What a Strange Trip we Spin

When we can finally
Let Go
we should hold onto that.
Forever young is not aging wisely.

No gain, less pain;
less risk, no reward.
In fact, 9 out of 10 persons,
in their final hour,
utter
Should & Late
now knowing it could come early.
Anyhow
on the seventh cloud,
in the ninth ward of heaven,
I see clusters of humanity acting civilized,
some are sleeping, some seem to be
searching around,
feeling nothing and gasping

for nothing they found
was there.
Ten out of ten,
just held on too long.

Painting By William Paxton (http://www.taller54.com/736.htm) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The i in Pi

3.14159265358979323846264338327950-
See,
I have a crazy suspicion of around about way roles surround spherical notions selfishly His or Her property keep wholes by center spin the one circular you is located pivotally inside-

Why-
I feel a round curiously as animal sense may guide somebody celestial towards strangers who as man alienate body spirit or tether into web for twisting not to confuse rebellion light.

Not-
a word a thing numerical or figure taken for whole concepts revealing secrets contained but to say measured with theory or method make from any one diabolic can be trapped centrally askew.




*Each word length occupies the same corresponding digit in this abbreviated representation of pi, or the area of a circle  (Ex: First word ‘See’=3 letters, ‘I’=1, ‘have’=4, etc.). The next number in sequence is (0) making this the end point.

Feature image of: 'Study of Circles on Black' (1921) By Wassily Kandinsky [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Wont you let the wind in

No poetry-

Silence it said.

It was raining and how could we live without

The yellow porch light, that lit the drops aflame midair

sent falling matches while we inhaled its sultry cologne,

It smelled like kerosene.

Nothing should be said,

but sound jumps and throttles anyway,

hits its edges

and snaps.

Let it fly,

was another way to lay claim on wind and smoke rings.

Seasonings and salt made new flowers, steeping in the dark

deeds have been doled to uncharted territories, stay-

what else is there to see?

The words will escape me just

this day without poetry… 

Painting by Paul Cornoyer [Public domain], 'Madison Square after the rain' c. 1900 via Wikimedia Commons.

Time wasted weeding facts

I smelt the rain first
before I heard it
rolling closer;
miles before I felt it
hanging in the air,
hours before I saw the first
drops staining ground
under the built up
barometric pressure.

It shows
my doppler doesn't need
a downward gaze at holographic
projections or need to perform
a critical up-date.


By Ebenezer Kinnersley-Electric Air thermometer c. 1763; J. Mynde (sc.) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Abundance

We mind rarified
elementary considerations such as
helium and hope that just
stream out the o-zone.

While we worry about coal gluttons
and electric vampires,
the signal still comes
in crystal glints,
colors are just
extraneous.

The most resourceful
were generous
making love-
concurrently, we are
interfering.

Simultaneously
sucked in
shiny silicon i's.
Unwound and seriously
needing respooling.





Image credit Hugo Gerhard Ströhl [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sunday Dinner

Lasagna.
Wreck-tangle in layers of cheese,

I add a pound of spinach for extra iron.

It is a production, 

each layer has a plan, to become part of

an edible architexture, an assemblage,
full fromage, flagon, flag off

in red, whine and green.

Read and cook, turning the page,
the fungi’s sizzle

and The Hidden Reality outlines details

of jitters, making energy and arrays.

I stir, it pops, I read, it steams and

condenses sugars.

Put together, my job is done,
I wait
it melts
all together. 

I close my eyes for the first bite,

forgetting all I threw in.

I think I taste nutmeg, but then remember

this often tastes like M-theory.

I must have forgotten the salt. 


Painting by Jacopo Tintoretto, The Supper at Emmaus (1542-43) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Elevation in feet

From those dark mountain valleys etching destiny

like palm lines

We conjure up rain and ropes,

tethering our dreams to vibrant green acres of horizon

radiating our perspectives of

voluminous bubbling energies under

entropic skies

over there.

If only

we had more energy,

if only

more time...

We would make it up

and over and climb higher to see

what is

over the top,

finally.

The other side

is sleep.

Painting by Winslow Homer, In the mountains, 1877, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.