Smoking Rope Burns

Rope rather than guns

I said to the man

-in America anyway-

As if he asked for some alibi,

as if anyone Wanted me: Dead or Alive.

Not that

I suggested murder or hinted at a

lynch mob-no soldier trained for Tug of wars.

I have no skin in that game.

Here is the Reader

with their eyes on the trigger

pulling out meaning,

hanging there, in town squares,

the tangled mass pulls at twisted truths

by yarns and feet, knots and nots.

Suicide is never the last act.

Remember?

A rope also saves lives, he said

depending upon the need,

in his all-

American way.

Painting By Albert Baerston, Belgian painter, Ghent 1866 - Gent, 1922 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Gaseous bubbles

It has become customary

to throw up ones' arms

and say ‘CRAZY’ as though

that could be

the end of

the ‘DILEMMA’, not much more than

ennui & effortless cooling

occurring naturally,

after the initial explosion.

The human being,

irregardless of the (in)humanity,

hovers with the curiosity of before’s and after’s,

and our re-action was our only second chance.

Predictions are prepositional

‘PLANS’.

Any body could conclude

All bubbles burst.

Image credit By NASA, Voyager, a child in bubble 2011 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

liminal

Fine. Pretend, thinly.
Smile. Pull the cord. Middle C.
Pluck the inside strings. Up.
Ply your arms, for others.
Cut. Hung. Behave. Trim and Prop her.
Hear yourself first, thought, same.
Note turned to tone?
Silence is preferred by the self
Above all else.

Despite, to spite the intolerably cruel,
Endure. Niceties, stand still. 
Erect, not flinch. Faces. Places.
As though-
As though,
You remember You
From somewhere,  around here….

Painting by Vincent van Gogh, The peasant churchyard (1885) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Abracadabra and ABC's

The plan itself-long forgotten-
was working, as every prediction
foretold
by the last of the learned.

It had been lifetimes-
long gone,
when it was learned by the rest(ing),
the dangers of knowing
too much
for thin soles to carry
comfortably.

Human touch was not the trick,
the magician preferred to work with
shiny wheels, hats, cards, cups and wands
Invoking smiles as he deftly slices
attention, willing volunteers and words.

The spell lost in translation, a dead
language
slang-shot not toward penetration, but
babbled by barbarians-again.
This entertains, now this-now and
never remembered-

None heard the chorus
of the sheeple's song before
nor sang along anymore-

Now it sounded silly
and coincidental,
entertaining and easy
to follow along.

Now, all hands-free.
What has been taken away
by sleight of hand, was never missed
soon enough-
none will understand
a word, meaning-wise.


Painting by Thomas Gainsborough (c. 1773-1777) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Those are not windows

We know the difference between screens

And windows

We have seen panes and cracks distort the image.

The daughter of a poet was tasked to pen a poem,

perceived as silly, she wrote it off.

The line led one to believe Heller Keller

dreamt in color-
and Kandinsky painted music

And they laughed-

The black and white words were lost

on the newest Tech-no-extinguish-allingo for rhythmic rules

Class, (the new Beats 

by algorithms).

Photos sans filters, simply

unaltered-in the past-by contrast

To green and blue screens that project a

Headline(r) to the stars.

A theater student herself,

She laughs at those old over-acting 

talkies before Technicolor, whose

lame movements, I justify-

are compensations for lack of color.

Well, faking it was fun. 

Forts and refrigerator boxes

worked for pretending elsewheres and make

believing in speech-

Until we started to believe 

the sounds were real.

As though everyone knows 

colors come naturally

to all things reflective

Only-

Is it touching that tells the truth?

The poet has no sense.

Painting by By Juan Gris (José Victoriano González Pérez), Spanish, 1887 - 1927 (1887 - 1927) – Artist/Maker (Spanish) Born in Madrid, Spain. Dead in Boulogne-Billancourt, France. Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Self-driven

Bipeds-we have walked
with our soles touching the earth
until grew tired and found
limits to how far we can make it
in a day-
and just how much, or little
one man may carry this way

until we tamed
double duty quadrupeds
who lightened the load
a little

when we saw the wild steed gallop
our fancies flew and we felt
there is a better way-
so we broke them and started over,
land-locked and loaded on beasts
this feast lasted longer than a day.

It was not long, remember when
Four legs was not enough,
we wanted wings
but got stuck spinning our wheels.

We hatched plans to get there faster
than the crow flies-
ill-suited for the skies
we want back to fire.

Today we fly anywhere,
drive up to the edge of lands end
teeter in between atmospheres
propelling people mindlessly about
still holding the mules lead

our soles ungrounded.

We needed directions more than license.

Now, how to get around
the fear
of not being in control
of cruising and steering and nearing no
better ways
of moving forward
without needing to know
how we arrived or when we will be
delivered.

Painting By Mary Stevenson Cassatt, American, 1844 - 1926 (1844 - 1926) – Artist/Maker (American) Born in Alleghney City, Pennsylvania, United States. Dead in Le Mesnil-Théribus, France. Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Monk-ee-See

The Dalai Lama traveled to talk
at the University, and it was good
to hear it was no celebrity.
He spoke of "dialogue"
let me repeat-
He spoke of "dialogue"

Not many of us wonder
or need to know
our full thoughts

The way we treat
Others
could be better-granted
territories are gone-
None go out of their way or think
of crossing invisible lines

Surprised to see none like me-
not unique-just unanimously rejected
for some thoughts of me
I didn't see
coming or going

Not knowing our position
we listen to Others
who guide us to Do Unto Others
as if we knew the same treatment
worked wonders on Others.

Conversely,
speaking drowns out listening,
when we worry about what we will say
when it is our turn

The Dalai Lama was dripping like a wet sponge
in the high humidity here.
He was not yet acclimated to hear
his humid reception,
and the excessive
precipitation of June gloom.



Painting by Peder Balke (1864) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.