Bottoms up

Have you fallen
into a book, a slump,
into bed
too deep
for another to hear your muffled voice trying to climb out?

If so, please let me know, as I have been seeking
low and high for the loose end to grab onto
falling short of finding the eminent source
of your sound-
could I be late-
are you too far
underneath to speak freely?

Well,
we all make choices,
most have moved on.
I have pulled on this rope
without end
wishing and waiting for one more
buried echo-o-o-o-o-o-o...


Painting by Georg Flegel [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The metronome leads home

Ah-wakening

Water drip-drops from the roof-top

onto the plastic lid of the empty blue recycle bin

It is not raining-anymore.

While lying there, transported,

the drops dripping were tick tocks

of the clock overhead in my grandfathers den

As I lie there, my hearts mouths the waters

falling

back in sleep, absorbed in one wet second

There is no difference between

Now and Then

Some things are worth repeating

time and time again;

rain, reminiscing in rain again

Sleep

And

Ah wakening. 

Painting by Nicolas Régnier (1588/1591–1667) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

SciFi

My fantasies now dull,

I read non-fiction for spice-

Life told fantastic.

Painting by By Pieter Fris, 1650 (Sotheby's) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

dues

Re-member-you were

One once before going so-

lo(w) and beholden.

By Lady Lawley (c. 1914) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The time is Late

The world had changed overnight,

overdays-

She thought

She was

Progressing until then

when all the standing people were dumbstruck,

horrified by what had happened here.

She remembered an Eastern way of saying it right,

“May you live in an interesting time”

She heard a Western man in shock say,

“I’ve seen a’lotta things, but I ain’t never seen nuthin’ like this,”

She remembered and could not understand

the meaning.

The world had changed and

Made no sense of interesting

Times under night.

Painting by Titian, Knight of Malta with a clock (1550) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Signal

Blue screen drama fiend

what have you become?

Turn it off or someone will,

you won't remember

but you won't remember

given enough space.

The smell doesn't count, the color couldn't care to stay

it was "This-ness" and by the feebleness of narrow hands,

grasping

Did we ever listen while thinking of something

better we could say...

This was not electric; magnetism is not magical.

Sparks happen. Predictably we promised.

Revolution and Industry-

you'll forget what these did to we.

Don't look up, what is done is done, thy will

and guilt gone!

(on Sunday)

See? Forgotten verboten. Fuzzy. Atonement.

The power we ceased to possess,

Eternally, not youth but

goes by Memory,

like calories and ergs,

also

measured by the byte.

Painting by Ilya Repin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Talking myself out of any and all steadfast beliefs

And the shadows became emboldened

tossing themselves, whole bodies

against the stuccoed wall of the house

like a lunatic whose waxing drips onto

the serenade night.

Appendages out of lines, 
sinew slung haphazardly, 
do not move, it will heal.

A straightjacket all white and tight

would pacify this wicked waving,

haunting in its accidental tempo.

It was stirring.

The stale air, intent on suffocating this

common moment, tries to circulate.

Still, under such serious moonlight,

all stars let out a slit of light and with
pity.

Keep going.
Solidified, all recast and quartered

for symbiotic division of belief by
schisms and seizures.
See there,

old ways of seeing arthritic or systemic.

Unrelated to shrinking white matter,
this time indivisible from the prism
have been here again
breaking light from black wholes
made it all night once any again. 



Painting by Frits Thaulow [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.