Fe(me)

The kind man is as
to the woman in kind-rare-
fied
and endangered in
practice,
she still sacrifices
her position
(for mankind).

His footsteps are found
making an impression
with heavy pockets,
likewise
high tide has reached her
last line.


Painting by Henri-Jean Guillaume Martin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

(r)ejection

Fair warning was given
about conjuring the friction of lightning
between fingertips by rod
and cone
resembling a dunce cap

Yet left alone with our (de)vices
the pattern unfurls and we sew through
our patchwork day
cross-stitching moments like frayed ends
we measure progress
in squares,
the roots are bound
to wrap and tangle.

Observers interrupt our busy work
with every blink, the weight shifted,
the curtain fell, the lever broke,
the shim slipped in
and stirred up so much hope
the air welled with thunder.

We should have known better.
We could have made ourselves welcome.
We did not know how to enforce Liberty for all.
There were signs
and symbols denoting the escape velocity,
with arrows, the Exit sign was always live.

It was easier to get in.


Painting by Abraham Solomon, c. 1859 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

In other wor(l)ds

A new day called my name in the mouth of the mockingbird.
In the bullseye of the black widows web,
light is caught in crystal sections
as it tends to happen-sometimes
we don’t hear these things or fail to notice
where chimes and footsteps flail in midair

we were suspended there.

I proceed to contemplate the unwinding of
allotted time, in all its shrinkage and compression
I stuff what I can in my pockets
and balance my left foot precariously
upon the nearest dark cloud that appears
solid enough to leverage my being upon
while I levitate upon
accumulation.

At least, in this way,
the sacrifices won't seem so removed and far
fetched, as stars for life cluster with emission,
timing is everything
and nothing.
The silence can become crippling with
such volume of errant data,
unsynchronised heart beatings
in unison making static lines blur.

Meanwhile, the earth rolls inside of its shell
as if there were nothing to see here
in Turtle Town.
No lingering, loitering, savoring, reminiscing,
embellishing-
making no more mention of
names of things.

The best of it is yet to be made our own.
I take in the wind, I take notes
as I go
this way-paraphrased-what is said sounds familiar
as if we have heard it all before this way
our re-membership lapsed into disparate sounds
it sounded like a name.



Photo By Claudio Giovenzana (Claudio Giovenzana www.longwalk.it) [CC BY-SA 3.0 or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons.

A murmuration of bodies

It is not all about the long (form) poem,
or the short (form) poem that

captivates the reader to go on,
but form, oh form! It must be solid-set-and square-

there it is identifiable in space,
man-woman-yin-yang,
it must lie there

flat and
come around the full circle of Oh, I see,

and be intriguing, as eyes tend to be drawn
to bare bellies showing

the sex

it becomes impossible to look away, rude
to rend attention from the white scene that unfolds
sheets,

we tend to go too far in our search for likeness

in passing, we come upon the sight of a crash-
rollover and rubbernecking, our prying eyes seek
identification (relationship) of bodies,
make and model,
fault and genre
or scheme
or theme
(the way we drive).

The way
we seek familiarity in reflective surfaces projected
outward from flat atoms that cling together making a solid
point

reflective and with water
like cement, belly flops
that sting and leave a body red
scared us straight.

I see me

Cadence reminded the reader that the
human body and its homeo-static form,
feels it is not wise to slip into
a semi-permeability-stage-phase-
that would be weakness,
or prose

in words of erosion which sink quite naturally,
predictably.
Under pressure diamonds are made
by poets sitting on ideas
awaiting the train of thought,
engineering the license to use lines
at unsafe speeds

with glaring lights, blaring horn

blowing by

en route thru

to

the scene.

                   The limp body becomes
                                                     ejected
                   and stains the concrete
                   longer than rubber-
streaks.

Anybody can learn to drive
a point
Home
(some are more [w]reckless than others)
and the point Being
only the poet knows where they are going (if they do)
it doesn't help.
                       Detours and congestion both seem inevitable.
There is no way around
the good poem.

It just lies
there
(as in Found)
or flies away
on an impulse, taking the words with him wherever he goes,
traveling light
never arrives.





Image of starlings in flight at sunset taken February 2006, By Tommy Hansen.B.A.C. at da.wikipedia [Public domain], from Wikimedia Commons.

Hot thick air

One cannot, or should not
argue with Stupid.

Or is that a bad word-too-

the argument proceeds as follows:

Mountains may-be moved one grain at a time,

Rocks don’t roll,

alone, but may-be take a tumble

for a slide.

Downhill,

they had brain damage, self-induced,

how to be mad from up here?
It is supposed to be sad, but they are not
missing
what they never had. 

They can no longer help themselves

along. I wish I could, sometimes

I am livid with stupidity,

it makes me mad.

Before I recall-I predict.

It was made-up
of all short-term memories,

cluster-plucked

for the littlest of minds

for the tiniest of bodies,

for the biggest disappointment

of intellectual potential or IP,

as in A.I., a.k.a. Artificially Inherited traits.

I’ll take it from here-

I have built my own family, twisted the DNA

around counter-wise.
A mutation is the adaptation of one

alone.

 “The decrease in instincts which are hostile and arouse mistrust—and that is all our ‘progress’ amounts to—represents but one of the consequences attending the general decrease in vitality: it requires a hundred times more trouble and caution to make so conditional and late an existence prevail. Hence each helps the other; hence everyone is to a certain extent sick, and everyone is a nurse for the sick. And that is called ‘virtue.’ Among men who still knew life differently—fuller, more squandering, more overflowing—it would have been called by another name: ‘cowardice’ perhaps, ‘wretchedness,’ ‘old ladies’ morality.'”

— Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols

Painting Master of the Female Half-Lengths, c. 16th century in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Deconstruction

What more is there
to discover, look around
we are always finding
new ways to die.
*
Good humans finish their plates
last,
only to find
nobody to tell-
savoring is a learned skill.
*
Ritual releases the mind
from its chain-
if only we could be less
superstitious, sixth senses would
evolve.
*
Not saying-None listened-
Nor inklings or outright protest
overcame the decomposed granite
of speechlessness.
*
We tend to build things up.
*
We pretend to be the designers.
*
I found myself
looking away.
*
All the death
has been done
before.


Photograph by Carleton Watkins [CC0], Devils Canyon, Geysers, Looking Down' c. 1868-70, via Wikimedia Commons.

How salt takes to wounds

I made it-
not to say that it is done-
that I can breathe now
that I know this.

I am here
none-the-less
by the sea
all-the-more-
for me-
guilty
pleasures are all mine
in fine coarse grains.

I am aware,
consciously,
that the measure of success
is off the charts, the beaten path
off the grid,
infinite and yet most
definitely a direction,
like horizon.

It does not move me
along-
but still, I bother
to rise to each occasion,
daytime, in lightyears
despite the erosion, in spite of doubt,
the tides still rise
in order
to pull stars in
circular motions,
like me, reeling.

I am pulled back to sea.
The end begins again
with me
mixing carbon and salt,
separating oil from water
I found a solution
to stop the bleeding.




Watercolor by William Matthew Hodgkins c. 1894 in Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.