The over prepared understudy

It is too late for some.

But you-

     You have arrived early

I see...barely.

Still,

you are here Now,

and glad as I may-be-

the lighting is too lime.

Notice:

when lit

Red

_On Air_

Please remain silent (until instructed)

to *LAUGH*

It will make sense

later. In sync now.

You will make others feel better

             staying so small.

Paranoia, now that was non-sense.

Don't take it wrong.

Happy to have you

closer in proximity.

It helps with reruns and rehearsals.

Can you clear me now? Touch me back. I will erase

you later.

Your steam box is stocked,

spliced lines strung taut to span

and other puppet conclusions pulled

off and on; all or nothing wound up.

See, these are decent occupations.

Twisted dearly elusive creatives

try to embrace your loneliness like this-

center stage. Affront and Solo.

The audience of actors shall applaud

                   with gusto.

It is the Last Act.

Your timing has never been better.

Painting by Everett Shinn (1903) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Flashy fades

A flashy glimmer like cut gem facets

pointed from deep inside those eyes

your two, made it seem

we knew what was coming.

We did not.

It looks like we have something important to do.

We will wait.

Honestly,

if we continue this way

all falls into place just so

we know more

about manipulation

and virtual reality

will it help...

Do not answer that. Let it ring.

Strange. This dry confidence permeates

by civilian ardor.

Suddenly, we had trouble

breathing.

The Progress.

Some gasped, as if they could take more.

Others sobbed in sync.

Most of us never knew

nor cared to quarry

deeper.

Distribution thins out

when princes runout

of fission for our future necessities

sparing only

cherished memories.

Patience. It will always come

for you.

Painting By James Campbell (1828 - 1893), Waiting for Legal Advice (1857),  (British) Born in Liverpool, England. Dead in Birkenhead, England. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

No vacancies

It is the voice, or sound
as far as limits and ripples can----
as loud as the noise altogether

static, each wrinkle folds under
the aging and erosion,
older than dirt lays claim,

lighter than air, dust-skin,
settled palimpsest
on rice paper arms, 

by shreds of rags and stitches 
to cover the cold.
Shivers scream inside, 

turbidity of the spirit, malicious matters
needing shelter; brittle now
by leaves, dry twigs,

words, thorns, starlight and smoke
becalmed back to the senses
in a murmur of metaphor,

rewritten as revelation. 
Must Have.
Must Heard. 

Image credit By Scan by NYPL [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Substitute Stars

Might it be that Mars is merely winking this way, ogling in orbit
then blushed when he saw-Us-
shadowed in his ruby glare?

All this while the meager moon hides behind a curtain in the corner;
shedding layers, seductively buoyed by 
        dark energy that winds while she rests up

in the next phase, the stars seem scattered by correlation 
but brighter by chaos; letting go of the lighter matters, 
you see

Colors could care less about our splendid collections,
kaleidoscopes and metronomes,
fractals and turbines, mirrors and machines, making
        more of that 
        and like this 
one oasis in potential grants more than any one wish
deservedly.

Tiny toys, glam and glitterati, Lucy and her rocks, likes
G.I. Joe and his grenades, helplessly She lies by He
pulling pins out of her hair, stripping down to barren
        and lighting matches like flares, indistinguishable
        in the universe.

We watch, perverted and diverted in curiosity, vapidly
spreading green gasses of dank envy throughout this galaxy,
as far as stars are pointed by projection,
there will be black holes
in his story.

Image credit By NASA and The Hubble Heritage Team (STScI/AURA) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Details: "NASA's Hubble Space Telescope took the picture of Mars on June 26, 2001, when Mars was approximately 68 million kilometers (43 million miles) from Earth — the closest Mars has ever been to Earth since 1988. Hubble can see details as small as 16 kilometers (10 miles) across. The colors have been carefully balanced to give a realistic view of Mars' hues as they might appear through a telescope. Especially striking is the large amount of seasonal dust storm activity seen in this image. One large storm system is churning high above the northern polar cap (top of image), and a smaller dust storm cloud can be seen nearby. Another large dust storm is spilling out of the giant Hellas impact basin in the Southern Hemisphere (lower right)."

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.