Nocturnal trees

See these
These are nocturnal trees.
Smell them.
Smell them
in deeply. Take thier scent away. With you.
They are not disturbed easily.
They are the kind
with night vision
in tones of chlorophyll

if you trust inklings, as in sense,
hints like notes of new saplings, young.

And it is simply our symbiotic nature,
a pair, apparently, a part.
These people.
These trees.
The leaves.
Branches, hands, bark
wave with symmetrical measures.

They, they, all day,
stealing each others breath away
naturally. Dancing. Aglow in green envy.
Tiny white feathers fly
the falcon feasts naturally
the tree is happy to night.



Painting by Caspar David Friedrich, c. 1819, Two men contemplating the moon, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Our Age has a certain ring to it

Your age is present-

ly showing. As we read the lines etched on your face,

Together, the watch wears a mask on your wrist

with an arrow of fate counting on you.

Anatomical karma

chimes in-time for more (chloro)phyll

istine alkaline intake.

It is high time

that the phylogenetic tree be pruned back-

wards, like a dying star, making space

anthrop(omorph)ic

by its fingerprint rings, and sings itself historically

metaphorically

birefringent.

And yes, we’ve known about all the ages for-ages

and have own our roots deep down,

fracking about, stacking our (una)wares,

and we keep coming back to the source,

of course, to the fruits and the

light between.

You’ve read it all, carved (t)here on wood,

a sign of the times in a nut (shell).

Whispered i was here (this year)

whittling a Lilliputian ring on its fingered

keepsake trunk.

Painting by Félix Resurrección Hidalgo [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Want not, waste not

 We have all wasted our time here. 
Let us be brutal and honest, each and every one of us
has wasted
Time; as in
away, 
effort, electricity,
money, opportunities
and all of these were Ours to squander, 
to squat and wanting what nots.
What is more seems to 
overspend on idle luxuries,
counting pennies and pebbles 
you say are lucky asteroids.

We should be Thankful.

We could be too coddled to recognize
all this preoccupation with preparations 
and knowing ahead
it was all superfluous.
But we are busy making;
deals, wishes, messes and mayhem,
money, babies, titles, costumes, trinkets, headway 
and art, a start at something real...Really?
We could do more to untangle our neural nets 
stuck up in sticky anxieties, worries
or not...some like it wound up that way.
And nouns hold more weight than necessary. 

As a rule, nothing is certain
to be 
Good
except
Art, really. 

Painting by Pieter Symonsz Potter (circa 1597/1600–1652) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Satellite

Pair, not pare, as if we needed two

to know communication is necessary

to Foxtrot or Tango binary is Zebra.

We ask only to mishear the confusing

theories or holes in our black clad alibis

for why we were here, inevitable and

loving no matter what sound it makes,

it needs a forest to muffle and cover us

under the pitch-not Vanta Black-not-yet-we shall see

and still sense something deeper is out there...

            Let me ask. No.

            Since you seem knowledgeable-

            Do you think we look cool, all lit up or have we

            lost track

            of trends? Colors can be tricky.

            It could be a culture thing, a sign of life, in slushy seas

            that contain multitudes of whale hymns and plankton

            choruses from eons ago, it goes, it goes,

            (never mind, I don't know the words)

We have a half a million tiny satellites hovering around us,

moons, rocks, bacterium, the hum-dingers

tinier than ten cent meters, that do five hundred dollar dashes---

in a rocket sneeze planned projectory that resembles

the ideal arc to release a stream of (consciousness) these; could be

Defined as:

1. ) a natural body

2.) a device

3.) a branch office or alternate location

4.) a subservient follower of another (led/lead)

5.) a country under domain

Of Another Aliens or

404, Page not Found.

Artwork by Henri Théophile Hildibrand in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, 'Around the Moon' (1872).

Putting it to Get it Together

This world 
was all pretty patterns and preparation.
We made
sense with these,
common and collective.

Why we cache and stash
something for our selves-
this is a game-keep away-such as
saving some sunny day money
you hope to forget about-but 
keep counting it in
the back-end.

Why we puzzle and play,
riddling and competing for solutions
and winners
between you and I-Or-
there are losers. Must be
unable to connect the dots,
incapable of collecting thoughts-

holy buckets, walking in labyrinths
following threads of logic
tangled up in theoretically.

It is the mystery that moves us,
to interpretation
without reason. Carry on. 

"And I wanted to examine that horoscope once more and to see its pattern, no matter how fantastic or catastrophic the prediction."

-Walter Mehring (from 'The Lost Library')

Featured artwork By Staecker (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Convice-a-versa

There was too much to say 
and no single string
to unwind the entanglement
they had become bound by.

There was no effort to try an utterance,
no thoughtless pennies lying around;
that whet glimmer gone out-thirst quenched
that kindled glow to dull grit, brackish.

Nowadays, 
they say so little about much to Be
done differently, they insist
resistance is futile, 
the pinned up smile, better
(n)ever?

And so, the silence stood for resilience,
for this speechless return, old friends 
in darkness, happenstance
this ends loneliness for this time.

Gentler thoughts could do-(no)
Better. 

Painting by By Felix Nussbaum, 1943 (https://www.tumblr.com/search/Felix+Nussbaum) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Body in motion

My heart does one hundred meter dashes,
jumping at the reloaded gun.
The infantile hairs on my skin are erect,
as though blowing at high speeds.
                 --cannot catch up to my breath.

Sporadically,
at the apex of my rib cage something feels
trapped or collapsing in origami swans,
somersaults and am sitting still

listening to the bamboo wind chimes,
low & lightly in the late-after noon shade...

There is no further of going nor
West I can go,
and a sense I cannot share this feeling
-end of the road
with anyone.

Anxious, I guess.
And I don't ask,
because I am alone.

Is it uneasiness,
I never wondered
too hard
I'm afraid.



Painting By Arkhip Kuindzhi (1842-1910), Sunlight in Park (1908) and (http://kuinje.ru/) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.