Eurydice got jaundice

Be cause
the slight sulphuric smell
whisked off the top
by the cool purple night
sent signals, scented
words artists understand
as beckoning

-It is safe to come out Now-

And,
as far as frequency may go
undetected
and we hope to scatter awe,
                       curiously as
indiscriminately as dreams
Do.

Why choose these
creators, creatures,
to translate such dark
thoughts to bodily form,

two birds on one stone
already shared the whole sky

what more could be said...

How could feeble eye
capture any more light
with one small grounded
sol

such as
belief in something more there
may be, brighter than this thought
could scatter its spotted array
today
sketched out in perse ink.

Dried pens and then,
bruising egos bright,
all of this goes garish yellow,
away and tinged
in tangibility, catagorically,
and it is no longer clear,

How
my fellow man,
plans to capture
all of this
so beautifully.

The artist listens
to brilliance breathe regularly
in deep starlight strokes and matches its
rhythm. and tries to remember
every thing that has ever been created
for arts sake.

It is reason enough
to wake.

Artwork by John Roddam Spencer Stanhope (1878) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Busy going down the drain with Eddy

Start here and get this over with
will you-so we can move on
with more of the same

wistful wants.
This two
let pass...

First things first,
get 'em on deck and in a row-
orderly, nice and tidy, see

things get done this way-
or do they, I pray
we are not just

tilling our rich soils
like Voltaire-infertile,
infantile and bored,

whereby garden side

resides this musing man
who gets lost with no plan-
hence without direction.

I reckon.

That is not you. This is not us.
We no longer grow our food.
Despite the growing bellies

thick with cancer,
bloated and blurred
in fact, it keeps us busy

wondering what happened
with all these weeds.
We were supposed to be a-
mazed, we can grow.

A lie, a labyrinth,
a temporary structure
lay in the dirt.

We were pulled in one direction,
despite resistance, like cancer
this was no choice,

but diagnosis.

There was only one direction,
it was a-
head.

On second thought
there is no good place
to begin to make it

in sphere

we are contained,
consumed and thereby
recreated

it keeps us busy.





Image of artwork by Lodewijk Toeput [Public domain], Pleasure Garden with maze, (c. 1579-84) via Wikimedia Commons.

Is this bliss?

Fleeting moment to
day to pass by happenstance
and happen to say




















Painting By Daderot (Own work) [Public domain or CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

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.