Still

Still life was a blur

<the streets were still at 3 AM>

whist was little wind

caught calm

in a difference between light

and the eye-

still and coming steady,

yet unsettled between a particle or a point.

Line like a wave, bent along the way

solutions becalm the whitened caps,

allay this urgent need to re-

tranquilize together

and sync without dupes,

to parse with perfection

connections hang on,

to now, never was,

still.

Toward or away,

It fades

once death has taken shape

of a relative theory explaining

why you are 

still

here 

noticing the calm collected

as a safe place.


Painting by Vincent van Gogh, Still life with Quinces (1887-1888) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Two Players

The game is keep away.

If we don’t keep some

For ourselves

We have nothing to lose.

A woman without secrets

Is a blind owl in a neck-brace.

A man without lies

Is a toothless tiger without a straw.

Shall we play

Hide and seek with truth

Which gives itself away

By its shadow?

We could jump rope

Or hop on scotch with one leg

Trying not to fall

First.

You threw the stone
pitched too high
we cannot hear ourselves
without breaking
something.



Image credit By Ministry of Information Photo Division Photographer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The difference between a Dream Catcher and a Net

Sabotage is a safety net holding trust,

roughly forgetting the holes.

If thrown a rope,

                          followed by the knotty words

wound upin twisted and twined you'd find,

                                                   Trust Me &

                                                   Brace yourself

against loss of wind.

                                 This body will keep

the soul inside,

Believe where needed, as patches 

so sweetly in red clay

sabotage calls itself Support

and says you may

                            lean comfortably-

this way, 

                            hear the bricks stack up

Briefly before

the windows were all caulked in.

Nobody could tell

if the lights were left on

or if there is anything to eat.

If only we could get through

starvation seems imminent.



Image credit By Nicholls Horace, taken 1914 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

    

(little lumens)

Brilliant (by that)

Bright (as in)

Light, like illumination

Or observation of Other

part and particulars

Also, astronomical atomic accumulations

where we may wonder 

what does the whole say?

Who’s to say-

Brilliance may be,

by relay, a reflection, the radiation

of you in the light,

letting colors concentrate

on more than themselves.

Bountiful or beautiful

from where i

stand

under-

awed and auroral.

Painting By Anna Boberg, Northern lights from North Norway in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Gathering

flock of rounded songbirds fluttering against the lilac sky

become pixels that dance across the plane,

form-u-late, and swirl past

my subdued evening eyes

pulled up

and perusing across the orderly canopies,

whereby I try re-rasterizing cliques, filtering

And see those three floating dots, wee wrens

on the low sagging line-

they are people watching

while the one on the fence

sates himself to one side

where the beetles are bigger

And slower

in the sideways amber light that lays low

And even across the suburban grasses.

I am charmed by the snake that is swallowing its tail

in the blackberry bushes by the blushing day moon.

These two hands begin again. 



Image By D. Dibenski (images.fws.gov ([1])) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Ear worms (Annelida aural)

A rare blue stillness awaits me at three
electric sleep and low idle
hums

This scissored presence moves
closed and blunt
under roof, between walls,
muffled in cotton

picking
up soft words, I sort them,
line up and accumulate these
in stacked strips

with varying lengths-All
leaning against the left
alone

to translate for the birds
already practicing
their mock speeches and weighing the scales

like me, less
to say, we both prepare to navigate

afloat on the surface
cast in the floodlight of suns rays
songs again
tend to dissipate.

Illustration for Dante's Purgatorio 09
by Gustave Doré

First image By Shibata Zeshin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The wind was long

If I wrote 'Now' one thousand times-
Now, Now, Now-
am I not lying? Redundantly (pro)posing nothing new
on the page-

Now, Gertrude may say
the same,
Now
there is no such thing like the thing itself,
repetition of point...
like Moore's Law-only holds so many holes
before disappearing
all together.

In soundness, over and over
is a slingshot past Here-

reason being no longer
enunciates itself
as individual
thingness and parsimony

it seems to me we should have
been focused on the duplicates

observing patterns of double talk
scholars without abjection to empty words,
placeholders or so called meta-
or merely masters by degrees

From this angle
Now was never
the center
errant signals disconnect
the radii from the thing.




Portrait of Gertrude Stein by Félix Vallotton (1907) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.