Terminal Velocity

My toes point to that familiar path
over which I tread the same very way
without thought, after days, after days
ground-soft
                               only it doesn't end.
The terminus dissipates before me
the exit escapes
itself

fracturing new matter,
atoms posing in new positions,
the frames along the long hall
                                        rattle and
all fall, shattering into
collage.

I have moved on and on
and recognize how the light changes
just enough to see
this
step
through and parallel time
at equal velocities and thus
all must be still-

transported. This is how
I can be carried along
in this metropolitan body,
incentivized, yet
                    infested with crime,
corrupt with ego, more so
hiding in skin
I was entrusted to always protect-
                                        but don't.

Animal eyes see me
burrow in my bi-pedestal body
and hear my heart beat itself and
echo through my unshod feet-
yet I do not run,
                                   I carry on,
erect, by these same narrow walls
plastered shells, caves or caverns
alternating distances passed
by vision and memory
                                        alone,
                                   barefoot,
weary but walking on and on
this way
toward the vanishing point.

Photograph By PCR Services Corporation, creator [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Mud day

Thrust outdoors into the somber metallic dawn whose grey washcloth
dripping with fog covers my exposed face and outer extremities, slips into
folded crevasses, as in the crook of an ivory neck, exuding an aroma of must
flooding pores make a body all the more aware of vulnerabilities,
small against the vast backdrop erasing evidence of the transference between strata
and stratosphere.

One leaden foot lurches forward despite the denial of movement on raised skin,
my hair collects the dancing beads and leaves my cheeks ruby
in the shameful way that I have seen how my hair stays grey instead of brown when wet,
and yet no time has (a) past...

the mists persist in making all clouds disperse
at our feet collecting weight on lashed eyes dropping diamonds between the sharp tan blades
repelling the chance for new life, making the bed of earth condensed to gather all the necessary elements for the making of a Mud day.

Painting by Frederic Edwin Church [Public domain], c. 1869-70 via Wikimedia Commons.

City folk

Someone said,
the full moon looks larger in the city
because of skyscrapers-
which said nothing
about people feeling smaller,
more condensed when clustered.

Tall shadows do distort our perception of time,
such as dusk does bend warm light
in the redwood grove.

Somehow,
the moon still washes over and spills into all
narrow alleys and dives deep into dark
watering holes
with its aloof blue glow,
at some points
her own dead valleys visible
from under the canopy of cemented jungles
patching the land up.
The beacon looms over
with tiny towers babbling in slang.

Concrete was not so.

We stand closest together is
where we feel the smallest.

Somehow it seems

we will never be safe from these lights. 




Painting by August Splitgerber (1844–1918) (http://www.neumeister.com/) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Around noun

This is the thing,
I cannot finish a single-
Here's the other-
I understand that I am needed, required even
to do that-

Elsewhere,
I was looking for that thing,
behind me,
remind me, what was I seeking?
What was our-
did we love each other?

There is some-
          he wants to say
          that is coming
          that is waiting...
So I am left
I put one word after the period,
begin again
and see no-




Painting by Domenico Remps, 'Cabinet of curiosities' c. 1690 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Seed crystals like wildflowers

When wandering one warm day
I happened upon a daisy named Violet.

She was sitting quite peacefully
as purples happen to be muted 
when wild.

Quietly she rose,

bending her bulging bodice 
leaning her long neck 
upward toward dawn in dewy

Pink cheeks, pastel and seeking sun

Glistening
naturally, she begged for admiration amid
these murky velvet green ponds

sequenced with shimmered beads

fishing for focus
in a breeze

She
leads and unfurls
her pinched peach sail

To take in the open air,
To swallow this wishful

Baby's breathe blue day 
ahead of the flattened carpet
holding soles atop its rhizome net

keeping us occupied in valleys,

Blades trod on

by ambling and bumbling beings
led with hunger this way, 
by a sense of smell
and finding the forgotten flavor of flora

reasonable, enduring, reminiscent of days

when he loves me 
not 
when she loves me
enough to grow more
meadows made of these 

meandering memories

one settles with bees
and spreads 
happenstance in destiny's place. 





Painting by William Page Atkinson Wells [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

What are the Chances, Chances Are

What are the chances:

That your most despised frenemy suddenly found themselves 
sitting down next to you in the only open seat-


of being late and avoiding an accident-

Someone looks like you, but worse-
They are better versions-

Saying something meaningful aloud-
It becomes true-
Anything true can be said-

There are second impressions
called shadows-

We can make ourselves proud-
without too much pride-

Our dreams are someone else's-
You are the true version 
of someone else's dreams-

True love is only a test-

Chances are:

-more likely you will drown (one in eighty-four)
than getting killed by a shark (one in nearly four million)

-you will end up looking like your dog, your mate,
your old self

-the Universe listens

-fear of shadows once saved our lives
fear of shadows from towers we have built
enshrouds our lives

-nightmares are honest discussions

-Love's Labour's Lost



 Painting by Unknown c. 1892 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Shadow lands

The poem cowered
in the dark corner
as does an animal behind a tree
feeling hidden
and safe
in error.

In the open, there was everything
that had been muttered
and nothing more could be said
in translation
of such inspirations
outlined in full color.

Grey and subdued
reflected in the blinded panes
so struck silent was the poet
when words
couldn't convince any body-
lighter was ever better.




Painting by Gwen John [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.