Sunday, February 28, 2016

Anti-cedent


It all started here-when-
It was not begun-before
It was said
In the beginning
who said It
when It was
the first
notion before motion
set in-
side-out-
side the difference in
between mover and moved
when It
is found In
and all around
before sound made it
said or heard
It was on the third day
It was idea, a seed sown
the sky glown
in sacred rhyme
the making of
difference In time
then and what
will be
started over
counting It out
to find our place
only to begin
again
at one.

Image by Gustave Doré (1832-1883), Creation of Light[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Friday, February 26, 2016

Perso in la biblioteca Umbertos


Leave a light on
so the bugs don't eat the books.
The grandfather clock
must be wound
so our heart keeps ticking.
Stock up on the stories
so you have many maps
and mythos to go.
The journey keeps us young,
but the last leg catches up...
You've lost me-
many times
in the labyrinth of
your enigmatic fantastic
winding fallacious folios
that make ones head spin-
Are they books or bottles
with memories as mixed
messages?
Translation tends to
misinterpret and blurs,
slurs, like tears on ink
there's a leak, (I think)
Ahh-look up-
always-the sky
knows how to read infinity
as long as your words remain
contained and
eternally with me,
I'll be happily lost in the library.


Image of painting By Unknown Dutch Master (c.1628) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Alter ego


Having an alter ego
is better than being schizophrenic,
clinically.
Although its still not quite right
to say it has to do with our
size shifting ego.
It could have been called
alter(nate) reality
-but that was taken by technology.
Parallel universes could work, theoretically.
This would not conflict or cross hairs,
like egos.
Who knows,
maybe being a writer is just ordinary
crazy. After all,
it's a scary thing
to think like Stephen King.
Though the average person
keeps their twisted thoughts
to themselves,
but knows how
alter(nate)ing egos
allow acceptably
multiple personalities.
And many is more than one-
identities, like secrets are sweet,
indulgent even, but one
can have too many of those
personality wise, everyone knows
those are aptly called lies.

The scenery in between


All the faces
in their cars, stopping, going
to and from
look so tired and miserable-
like they are being drug around,
he noticed.
When people walk,
they participate in the traveling.

Going Places,
she said
Look at him,
now he's going somewhere
and his air was lighter
the wind was with him
as they say.

Have you walked anywhere
without a destination,
and seen what's between
point B and A
(where are those located anyway)?

This thing stumbled upon
called ambling along-
not to ramble on too long
but wandering is no easy thing-
thankfully though,
it requires no licensed training.
Practice, yes,
lots of pedestrian practice,
yet even pacing is prior
enough preparation
for lack of destination.

The art of the amble:
when out walking
in a leisurely way
one can confidently say
I went somewhere today
without a point.




Image By Stupich, Martin, creator, Weeping Wall, Flathead County MT[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Spectator Sport


Middle balcony
where reporters are filed
and whores are stashed
doesn't seem so long ago
Middle balcony
up in the branches
the birds mast
where cackles sink
and wails lilt
into the rafters
it used to be so
Middle balcony
cast in the dark
as a side remark
of jesterly hospitality
and for courtly banality
Middle balcony
too far to catch
the rigs and ropes
behind the magic
show down stage
Middle balcony
posts up extras 
for the epic play
with broken legs
and body doubles
Middle blacony
 is a caste idealist 
for the grand finale
leap of revelry 
one must take
into the pit
of the old
Globe.





Image of painting by Thomas Francis Dicksee, Juliet on the balcony (1875) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.


Thursday, February 25, 2016

De mure De moon


She walks in the open at night
wrapped in white sheets wet from sweat
that darken in every crevasse
by her movement

She speaks in shapes of words
by the phase of the moonglow
and knows she is watched, barely
as she pulls the threads closer

lightly, it was the way she cast
down her eyes
dutifully does not speak
until spoken at

The careless sashay,
the way her hips open
to accommodate the frame
that holds her

Embellished, a facade
shiny with optimism,
buffed and presentable as
Potemkin villages
de mure

But the light from
her being
there shifted and softened
features receptively

In decent she saunters
the skies, timidly taking her place
outside public walls
where no artificial light falls

She sees purely, clearly
she is not needed to light the way
for others to see, but every so often
she brightly becomes
full of herself.



Image by Luis Ricardo Falero [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Count of Poiesis


Should you meet me in the day
-Be Warned-
Under the glaring sunlit lamp
I am grotesque, in the worst light.
I avoid my reflection in hindsight
and it rejects me back.

They still say vampires
once dwelt in caves
nearby, while I dwelt
while growing up.

The solar alarm sounds
strong to vowels, soft with consonance;
sensitive in all tenses, and thirsty.
-Be Wary-
my dreamy stranger-
under the open atria of night,
we are both tied to the ticks
of blood-sucking time.
Transfusing our eternity away,
craving the sap of the skylark.


Composed 10/10/15.

Image by Philip Burne-Jones [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Le Vampire, c. 1897.


Tres (trace)

Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...