super-natural and extra-ordinary

Most mistake
miracles for
just coincidence,
which is ironic

as a rule,
coincidence is when
the obstacle is dissolved entirely
just solutions remain

concentrated ad-mixtures
of luck and faith, a coupling
tangled making waves
turbid in the wake

hours
that cannot count stars
that doubts itself
clear enough

for the common kind
of man to consume
as pure prophecy
by numbers.

It is possible,
it was more than probable
that this kind
was a miracle
of just willful
coincidence.


Painting by Jean-François Millet [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

I Swear I was Stuck

So there I was
wedged or nestled
too snuggly-

No,
it was not ennui or an-
other excuse or
heaven forbid,
Newtons energetic projections
about inertia and what not

bottomed out.

It was some other
matter unseen,
pokey, a bit rigid
and there is me,
in the mid-hole,
grinding out granite--damn it-
maybe more like banded agate--shit-

trying to say
things and this like, as in,
better be, another way,
by wiggling, leveraging
without a write word in
edgewise

seems heavy
when you carry it around forever.

Remember the conjecture
about the speed of falling great
egos?

No? Me neither.
I suppose nobody knows
the right thing any more

than what was left alone

to make it move.
The words have escaped me.

Now I am free
to stay stuck--
(in) stupid silent protest.




Portrait by Franz von Stuck, c. 1900 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

using your inside voice

This is my voice.

Listen.

Taste it. Please.

Today it is clearer in black,
but in all honesty, I thought this first in blue,

it is true. I lapis up all that literary lazuli

and it changes when I spit it back out.

Stereo-typed, twice in Dolby.
I hear the crackle, taste the salty pixels,
it can be shocking
to play two songs at once.

Tune it. Tune your tune her to tune her in.
Try to simplify, try to translate
in other terms,
on other channels,

I have tried talking in acrylic, the accent is too thick,
I am past brushing up properly.

Some thoughts are shapeless
and cannot be conveyed

with any sociological accuracy
we can shoot in one direction

and get stabbed in the back.
All along I was here
waving words in poetic privacy

that speak aftertaste

too deep to hear
muffled in print.

Now swallow.


Painting by Pierre Carrier-Belleuse (1894) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The top spins on top of the world

It was always about time and place.
One Geologic Positioning Series

Stay still, finding location.

The matter remained
evidently encapsulated
for posterity or hermetically.

You see,
May you live in an interesting time,
is said
in jest.

Though, making it so
makes it so
living our story this way,

nowadays
it is done
this way.

Eventually folding our pages back
into strata and pulp layers
kneading condensation
to make sense in story
smell right.

It was from the East,
the scent carried, the wind
was metallic and heavy with
dry pollen.

We can hope this time
the butterfly will navigate
independently.

It seems lately
the bees hear first
and respond quickly,

making honey with
putrescence
in time for another
Revolution.


Image of  (sketch) The color top, 1877 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Peering inside a black hole

Imagine It,
not wholly unfamiliar.
They call it frequency
because it-
Come again...
∝

The thing to re-membering is

making new ones better by

re-cycling.

∞

Better to be broke and full of spirit
Than holy and empty of edge.
Infinite is always
prettier sounding
than eternity.

≃ 

Rote by re-verb-eration
(un)sounded like (in)sanity
Lately
No body can be quiet
And still, do nothing.
Activism and Philosophy,
Art History.

Duchamps Fountain of youth remixed

and flushed.
∡
Once upon a time,
words were deceiving
tiny dictionaries in sprawling villages
with vacuous vocabularies
that cannot find Meaning
anywhere 

you see syllables slang

instead.
∓
No entry has been admitted-yet
Non-sense pre-veiled, we guessed
inert gasses would decay away.
Nothing was there
ever before-never-mind-
better to (con)serve your energy.
★
Cool your jets,
we are all ways all most done.
♯


Artists rendering of Black Hole By Copyleft (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

The child contemplating comets

What color do you see?
The child asks her mother,
after reflecting-
The blue eyes take care of the oceans,
the green ones tend to grow everything
the brown, found all around,
those brown eyed bodies built the mountains
by blinking.
The child wonders what exactly
the sky sees.
Her mother mentions the birds in a vee,
points to the bees and
Honey-
The child sees no kindred spirit afloat,
she is grounded and feels pressure.
She scours around the ground
in search of relatives, by proximity,
puts them in a pencil box
after making them shiny,
and then she names them.
The child collects her rocks and hounds her mother
about the origins or babies
of granite and geode
and likes the lineage, the idea
of the clouds trapped in crystals
and how close purple seems to black.
How did the rocks, and
the sand the water get born-
She asks with her eyes squinting out at the night sky.
Were all stars once planets?
She asks that moonless night,
and feels sorry about the answer.
It will be back, her mother explains phases
and patience.
The child misses no more
and wonders what container would be good for keeping
stars. Look around, says her mother,
all that you are
is Here, touching her heart,
let the stars fall where they may...
Is that why my eyes are grey?
She remembers
as though it were as close as yesterday.


Painting by Edward Lear, The Marble Rocks (1882) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Quantity Quotient

None of it was good.
Others say it must be good enough
and I wrestled with it, tried to full nelson the
blue bloody life out of it
before I quit the last time.

You would think these simple words
which everyone uses every day in all
derivations of misappropriating ways,
would be something quite simple to me
whose word world
never stops flooding
the floorboards.

And I keep flailing around trying to see what will float
but the best words confound me, sunken.
And I cannot begin
to make them make something
to line up and make something.
There is no reaction.

There is no sense to this cold
natural selection, just rejection.
And it need not be the most profound, I most simply
meant to convey complexity in a novel way, some semblance
of chaos in a nutshell, since what sells is
simplicity as it offers beauty for the masses.
There is no madness in ramblings
when there is no place to get lost, and curiosity is what keeps
the clock ticking and nothing is done with
black and white shapes on white paper,
sitting there and undone
from completion
for good reason.

Twenty-four short little stories
abandoned,
seven attempts at a novel,
three keepers, one in no hurry to make it to the end,
or progress, I digress,
I guess it will all make sense later.

After eight hundred and eighty-eighty lousy poems
one word should be worth keeping
the baby in the bathwater.



By UnknownHerkulaneischer Meister, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

Discovered in 1760, is one of the most famous and beloved paintings, commonly called Sappho. Actually portrays a high-society Pompeian girl, richly dressed with gold-threaded hair and large gold earrings, bringing the stylus to the mouth and holding the wax tablets, notoriously accounting documents which therefore have nothing to do with poetry and even less with the famous Greek writer.