands
for love-
in thirty-two ways,
in twenty-nine days.

As it is customary
for February,
to drop in on dreams
and sow fertile desire
where wild light will
cast an epic tragedy.

When love grows,
that one over there named
Ganesha, strokes his rats hair
and dances on the tips
of his round toes,
spinning his chakras
and juggling icy hearts
he freezes a moment
with potential, spouting 

prisms of inertia

retracting all the
matterless time

resting on balance.

Strands of helmikuu,
pearly wisdom hung
around your neck,
possess and strangle
with the charm of love.
Toxic lust set in an 

amulet of broken trust.

Ganesha says Love 

cannot survive the possibility 

of a  moonless month.
He comes to say,
only February has space
and time to give and gets
to jump all over juxtapositions

of weight and gravitate in

centripetal passion.

Crucified by greed, 

immaterial layers; 

the rose, crystallized rocks.
His trunk is too full
to maintain refrain or 

balance on shaky propositions
only to land on sharp ultimatums.
Peircing reality, I fell hard.

I was left alone with red.
Ganesha left the room.
It was all a dream,
I saw upon waking
my blue body still aching.

I kept the pretty pearls.

Image painted by elephant in Thailand, uploaded By Deror Avi (Own work) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html), CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Feature image (top) By Udunuwara at English Wikipedia (Transferred from en.wikipedia to Commons.) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Accusations to try

I did not break in or force my way through
I did not let go
                         too early
I did not make you
                         do, say, or think maybe there is
                         more
I did not know more than you
I did not
                          do anything
About it
I did dig (in)
                          deeper than the surface layer
I did
          hang on
                          longer than I should
I did give all I had, every day
                           which was not enough
                           somedays
I did want to quit
but did not.
I did grow too fast
                             and hit my head
                             on your ceiling
I did (not do)
        all I could
to (not) deny
all that I
did
and I
did
not
do
enough
for I
before it was all
                          over
                          done and said.



Image By Arrow Films (site poster) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
                     

Dim sum theory

Since we rely on
past tenses
what sets the precedence
for our need of future sense?
Are we simply implying
some specific inevitable
consequence of
holding substance in time,
situated precisely 

where we put it?

What is the range
that our light casts
minus the projected
angle of shadow
from where you stand?

Could you confidently predict
the oncoming speed of
karmic inflation
in the reflection
or overall direction
of impending reproach?

Should one be wary
or Leavitt alone?
Most significantly,
is the aura of this
particulate curiosity
blue or beaming red?

Perhaps we pretend
its more purple or white,
illuminating opalesce.

A pearl of galaxy.
Then, postulate that the
overarching circumference
by a slice of antimatter movement
from a darkspace pin-point
to an extrapolated lightime theory
balanced even upon a string
what then?

It seems simple, really.

Symmetrically,
ones pulse increases
the closer one comes
to their relative space
and in one meteoric mortality
contains a multiverse of many
excited parallaxes on a plane.
At least, in a singular
variant, it appeared
that way,  time after time,
relative to hindsight
or about one lifeyear away.



Image By NASA, ESA and the Hubble SM4 ERO Team [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Date taken: 15 July 2009
Description: "The (above) image reveals a small region inside the massive globular cluster Omega Centauri, which boasts nearly 10 million stars. Globular clusters, ancient swarms of stars united by gravity, are almost as old as our Milky Way galaxy. The stars in Omega Centauri are between 10 billion and 12 billion years old. The cluster lies about 16 000 light-years from Earth."

Water bearer

The gargoyle has a better

vantage point,

which explains the smirk.

Tho' he'll never tell

what goes on

over our heads,

while we lie

in bed

wandering in dreams

it seems...

'Twas Medusa that said,

Look at me, wait right here for me,

I will give you eternity-

and after a while

of peering at the gargoyles smile

clear as day

the words

came dripping out,

Try

first

to be happy

as you are

just in case 

this is your final face,

and then it began

to rain again. 

Image By Patchy at de.wikipedia (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

To know and not show

I have a little crimson rage

who gathers his little demi-gods 

inciting a violent riot

assembled in order

to exact 

his welled-up wrath.

His rants and blames

sharply

backed up by 

observable trajectory

aimed and arched for the heart.

You missed you fool.

Penetrating rampage,

the bull sees red and enacts

his death charge

allegedly, no more time

to explain.

Veins bulge, blood boils, 

frothing at the surface.

The hide and skin

sizzling volcanic 

and tectonic.

Flying plates,

slamming doors, 

shattering windows,

shards skim

a schism.

Under his direction,

beneath falling debris, 

buried under all sense

of which way is up.

Ungrounded accusations,

underhanded maneuvers

defy gravity, suspended;

a salve of dali 

makes sense.

The Truth 

will always sink 

(in).

Image of drawing by By Julio Ruelas (1870 - 1907) (Mexican) (Painter, Details of artist on Google Art Project) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Glimmering See

There is something I need to say but I simply cannot seem to do more than cross out not the way to say, how to phrase a blind beacon, a muted murmur translated subject, object
to say exactly
everything together
by letters as one
Force what it is, stab at it with a pen, draw it out like language, hone out the sharpest point, push it forward like blowing your nose, or even better sneeze it
when it feels like sex
you will know you nailed it
and that is worth it
freely, better than giving up or saying shoulda, or mistaking desire for a dream and doing what one shoulda-for some one else's cause, affecting none, be cause was lost on you, charitable lending of your ear listens to the echo for future gains of generations, all ways
that is your legacy
shining star in flight
will fall silently
orchestrated in a way that you listen to every wrinkle in time waiting for your name, miss taken with the world, waiting on a line.



Image by Mikalojus Konstantinas Čiurlionis (1875-1911) SILENCE [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Poem form Haibun experiment.