Muttered The Muse...

Bare Essentialism

When we speak of

Ars Moriendi

You and I are finally getting somewhere,

beautiful.

When the Poet dies-finally-

The poem is freed.

The libertine line advances

meaning, perspective.

Morals are not the main characters,

plot is where we were going,

a scene made, is setting,

is a container, set and broken down,

a frame to hold all the pieces

to gather in one assemblage

and enable anyone to walk around.

Implicating exclusion by category, genre,

red and not read,

unbounded through decohesion,

letting leaves fly-

Well

we must determine-

To finish or decompose.

After all This

Art is all that remains after speech,

after thought, in memoriam,

the pictures point and the words paint

only where there is

Life.

We recognize these reflections

and find them beautiful.

Painting by William Orpen, Reflection in mirror c. 1917 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

He kneaded Her

She may be being beaten

As we read this

Together,

Hold on, it sounds morbid, but there is nothing that can be done to stop it.

One learns to accept the role of I-witness, until one cannot bear to watch-

And then instead of gashes and broken bones, he could be pushing

Her buttons, shoving

Thing in corners

And covering them up with

Sickness.

He certainly demands

ATTENTION! Obedience and privacy,

Of course, isolation and abuse are like marriages,

Ownership issues and subtle clues, like Grand Canyon colors,

Naturally, it was about the little words, the little monies,

The precious little time, the violent vices, the weak needs

And the only daughter they despise.

She is cowering, her nose red, her eyes black, her thoughts run away with the

Memories, tapes we tried to unstick, etchings I attempted to erase by

Geography and sandy paper,

Moments that seemed frozen

Then

And then

And then...

Painting by John Reinhard Weguelin, Woman in the reeds c. 1895 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The green lantern

The face returns, a profile on the moon.

The serious brow exudes envy in its October glow.

The heat lifts its chain mail exterior,

unarmed now

the fight subdues, breathing resumes

as the humidity rises,

solemn fog rolls over the westerly

treeline

mingling out of character,

and brewing up a new ambiance

with wax dripping from overhead,

thunder gathering below,

running on low

light, it becomes apparent;

Degrees are mirroring phases.

Image credit By Stephen Rahn from Macon, GA, USA (Waxing Crescent Moon on 4-1-17) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Storm chasers

Pulled one over on our Mother

Nature-When we 'wise ones'

learned how to chart and predict, guess and check

her moods and storms associated with wrath

and names, personalities,

alphabetically with indexes and eyes.

We behold

color coded paths

where weather may walk-

sirens and alerts follow us

In spite of-direction.

Now that is not good enough -anymore.

Without footage, there-ness, like live streams

in microwaves, invisible proof for the eyes-

It never happened that way.

Painting by Karl Bryullov, 'View of Fort Picu on the island of Madeira' c. 1849-50, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Mercury’s Handmaid

In the second law of thermodynamics;

The poem as a made-thing is the

“Spontaneous emergence of self-organization”.

Besides this, in Science,

“The word magic means order”

So the symbol for Nothing

became shaped like the mouth in meditation,

in the midst of making more space

for Observation.

The numeral for the Universe,

One world, 1, as in Everything

Man-o-theistic made more calculating

layers encoded in an algorithm

to become binary bipeds seeking symbiosis,

or the meaning of Miracle. Walk the Talk.

Ecstasy is merely our abandonment

of a timeline.

Silence sought chaos,

letting letters separate from self in sound.

The tonality resonated

making all things

moving disappear

with (1) velocity (0)

without (0) reason (1).

We try to transcend our current state

if only for a half-life

chemical moment. Methodically mad.

there were bells to be rung,

the sentence was both a rule

and regret.

Painting by Jules Lefebvre [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Atmosphere (with a teenager)

The light from her eyes had grown in darkness.

Her pupils emulating black holes...

I wanted to lighten her

dark mood,

so I showed her a picture from far away,

the moon-detailed.

Why is it so dark out there? She sees Nothing.

Why is space so dark? She gazed at the photo

a moment more.

Reflecting a moment-

Dark Matter, I retorted.

As opposed to Light Matter?

Yes, but not light enough

to see the difference,

I replied.

But this space in here is light.

You're right. Energy.

Energy? All of it, I nodded, Electricity.

She then sighed laboriously,

I heard the dark part is expanding?

Likely. Nobody hears it

happen. No body looks.

I can feel it, I think.

It can come in waves-

like gravity. That's heavy, she snorted sarcastically.

Actually, it is weak,

I added for weight.

Mind over matter,

she quipped back.

If you don't mind-

it doesn't matter,

I dismissed.

I guess I should lighten up, let it float,

she finally smiled

and lit up the room, once again, happily

ever after and growing.

Image of painting by José Ferraz de Almeida Júnior [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Quant(h)um

How can one

be so close yet so ---- far

at the same time

while still

believing they are precisely

where they should be?

Have you ever

tried to muffle light

with your body or soles?

Will it matter that what you Will

inevitably choose

Will come to pass as choice?

Would it have been different

if we could still change

our mind?

What if at most fear

(or what if atmosphere)

was all that held us in and kept us

in our quagmired violence by blood-curdling,

perpetual blue light

-not saying-never-mind?

It is a thin line

without direction

Where would you go?

Image credit By Ken Billington (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.