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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. 

Photographic Memory

There was evidence.

Documents that document what was evident then,

for now.

The documents were both rare

and fragile.

Some small rectangles, windows of film

frothing with substance, like acids and bases

jaundiced or molded and shriveled.

At times only the negatives

remained. No resemblance.

It is hard to see the value of any one.

when every person is packing clouds

with images.
Transitive types still holographic despite

imaginary inks and multiversions,

a.k.a. avatars, space holders, facetime-streaming

proof-until Poof!

What memory?

There is no evidence.

We were not there. 

Image of Martin Shaw, 1929 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Pheeling the Skein

Follow the strings and twisted wires,

everything and more than all that is there

is moving About;

spinning, buzzing, jumping, vibrating, rocking,

and it comforts most

anxious beasts.

Calm could come later.

Tied to chords that carry notes containing

amateur truths

capable of travel through walls and cells.

Tangles always teach by example.

How easy it is.

Free will- not worth the long lines.

Holding breath was a frugal way of sadness.

We make promises to indulge

at the ends, 
we find the nots are terminal.




Painting By Kuroda Seiki (1866-1924) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A jacket is a cover

When my mother told me
about the day I was born,
she said, besides being too big
and born late,
it was a dark a stormy day,
grey, wet, cold and nasty, and
dreadful as ever for February-

And since I was there but did not see,
I trust this is the truth
she saw
with me.
Although, due
to my mother
never reading, she wouldn't have known,
it was a great day
to start a new book.



Painting by Mary Cassatt, 'Sleepy Baby' c. 1910 in Public Domain, via Wikimedia Commons. 

Grass blades and power tools

Stood up,
freed our hands
to tool, implement and imply
utility.

Thus, sentenced within predicates
held under knuckled thought,
contortionist
fingers fist in refusal to feel,
with open palms, red
and pointed tactile tips,
being blue,
leads us through rooms, people,
towns, and nightmares,
fumbling for switches

to turn in from out, left from right,
divide man from beast, past from present,
and fulfill this suspicion to see
the last site from its first sound-

With time on our hands
seconds passed.
While waiting,
we outpaced ourselves,
only to find the finish line
lying down.

The race was over
before the dog slithered under
any fence, and the walls caved in.

Too late

to place

bets.




Artwork by Walter Crane, 1909 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. an illustration for the poem The World's Age' by Charles Kingsley and the lines 'Still the race of Hero-spirits/ Pass the lamp from hand to hand;/ Age from age the Words inherits-/ 'Wife, and Child, and Fatherland.

Tiny terrors

It was jarring the way she hopped so quickly 
from bunnies into horses.  Just innocent

little girl wishes, her histories with a small smile
naively, she shifts her weight with

her eyes nailed to the podium

avoiding eye contact it was hard to tell
she had known danger
intimately. 

“If the rider is nuts,

the horse bolts,” they always say.

Today, she spoke of the long lean

and pressure points.

Her shoulders showed 
she had seen her share of withers shake with warning.

Her baby hairs frizzed out in agitation 
that the truth is-
size may matter.

She had seen the rippling muscles so tense
her voice quivered,

where the equines veins are forced to sit atop

and strain under pulled skin at the nodes.

She had looked into glass ball brown eyes that flash a slit

of white, not watchful but warning.

Square teeth, as green as a homeless herbivore 
human, in flashes likewise with his

ears pinned back-

Hold on or get trampled.

Such is movement

in dreams. 

Afraid of spiders, she added at the end.

When she looks away briefly,

It becomes clear,

the horses have followed her gaze-

she should be afraid.

Rabbits don't hide 

in hats, but they do leave holes

so she can keep her fears 

penned up 

in poetry. 





Painting By Edmund C. Tarbell, 'Schooling the horses' c. 1902 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Bare witness

It was miraculous-

the way life gets to see itself

Change

genetics 1-oh-1

the children brought here

with great struggle

and left to die

without effort

holes on hearts and all

last names

shorter than

last words.




Watercolor by William Blake c. 1794 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.