I have always enjoyed writing, poems and prose. I have written many texts, some have ended up in songs, some are just poetic images captured from my imagination or an emotion, describing an event, a landscape, or frame of mind. Sometimes I have written with a specific goal in mind; someone gives me an image, or a theme, and sometimes I have written texts to fit a beautiful melody that inspires me. At times I write a poem in minutes, and edit, seldom. Sometimes this is a good thing, sometimes not. Writing has always come rather easily to me. I work intuitively, and without a lot of turmoil. I don’t worry too much about the words I put on paper, they are not indelible. I like words, I like the rhythms, the taste, the texture in the mouth. Even now as I add these texts, I can change them. With perspective comes a certain objectivity. Nothing here is sacred. nor overly precious
There is one caveat: there are a lot of texts, maybe too many, but still, this gives reason to read a few as you wish, from time to time, and revist this changing website. Hopefully there are some surprises, here and there. Enjoy!
Texts also appear peppered freely throughout this website.
All photos taken by myself, unless otherly listed.
ARCTIC STATE OF BEING I am not made of stone although I try hard to fossilize thoughts and longings into immovable gestures. The wind stirs unseen an impulse alone grips the breath, sucked into the negative space inside. I hold my thoughts like a supreme inhalation, confined and imprisoned in a web of restraint. Words choke, only a breathless and silent sigh allowed, to not stir or displace the air. No grand gestures here, no broad strokes paint a vivid landscape or intimate still life. An impulse to burst chains that bind that impede the liberty to wander freely the landscapes of dreams to look down upon the unencumbered solace of open spaces. No constraints of time, no arbitrary boundaries between thought and action. This arctic state of being, this stilled blood of unnatural non-actions held up like trophies of propriety do nothing but twist and contract. Silent longings to cross over into a spaciousness not hidden or submerged or buried. This not knowing, this stiffening of action, this frozen time, is killing.
EIGHT PORTUGAL VIGNETTES 1. HOMECOMING Where is everyone? its a ghost town! There are only some fences left and radios blaring and laundry waving in the wind for no one. Life is frozen no footprints or glimpses of black or blue in the distance no voices no dogs barking no birds cooing. Where is everyone? Is there something we don't know? OK it is hot, and it is full on daylight sunshine blue skies sizzling heat siesta time but really no sound of trucks, no sound of tractors, no sign of work, no sound of life. An occasional twitter reveals nothing, a ghost cry from afar. There is no sign of grazing, no trodden paths, to signal life. The trees just growing from the roots up weeds taking over, thorny roses, sentries guarding the path bugs lining the wall, climbing in the corners. lurking in their repose. Waiting. For us to leave Where is everyone? 2. Have roses always been so cruel? Nature’s hypocrisy revealed. The symbol of everlasting love and passion which underlies a most insidious duplicity. Tendrils that reach out to take hold of pale and smooth surfaces, the slow creep into every unsuspecting corner. The thorns , thick and sharp , a horny unpenetrable skin. The annual ritual of pruning and shearing met with the systematic triumph of time as the seemingly innocent new growth, a welcome harbinger of spring, retaliates with deeply enmeshed and tangled weaves with the most innocent of neighboring veins. That is their mastery. The flower, sweet and lovely, synonomous with the florid design of love’s sweet calling, held aloft by the skeletal lacy arm verdant and alluring, a siren lying in wait, lurid and ensnaring. Its dual nature masked by the come-hither fragrance and the graceful unfolding of the petals. The fragance enticing, the color inspiring the most ardent verses, but lo, the thorn waits to draw the thick red blood, the spidery welts rise, the undeniable true and equal mark of love’s rose. 3. The earth is slowly being eaten, there is the low munch and crunch of tiny little jaws everywhere beneath feet, overhead, right behind, to the left and right buzzing around. The dithyrambic march of the drones, the soldiers, the scouts mouths stretched wide teeth sharpened arms well equipped with little suction cups to grip the surface, to lie in wait, to suck, drain life’s necessary nourishment. The host, left pale and weak, rotting from the inside out, little holes, wounds that scar left to show X marks the spot. An easy target this uncomfortable victim. The dance of life triumphs, the unnatural products invented to stem the flow of time the sprays, the powders, the poisons, the old wives tales, the ebb and flow of the tide, the waxing and waning of the moon, the parasites move on to the next wave of evolution, Revolution. Grinning in defiance as they discover the chink in the armour, the achilles heel of modernization and progress. This is how it has always been, always will be. 4. We devour knowledge by reading others have knowledge by doing. Doing is not reading, and reading is not doing. Reading is doing something else. It requires being still, quieting the mind. to let the words in which are then forgotten. What page is this? Have I read this already? What is language? Why are there so many? What language are dreams in? What language is silence? What do voices sound like? Is a sigh or a gasp or a wail the same in all books all languages? 5. The incessant march, observed, the seemingly purposeless circling, scrutinized. A mad rushed dance, the search for the hidden highway with no road signs, or clearly delineated lanes. Joining and merging as the pheremones acquiesce. Is there an agreement which is the correct pathway to circle again and again with unseen purpose? Boulder-like morsels attached to the head like some strange medieval headwear. Teeth clenched on sizes twice as grand and 3 times in weight. Still around and around with absolute fortitude. This magnified 1000 fold! A parallel universe of army-like exercises, to and fro. This maze of roadways, intersecting and merging, mapping out the small area beneath one’s feet, invisible almost to the naked eye. Once observed there is no stillness. None at all. It is gone forever. There is simply no quiet. The underlying hum and buzz, the sizzling of the heat the far off and nearby cries, the cooing and the twittering, whoops and whistles, the groans and yawns as the day awakens and intensifies the orchestra of nature’s sounds. Work begins on every level, every magnitude. The growing, the marching, the stretching of limbs to suck the moisture out of the dryness, straining to find a place between the other limbs There is no freedom from this daily ebb and flow. There is no escape from this network of sound There is no such thing as quiet It is unbelievably noisy here. 6. MORNING COUNTERPOINT puh too too puh too too THE TINY SOLDIER WITH WINGS FIGHTS VALIENTLY raketa raketa raketa raketa tweet ITS FUTILE CHARGE TO CIRCLE AND SURROUND trilllllll BOOOOM buzzz tweett THE VICTIM TWICE THE SIZE OVERSIZED A BURDEN TO CARRY yaketeay whooop whoop whoop bzzzzzz hhmmmmmmmm BOOOOOM UNDERNEATH EVERY SURFACE A PARALLEL UNIVERSE OF SOUND AND SILENCE AND DUST who der who der who der tweet whooooooop hey hey hey INCESSANT CHEWING zzzzzzz SMALL REMNANTS OF DECAYING CORPSES WHO KNOWS HOW LONG THEY LAY IN WAIT OF EVACUATION huhuhbu bzzzzzz BOOOOM eeeeeeeee thummmp A SMALL HOLE IN THE CHINK OF THE ARMOUR ALLOWS LIGHT TO COME THROUGH AND THE RODENTS trrrrrillllllll bzzzzzzzzzzzzuzuzuzuz thummmp TEETH SHARPEN ON INANIMATE PLASTIC BEDDING BOOOOOM BOOOOOM hhhuuummmmmm hey hey SHREDDING WITH A CHEW AND A CRUNCH BOOOOOM thummmp WE SQUIRM AND SQUEAL THOUGH MUCH LARGER AND STRONGER AND POWERFUL THINGS THAT SCURRY buh daaa tra lalala laaaaa dwiedip doooda daaaa dup doe wah FRIGHTEN BIG OLD US AND YET THE FLYING GOES ON AND THE SINGING, eeeeeeeeeeeeee AS WE WHINCE STAND ON CHAIRS AND BRANDISH BROOMS raketa raketa raketa TWEET 7. CAMERA MAN Timo and the tractor, Timo the destroyer, A man and his machines. There you see the fruits of labor and the joy of a day’s work well done. He sure has a lot of kids, and they are beautiful too. A slalom course in and out of the trees, churning the earth, flattening the grass. There goes the dead peach trees, stick-like and pale, Now you see them, now you don’t. 8. DAILY OBSERVATIONS The snail curls into itself guarding the fragile soft underbelly of a private existence. Soft, wet, moist, unseen. One sudden prod the life source yielded. the flies scatter around the carcass to feed on the sweet succulent flesh. The machine churns and growls scraping the years of yellow mold. The flies are multiplying before my very eyes as they careen and swoop like clumsy acrobats with spindly little legs. They seem to fornicate in the air with the greatest of ease and suddenly it seems like there are hundreds of them waiting for the breeze to stop and when it does they land simultaneously like a massive horde of something unnamable and black right on that one bare spot on the arm that was being saved for something much more special than a fleshy landing spot. The smell of the raw flesh starting to cook and char outside, the poor animal whose one last gasp is encompassed in the visor like teeth of some hungry carnivore without knowing the name of its capturer. We eat them in order not to be seen as captives ourselves. Feet bare and the chair hard but sturdy under me, a subtle reassurance that I will be held aloft and suspended over the cold unforgiving floor. The day has just begun and the far-off sounds of the country life enter my quiet world . It is funny how loud quiet can be. The smells, fresh, the scraping of the broom outside as it sweeps the cobwebs and dust balls to one side, just to be pushed once again to the middle by the inevitable wind. A never-ending process. This place so barren and yet so full of many memories. Years of memories. Many meals, books, games, stillness, fires. But still we could use a bit more furniture. The paint time- worn, and bare revealing how things pass and need renewal. That is how this present time feels, time-worn and barren needing a new coat of paint. A redressing and renewal of life’s vows.
THE GREEN MAN Close your eyes and breathe in deeply, pungent fertile sights and sounds, surrounded then , elusive light a face still swathed in mystery. A connection to the hidden side the soulful side, the skillful side, where all is present and beyond all suspicion, all belief. That wild irrational side of life in equal measure light and dark. Myriad colors , lucid sight full of endless hopes and dreams. A moistness green, a hint of musk, a mysterious glow and joyful might. Infinity walks before you Infinity walks behind, it is a circle and and yet a square invisible and yet, so real. The mask that reveals a tender soul as much as hides, as does reveal. is nourished by every hope and sorrow endless laughter, endless tears SEDUCTIVE SABOTAGE/A SONG Seductive sabotage makes all things dire it wrenches the heart with searing fire turns inside out, the outside in the upside down, of silent sin turns inside out, the outside in sweet obsessive heady spin. Oh the yes of it, the no of it like breathing in and breathing out Close off your heart, yes, if you can and if you can't you're all alone no glamour in the love of stone. The truth lies somewhere between the two Seductive sabotage is like a snake winds round the heart, is on the take fully imagined, not realized first adored and then despised, undistinguished and unexplained terrorized and in flames emotions swindled and ashamed undignified, and yet, no blame. Oh the yes and no of it the hot and cold of it like breathing in and breathing out close off your heart, yes, if you can and if you can't, you're all alone I've stepped out, no passion known. The fawning smile of icey speech the prize in sight, but out of reach hands are empty, hearts afraid orders given, but not obeyed reckless abandon is nothing new. I'm drowning in the pool of you
THE HATEFUL BOX Would it be better to be: idiotic or spasmotic hysteric or choleric scattered or slovenly misshapen or unfortunate unhealthy or flatulent clumsy or ill-at-ease putrid or pock-marked obese or dry-skinned unnoticed or bleached unimportant or withered hairy-faced or inconsequent sun-burned or invisible nauseous or truculent thick-ankled or scaley dissipated or diseased disjointed or mealy-mouthed ordinary or desperate pestulent or gargantuan hard pressed or obnoxious insidious or red-necked colorless or tepid ? How can paradise exist between the four walls you have placed me in? I’ve decided to hate the box you’ve put me in I tried it, I couldn’t breathe, I didn’t fit, I couldn’t see out. Were there ever trees outside? Were there oceans, were there even bright stars ? I can’t even see my own hand. You have too many rules I’ve stopped being able to even remember them: notouching nocalling nolooking notalking noasking noringing noresting nobreathing noreaching nohoping nosighing nomoving nosmiling nochanging nokissing nosleeping nomeeting noseeing nowanting notelling noyelling nocrying nowaking nofeeling nobeing... My contours are too special for this box.
THE YELLOW ROSES Here we are Look out the window, what do you see? There’s a man there with yellow roses. See him, by the corner? He is alone. Look , he’s eating them One by one he eats them. the yellow roses. Yellow is the color of poison they say. Such a pale and insidious hate, it must be. He devours them. He is alone. Look its snowing. The first real snowfall of the year There is a hush Can you hear it? It is so beautiful and quiet here. Do you remember that time by the bridge? The first time? It was snowing then. The man is leaving now, he’s finished the roses He is alone. Can you see him? There is a woman standing beside him now She is wearing a blue sweater. She is looking this way as if she can see us Do you see her? She is taking small little steps. Look at the way he looks at her. It is lovely. The snow falls gently It is so beautiful and quiet here. Do you remember that time? by the bridge and the log? It was lovely then. It was lovely then.
BUSINESS SUIT You’ve turned me into a business person in a grey suit that seems to be what you want My suit is ill-fitting, it is too big and your’s is too small and the wrong color. We march about and plug in here and there making sure the wires never cross Shall I take a meeting in the other room while you do lunch with some sponsor? I don’t have the proper credentials my resume is incomplete. I don’t know shorthand. I don’t care about punctuation You’ve turned the thermostat off it is too cold in here I can see my breath I'm holding still so as not to displace you fragile as I am forgiving and bending, yielding and swaying my back curving to fit into the tight space you allot me. You’ve changed the job description. There is no honor in this This suit does not do me justice. I quit!
JEWELS Your eyes are like little pearls, He said. Your mouth is like a rough diamond, She said. Each word you speak is like rare amber found on the shore of a distant beach, He said. Your every thought is like a turquoise stream that flows into the deepest pool sending shivers down my spine, She said. Your teeth are like a row of opals that glisten in the light of day and illuminate my path at night, He said. Your gaze is like a topaz sun that warms and comforts my troubled soul and teaches the weary to soothe their pain, She said. Your touch is like a shining ruby that caresses the soft skin of my arm healing my turmoil and protecting humanity from the wrathful glance, He said. Your hair is like transparent crystal wafting in the wind sending shivers of delight up my spine spun into a web of joy eternal, She said. Your arms are like petrified wood holding ancient stories of civilizations past and profound revealing mysteries of the entire universe, He said. Your nose is like a sapphire sometime blue, sometimes pink rare and precious, undeniably special completely entrancing, She said. Your backbone is like azure lapiz lazuli supple, yet extraordinarily strong, flexible, yet yielding, a miraculous strength unequivocal and unparalled surpassed by absolutely nothing, no one, He said. Your whole being is like a jewelled sceptre filled with every precious stone known on earth ignacious, sedimentary, conglomerate a mosaic of unsurpassed beauty and magnificence, She said. Running out of things to say, no stone left unturned, they ran out of breathe. Shoulders heaving. Silence. Stillness. Nothing more to be said. Nothing. Not even a gasp. Is there really any truth to be had in a conversation of superlatives?
UNIVERSALE EXCENTRIQUE Inside out and over under upside down but still always pleasing, Atmospheric— Never-ending Count your blessings, Hush Now- -omnipresent breathlessly. Never stop, look in every nook and cranny small, Quietly. One and two and forty-three aren’t really necessary. Luscious perfect symmetry.
BIBBLING BUBBLING/ DISTANCE THE SPACE IN BETWEEN To measure the distance, you need more than a transparent ruler marking bit by bit the thick unspoken in- between. It feels quite evil, quite inimitable one must need something equally evil to erase it and invisible, since it is unseen. It feels quite ordinary. It doesn’t belong here in this magical realm. Shall we put on the magic cloaks then the ones in the shelved and dusty books? No one will see then perhaps then the fear is gone. Without the fear the distance in- between, the unfelt, the not allowed, the held in which serves no one and has no charm, where memory does not exist, the distance dissipates , the mist miraculously clears. and in this sensate world where one can breathe, the vistas are endless.
ART MEN/SAD AND LONELY Hot and cold extreme Etched in memory Nothing lingering, not worth mentioning. Mostly tedious (spoken) Fingers trace an outline seered into yielding flesh Grey, oblivious (spoken) Deny all that is fragile.... not a sentimental quiver, no, but a devil’s mocking glance. Unacceptable Inescapable. Clouds obscure Nothing sure Seek compassion, plead in honesty Hold close to you life's memories. Mouth wide open, silent whispers Shifting paaterns, brightness of the dawn. Sad and lonely men (spoken)A blink of an eye and the dust settles. Chained to suffering (spoken) The mind---prison of longing. Passing landscapes where thoughts remain as if the geography was nourished in this way. Hold dear in your heart, Love's clear messages Mouth wide open silent singing.
FANTOMAS/ THE DIRECTOR'S CUT Ragged raging cattle cries Disappear into a mafioso waltz. Whining, yet musical never-the-less. Like Dracula sucking the blood of the sacrificial virgin. It feels good those lowly whispered commands and the sweet ecstasy of surrender. Giddy up, giddy up Jump onto my spiny back And feel the pulsing between your legs. It is destiny, It is only a pretense of civility. Underneath is the true emission Like a broken shield separating you from me. The wall is up, it was built overnight From one moment to the next. It makes little sense, but is, never-the less. The gliding tones of intuition of what the other world holds far away from reason. Thoughts missing elsewhere Like a theremin unleashed. It is also an undeniable truth A beautiful undeniable truth to hold and cherish as a small bird cradled in your arms.
GUARDIAN ANGEL There is something to be said about how you soar above the others your wings unfurled and the stillness that you instil and the pealing of the bells the last chords most beautiful most thoughtful most secret. Most cannot follow only watch in gentle awe I cannot even fathom where you were birthed, a rare bird and am often left behind unheeded and alone. I am not a necessity, but I remember the times you took me back without reproach and although I had to win you back, you let me. I can only walk in your shadow I’m afraid and your silent thoughts more profound than I can fathom. You are well-read in the quieter ways and in that I am left watching from afar trying to impress you with my frantic antics. There are books written about your attention span. I cannot compare you with the others. this time, not at all. There is no comparison, for certainly you are most unusual Guardian you are, protector you are, perhaps not mortal after all, your namesake, an angel. the hills and valleys, peaks and deep ravines match the uneveness of my emotional terrain. sometimes violent avalanches and thunderstorms lull me to sleep. You breathe steadily in and out, the rhythm constant. Your eyes gaze fixedly ahead, calm and true, unswerving Mine dart incessantly, peering around the corners, looking back over my shoulder, opening and closing like shutters. Yours are far apart, mine close together. How you cradle my hand, so small, in yours, almost unknowing and your other-worldly eyes see past me as if I’m not even there. I am insignificant, so it seems, And yet you are always there to pick up the petals as they fall to put them back in my hand.
HEAD ROOM There are rooms inside my head. many of them. The north, south, east, and west wings are filled with chambers of varying sizes, a cluttered maze of lefts and rights, alley ways that wind in a circuitous pattern, in and out of focus and clarity that open miraculously into a well-lit idea. Each room has a secret name, there are too many to name in entirety: the room of desire, the room of willfullness, the room of action, the room of fear, the room of revenge, the room of hate, the room of compassion and empathy. Each room is decorated in a different style. Where to put the bed in my head? the chair, the table. the sofa, the lamp? The wall paper and curtains can be a complete disaster, only a drecorator (dr·eadful decorator) can cope with retro vs vintage to post modern and hippy squalor. And what must I wear to enter each room, a new personality? What must I don to attend the party given in my head? Ambling from room to room, the colors change, the lighting changes; the music knows no bounds, from dark and mysterious, to light and playful, wistful and rueful. symphonic to electric. These rooms are tangible as a detailed thought, a dream, a wish, a hope, a desire, a fear. Some rooms in my head join together to make a suite, an alliance to take the most space in my thoughts; and some are isolated and illusionary, solitary dreams and hopes, unfulfilled and ignored, while others a nagging pinch propelled into action, spontaneous and sometimes violent. It can get very noisy in my head, all the parties in competition for attention and press coverage. The real estate agent has made an appointment to assess the value of the mansion of my mind. Like a psychiatrist inspecting each and every corner and nook and cranny, checking for peeling paint and cracks in the foundation. Shall my mind be declared a disaster area or a national treasure? I am afraid there is no viable market for my mental compartments. It would take a much too excentric and enormously large family to find comfort in my head, and above all, pricey. These thoughts are equally confusing, I think I'll retreat into the safe room in my head, but first I'll have to wander around and find it.
WALTZ OF THE MEERCOOT Flotsam and jetsam have found a place of honor in the birdie penthouse, an amusing entangled mess, a skyscraper of organic technology and urban crap. We witness the tug-a-war rearrangement of corrugated cardboard, moving day disagreements juxtaposed with the bobbing of the cradle. The sudden activity seems not to stir the fragile baubles embedded or perched, depending on the present arrangement of the so-called furniture. Do the inhabitants, protected and warmed by the oddest assortment of protective coverings, know what lies in store for them? The interior decorator’s fate of breeding and the sentries watchful eye? A list of things might help a map, a grid, a faucet, or a switch to turn on, a button, to turn off. Instructions of how and where and why, Action to stillness, Rambunctiousness to quietude. Fresh winds and currents escape this plastic servitude. SHOE STORY He had to listen to his shoe yesterday. Really! It was buzzing quite loudly, impossible to ignore. It was trilling and shaking, mysteriously. First he looked at the heel. The grass was still stuck to the dirt of the paths recently travelled. The heel was firmly in place. The toe was encrusted with tiny jewels and shiny beads, They were all in order, every one. The suede sides were soft and worn, they looked tired, yes, but firm. Not shaky at all. Still the trembling persisted. The shoe reverberated in his hand. His whole being sensed the mysterious movement, the entire room began to move and be displaced. His face, afire, twitching . His hands fluttering like veiny autumnal leaves in the wind. His limbs akimbo, in perpetual motion His voice shaky, an uncontrollable vibrato. His heart pounding in his chest like a gigantic marching bass drum. Nothing could stop itb The whole world at that moment was mirrored in a buzzing and trembling shoe. Everything turned violent and dark. He stomped around, trying to control the shaking. Seizures set upon him. Tidal waves of undulating muscle spasms. Everything was magnified, gigantic. No rest. No peace. No calm. None at all. Then it appeared, timidly out from under the in-step Black and shiny, and small. Confused. Trembling, no flight. Wings broken and hanging. Buzzing uncontrollably, the last throes of life left its beautiful fading body. It grew still in his hand, quieted, comforted the trembling subsided. Life's breath released. Now this was the fateful moment. It was as if this little life and death hidden in his shoe had released an untapped moment in his searching soul. Never again to be complacent. Stillness, forever disquieted. A wandering lustfulness for life reborn. He turned and saw the wings sprout on his suited back a new fluttering, trembling, buzzing erupted. He shook uncontrollably One halting step after another. Forward, then back, as if intoxicated. His step grew steadier, lighter, more sure. He lifted off the ground, spirited. He left those old shoes behind. Soaring above and gliding below, observing his mingons of tired broken shoes worn, and out of fashion, and left for much more verdant pastures.
A SONG We all have our hangups We all have our stuck places We all have our tape- recorded stories looping around in self- inflicted glory. But so what , we’re still good people We read good books and care about important things. We’ve all got our neurosis and lots of terrible bad habits Some smoke, some drink, some seek love and swim in psychosis. But so what, we’re still good people We look out the open window further than the horizon and care about human suffering. Some days the air gets too heavy and clouds obscure the light and personal sagas create suffering to fully cover up the night. Lack of restraint and impulsive action disallow the good to grow, and too many times things slip through your grasp. What you reap, you will sow. I can see your eyes glass over when the air gets fiery hot. When words like darts and spears flying hit the wall and leave their aural spot. We can be so hurtful, cruel and worse than awful. We can rant and rave and yell then yield and flinch under cruel offense. But still we open up our mouths to plead in honest defence But still we open up our mouths to speak in honest repentance. Go find your cup of golden that you can hold out at night, and catch the final rays of light to hold dear in your heart. These are the gifts that come to you they are blessings from within . Seek compassion, not glory As you give , you will receive
PECULIAR Its so peculiar, the way, it goes through your mind through the tunnels and mazes of matter. One door shuts, and one opens, and through THIS you go slipping and sliding like Alice free flow. Floating and gliding, while warbling away with a sweet rhythmic contrast that makes you all sway. That the pictures you make in your mind could be fake is a joke we all share, let us just all agree, Whether inside or out, there’s still quite a fee exacted , and pried out from humanity. So let us all gather in some quiet dell and listen with purpose to what is to tell, No chirp and no murmur is carelessly spent, in contrast man’s rumble is chaotic and bent.
THE SURGEON/CHIRUUG The surgeon walked into the room and grabbed his scalpel off the metal table polished by a flourishing Practice. His face momentarily reflected in the glossy surface, a sneer of capability passed over his face , He perused his patient -victim, unsuspecting and gullible. No distracting thoughts to postpone or prevent the precisely executed incision, a ravine-like gash, in the soft and fleshy defenseless target, no temerity no vacillation, zorro-like, the decision sudden and unstoppable. . a masterpiece in precision. Beautiful, yet cruel. The clock ticked in the background, a lulling hum, day- in day -out, day in day out, day -in-day-out. This occurance merely a passage of time- An ordinary day at the office. The lips are the first to go. Nothing left to say. No supplication, No lament. No whining or wailing Absolutely nothing that may sound melodic The eyes follow the lips, He said. The mirrors to the soul, They say. Dull that shining glow. Gouge them out. Now the blood really begins to flow. The passionate burgundy color quickly fading as it turns dried brown. Coded Blue and orange mixed to become this dried brown. Then he goes for the heart still beating strong, even after all this time, “This is much more difficult to quiet, all that history”. He says, reaching for the sharpest most delicate of blades. Tracing a terribly disturbing pattern severing the alpine-like roadwork of arteries and veins, one by one separated from the main flow of inhale and exhale and discarded . Gentle throbbing stilled and stopped. Now a mere object without feelings. Research about violent crimes say that the moment just before and the moment just after the terrible act of violence are moments completely devoid of love and compassion. Numb , Inevitable, The victim a mere object without feelings The sharp edged splinter , seething under the skin exact razor blade precision. The thin line of blood tracing history; A ruthless story. The thick impermeable mist before the eyes turn to stone. Grey stone. Cold and distant Remains that way.
RARA AVIS/FOR MICHEL No more no more No breath no skin no hair No mouth no speech No sound No more. Eyes sunken, no sight. Limbs shriveled, no reach. Hands frozen, no touch No life No more No life No more Past laden with sound Tangible presence Strong gestures symphonic semiphores Elaborate wired tactile thoughts No touch No sound No more. Pulsing twitching prayers visceral Glissando sirens. Pulsing twitching prayers visceral Glissando sirens. No life No more No life No more The distance bridged between science and feeling. Technology masked in simplicity of emotions bared, Now stilled. Present, now memory No future. Only shadows and corners Where others will stand and remember. He is no more. High forehead waxen Angel hair unfurled Ears strain to hear a whisper, Eyes stare to see a pulse, Blood surging through the veins Inner stream of life There is no stir. Plug disconnected No current. He is no more. Rara avis Flying to the heavens Borne aloft on the electric and sonic beyond Comrade of Edison Tesla Bell Franklin Spirit that lives on in the unseen eternal Spark that lives on in dreams and lore Tied no longer to this earthly plane, Ferried across with the a child’s gift of the pretty bill in his pocket But called too soon for those left behind. No more no more No breath no skin no hair No mouth no speech No sound No more. He is no more. He is no more. He is no more. .
FOR DEB The ladies are wielding their spoons in a glorious manner upright and proud like flags hoisted on a flagpole proclaiming superiority over all other utensils, the lowly fork,the untrustworthy knife, not even the stainless steel kind, but a rusty and spotted aluminum. The ladies line them all up in a festive parade of corresponding sizes. Feminine recepticles, enticing and forgiving, concave and womb-like. Reaching for them one at a time in a sort of kitchen communion as their deeply painted and smiling lips enclose the cold metal vessels full of all things nourishing and tender alike.
FUNNY SONG no sound is no sound not spoken not heard no not one word nothing more absurd a big fat zero certainly no hero. then what is all this riot no silence no quiet fantastic. frenetically frantic simply simplamatic totally misconstruted rootatoot tooted diddlediddledat sizzle sizzle snap dipple dipple dap //ha di bop ha di bop bop// dip dip dip daaay down to the cages spent all those wages slipped the coin in the slot and swung, contact sought what was she thinking certainly no thought whiz went the ball energy chaotic and fraught again try again try again try contact is made snap on the spot what was she thinking certainly no thought trip to the dregs fat toothless and grey for this one must pay for at least 56 days. sizzle sizzle snap dipple dipple dap //ha di bop ha di bop bop// dip dip dip daaay
ALMOST JUNE Newly green trees suffering the tangle of winter still. Optimistic passer-bys sandals with socks and overcoats. It is spring isnt it? The shimmering of the canals and the quivering trees the rain dampens spirits uplifted everyday a new day full of expectations? Tomorrow may be better. Bells ring from not so far despite sun’s absence and time marches on. The hands of the clock barely visible today- fog mist rain hail, obscure like a veil. The motor scooter’s purr announces day’s duties deliveries, pickups, appointments. People hurrying from across the canal faces grey, hands held close to the body like sprinters trying to get out of the way of the weather.
A GOOD BEGINNING It's a good beginning It should be in the archive don't you think? Its very pretty but it is so different It makes us feel uncomfortable Is there a button to turn it off? They seem to be selling copies on every street corner They should stop, don't you think? The factory workers in a row churning them all out door to door There must be a button to turn the whole thing off Let's get all the things in a neat little row to see if it's in the right order. Is there a potential candidate? Who is the director? He looks german cause he likes to fish. Is there a button to turn him off? All things considered The lowest side is on the low side, right and in the middle. Something light and crispy Something more transparent. Let's keep things going forward and friendly here When we run out of time we simply have to stop and turn the whole thing off.
THREE OBSTACLES TO ENLIGHTENMENT 1. Craving: This Burns Certainly an ancient addiction, a primal hunger piercing the heart. A blazing arrow of desperate craving hitting its mark with perfect marksmanship. Not Eros’ sentimental quiver but a devil’s mocking lance. The finger that traces the outline, muted or frenzied of hot and cold extreme; a freezing or scalding pattern etched in hunger’s memory. The pain of the sort of desire where everything is questioned, and nothing is answered. The abyss looms wide waiting to be filled with anything but agony. Like the solitary suffering of an innocent being penned in an irrational corral, reaching and grasping at spectral needs- surrounded on all sides, the searing mark of pain branded in its heart. Seemingly inescapable, this need, this addiction, like a corset tight and unyielding, encased in the leather of craving and desire. Suffocating and binding the flesh in masochistic uselessness. Mouth wide open, foaming, silent scream, skin, hot and feverish to the touch. Simply addiction to no reprieve. 2. Aversion: This Enflames Eyes turned quickly hot and glaring- unseeing laser- beam x-ray vision that pierces like a scalpel and undresses all pretense of civility; Something soft might touch the heart, a momentary vulnerability. Unacceptable. Instead, anger and rage rise in response- commoner’s pastimes- grand violent gestures mistaken for personal expression. Repulsion most ordinary- enflaming as if our birthright is to disdain. More than an impulsive reaction- premeditated and hurtful. An obsessive repugnance of anything needing attention; soft and tender. 3. Indifference: This Paralyzes Devoid of temperature supremely tedious grey and oblivious no beauty no wonder no intensity boringly indifferent casual, apathetic nonchalant. Tomorrow holds something far more interesting, Delusion abounds. This intellect, not worthy, That temperament, foreign or polyrhythmic. Eyes flitting and unfocused- blind to what is there in plain sight- senses numbed and disused. No apparent reflection. No footprints on the ground. No scent lingering. No imprint. No resonance. Neither presence nor absence- simply not noticed. Not even worth mentioning. A cold, cruel, and lonely demise with no one to mourn.
2 EUROS A PIECE The narrow slit in the pale yielding bread roll, widening bit by bit to encase the luscious salty flesh soft and slippery and wet. The delicate thin-sliced onions slightly pungent and sharp on the tongue as it caresses the first bite of the delicately firm and virginal skin giving way to the succulent and juicy sweet meat - A sweet impassioned surrender- sliding down the throat slowly and purposefully mouth savouring the emerging juice spurting forth from that first incisive bite. Long yeasty finger wrapped around the overly pink flesh mixed into an almost spermicidal salty paste. Barely animal -like, aquatic gender unknown, No texture, no substance, but soft, velvety still, like a hush. Two luscious lips seductively parting, expectant and inviting. Two long finger-like tentacles like legs spreading to surrender. The saline sweet juices emerging from the primordial soup lie coyly a top the bready bed. Mossy green condiments lining the crevice like rumpled satin sheets. Soft jelly like lubrication glossing over the fleshy substance sweet and salty alike, hard and soft alike. Waiting in sweet anticipation of that first lick of the lips and the mouth that slowly approaches opening just wide enough to encompass the entire form completely. With a moan of full appreciation swooning into the supreme arduous sacrifice, as the teeth do their dirty and lascivious deed.
THE BEGINNING OF THE END I have to describe this feeling. a clogged and stopped up feeling deep in the chest. A burning in the eyes, an overwhelming fear. Not a medical condition, but one of time. and the quality, there of. Time passing and as soon as it passes, forgotten. marching across the inside of one’s hopes and dreams. The only thing we really know about time is that it passes, and the quality of how you fill it is up to you. The tenderness of the spoken and unspoken moments. The moments of pure and beautiful feeling now stopped away into an agenda and promises somehow define time in a way that is not allowed. We don’t have the rest of our lives because the time passing before us, is now. There’s not enough to go around for the rest of our lives, at this rate. It is a horrible stifling feeling, this pinching in my chest, this grabbing at my throat, my stomach upside down. My limbs twisted and wrestled into knots. This is not what I want to feel. This is not how I woke up feeling, But this is how I am being sent to bed.
BLIND DEVOTION I will follow you where ever you want to take me down dark alleys and bright avenues my eyes closed and feeling the wall not as a person blind, unknowing but fully conscious and with resolve . My eyes, wide open, see every turn and narrow straightaway, feeling beneath my fingertips the contours of the journey together. There are a myriad of choices many beautiful as they unfold and show their vibrant hues and textures. For me only one choice to follow you for you are my heart, even though it beats firmly in the womb of my chest, and when you are gone is with me still, a steady rhythm and pulse growing in knowledge of your gentle presence in my life, even in absence. In the wisdom of restraint in the joyous union that lives in dreams. This is an amazing journey lonely and obscure and not without dangerous unchartered terrain. Many levels, parallel lives, tremendous splendor The silence of secret treasure that we hold and protect, the intimate legacy we give to one another, courageously , with a simple meeting of minds and hearts that leads to the creation of something quite beautiful and tender. Thus I follow you with willing heart and knowing mind. I acquiesce to your wise choice of left or right or straight-a-head, Your tempo I shall match. All paths lead to the same end, a place through the mountains of your make up, the oceans of my past, wild and omnipresent, The power of these elements reverberating in the pure essence of connection, The true treasure and expression of love.
34 Is this a gasp without exhalation? Is this a period at the end ? Is this a downward spinning spiral? Is this exhaustion with no rest? Is this the eyes shut oh so tightly? Is this the sun’s last ray at night? Is this a question gone unheeded? Is this a winter with no spring? Is this the rat swallowing its own tail? Is this the female eating its mate? Is this the fledgling pushed from the nest? Is this the great escape? Is this a distance insurmountable? Is this a void so densely packed? Is this a day with no tomorrow? Is this a tomorrow without a past? Is this a scent gone undetected? Is this a piercing cry unheard? Is this a quick sigh of immense relief? Is this a lock that has no key? Is this an end of a beginning? Is this the beginning of an end? Is what was written purely intended? Is this quiet death really a death?
MR AND MRS EYE/EAR Two halves of need Mr No Sound walks hand in hand with Mrs No Sight She follows His left and rights He sways with Her 3/4 and 4/4. She staggers unseeing, feeling the walls He lisps with no tempo, no inflection. Lives of necessity and no escape Barely alive, in cloying supplication Soul mates in wrong decisions and cruel circumstances What a more perfect Hell is this?
KEYS AND DOORSTEPS Everyday I have to find the key that opens you. The lock is rusty on the opening of the door to your heart. I seem to have an ever-accumulating ring of keys: Timid, tender, armored, restrained, indifferent, heavy and light. It is such a chore to go through each one. It is so guarded , your heart. Like clockwork, oiled and efficient, precision is the key complicated like plumbing, one faucet leading into the heart, twisting around the ravines of the arterial pathways, the other faucet leading out, a convoluted indescribable game of shoots and ladders. Each time I try to claw my way through to the lovely garden on the other side Where I can breathe Where the air is pure Where there is no door The door of your heart keeps closing, slamming behind me I have to pry it open. Fastenings and hinges, cogs, wheels, medieval portals metallic groans clanging, scraping, wingeing, wheezing, rusty and ancient. I look down at my hands shredded and in pieces my fingers broken and shrivelled my wrists shattered like glass. I am going to build a platform high overhead Where things can get acted out in an exaggerated manner. Indescribable things, Life and death things, Hideous and dreadful things Beautiful and graceful things. Pulsing gyrating twisting writhing slowly and purposefully the rhythm of your heartbeat, a dithyrambic two-step, An opera of the heart. I would perform a ritual exorcism I would carve and cut out your heart like a sacrificial lamb. I’d rub my hands in the dark and sticky blood, electrified, Spread my arms out for all to see, sinews, tendons, soft flesh A full scream, a wrenching cry Every pore open And proclaim to all how grateful I am to have survived your heart.
MISSED KISS I used to wait outside by the bikes where they were parked during school. I would take a long time to unlock my bike, sometimes locking and unlocking it, to occupy my time as I waited. I did not want to appear too anxious. I did not want to appear as if I was actually waiting. It had to look like a coincidence, a serendipitious synchronicity, something predetermined, fated to be. It had to seem special. He would stroll over to his bike, fumble with his books and lock, and look up at the last moment to see me with this look of recognition, of understanding. Sometimes it almost looked like a sigh of relief, as our eyes met. Since we had to go the same direction, it was decided wordlessly that we would ride together, and we would both get on our bikes, simultaneously and side -by-side on our schwinns and leave the school yard. This happened mostly in the spring when the air smelled sweetly of newly- mown grass, and the sky, full of birds, was cobalt blue. The hills were coming alive with the vibrant green fields of spring and the shade of the full cork oak trees. The jasmine, a delicate white flower with its seductively sweet smell, followed us as we made our lefts and rights through the maze of suburbia into the golden amber dusty hills overlooking the city. With the sun beating down on our backs, we would not speak much; we were too concentrated on the sensations and the promise of another afternoon where time slowed way down. It was a luscious and fertile time of year; the time of secret meetings . We had a few favorite places: the amphitheater, ringed with euculyptus, with its gentle slope down to the grassy stage area, or the field filled with high grasses and flowers where we would lay on our backs and look up at the sun and the slowly moving clouds. We would watch the curling smoke trails of the distant airplanes flying overhead, and the hum of their faint motors would provide a lulling drone to our reverie. I remember the feel of the long stalk of wheat grass as it would trace lines on my face, etching the patterns of unfulfilled and innocent desire. It all occurred an arm’s-length away, as if there was an invisible barrier that was respectfully observed in our innocence and inexperience. There was sometimes a stolen touch with the fingers along skin, hot and furtive, and this was most tintillating. There was something forbidden and shy about it. Sometimes we would talk, our lips close together. I would watch his lips move as he spoke and he would watch mine. We could smell one another, the smell of sweat. Our youthful athletic biking exertion mixed with the bouquet of the outdoor canopy overhead. We could feel one another’s breath. It would envelop us like a second skin that bound and connected us. Sometimes we would just be silent and gaze at one another. His eyes were very dark. His hair, long and Indian- like, blue-black and shiny, proof of his ancestry, fell into his face and I longed to push his hair gently out of his eyes. Our lips , though close, never touched ; that would have been far too awkward and abrupt, that would have been too final , and we would never again have been surrounded by this innocence of unspoken desire, which to this day I still recreate in every secret fantasy.
INSIDE /OUTSIDE Outside I’m the workaholic here. I scrub and clean on my hands and knees to suit you. Climb dangerous ladders, scaffolding and rigging to wash the windows until they shine like a mirror, to reflect you. I rearrange the furniture so you can lounge languorously as if all time has stopped to serve you. I change my clothes to color coordinate to your style, the expressions of my face to match your mood., I wish I could follow you from one parallel world to another, sit next to you as you navigate your trajectory, an invisible presence, all-knowing, all-seeing, all-being. Instead you turn me away as a job applicant with insufficient credentials. All the positions are filled it seems- although the help -wanted sign is still on the door. I see the women coming in and out the door with their makeup kits in hand, dressing for you and twittering on their high heels to appear more bird-like. One long stork-like leg in front of the other. Some stay longer behind the door, the silhouettes enticing, but they are eventually turned away with boringly cruel predictability. The days come and go, and you hole up in your castle like a wayward prince with lofty ideals but no character. You busy yourself with solitary things that serve no one and yet you claim to be a great philanthropist, your arms flailing this way and that, keeping time for an invisible orchestra. With a single gesture you sweep me under the carpet, you stuff me in the closet, you file me in the cabinet. Inside Above and beyond the heaven a supreme exhalation of space and freedom. No boundaries but infinite and humbling essence of spirit and meaning, much more than this cardboard box of life filled with treasured things, all shiny and useless. Where is the single knowing look where eyes meet and lock and see beyond, the tender touch imbued with true meaning, a kiss where thoughts meet with no words. I’ll keep my heart inside the womb of my chest. It isn’t really your’s, you know that. It remains mine to give and take as needs entail. The fact that I can hold it out to you, to anyone, as a precious gift to treasure and cherish and that can be held it gently, is never something to be taken lightly.
PASSING LANDSCAPES She thought of all the countrysides in which thoughts were left in passing landscapes; Mental postcards of thought’s architecture . The geography seemed somehow richer, nourished in this way. She wondered what other unspoken things have enriched these views. The flat landscape never suited her and the mountains of unrest were too familiar to him. He gravitated to them as if by second nature clung to simply because it is familiar. An ordinary wave of the hand sweeping the dust out of her face. An annoying buzz of an insect swatted to regain the calm of the balmy afternoon. The picture changes with a blink of the eye, strobe-like Things in the present do not reflect the past There is no resonance. The dust simply settles.
COMMANDS Close the door! The door is closed. I said, Close the door! The door is closed. The door has been closed? Yes, can’t you see that it is closed? Is the door closed? The door is closed. The door, closed? A closed door I see, a closed door. The door is closed? Yes. the door is closed. Door, closed, yes? Closed, The door. Open the door, Its hot in here. Open the door Its hot, here. Its really hot here. In here, hot. Open the door The door, open it Hot here. Open it, the door. The door, open. Here it is hot. Hot it is here. Really hot, here, it is Hot. Open. There’s a draft here, Chilly. Close the door. Close the door there’s a draft Its chilly here. Close the door. Close it, chilly. Cold here, close the door. Close the door its cold and drafty. Drafty cold, chilly. Its chilly here, close the door. The door is closed. Is the door really closed? Closed, really? Yes. Ah. Its hot and stuffy here.
THE TREADMILL Spinning in one place twirling into the void stepping wildly with no progress forward running in place madly and deliberately chattering non-stop and unintelligibly grasping and clutching at unattainable mirages repeating oneself incessantly a choreography of meaningless gestures wasting energy on mediocre pastimes mindless internal monologues stuck in old useless patterns walking into the wall clear in sight missing the final exit blind to things plain in sight There is a new day arisen cold and succinct and icy temperatures metallic cut to the core eagle eyes see through to the bone a black and white negative of feelings past and present its good to let these go like dust in the forward momentum of the wind up and away joining the invisible stream of ancient cries and laments an angelic and devilish chorus singing together in harmonic convergence of dissonance, haunting and beautiful.
OMINOUS Things are terrible now. Just awful. The sky, an ominous and hateful black and blue. A huge bruise. No birds singing, except the screech of the vultures waiting to suck blood. The character is shallow and weak. There is something supremely hideous about the dark. Thoughts and words avoided , made to disappear, as if the cries were unimportant and not worthy of attention. An everyday occurence. It is ominous. This is an impossible situation, Unfathomable . A truth far more sublime and palpable is at hand, To acknowledge unspoken things because there may be no words to speak them, Yet are recognizable and held up as fragile birds. As you give, you shall receive.
For M At first a whirlwind of presence A tornado of ambition and insightful colors Striking gestures here and there With outfits and proclamations A veritable Imelda of shiny crystal shoe boxes A flair unequal Carving a special signature on the airwaves Like a child’s marking pen Bold and indelible. Some may have felt her eagerness like a machete Slicing through their jungle of possibilities But that is often the case with one so bright and curious. No comparison really. Things come and go as they are meant to be. Things were easier then Or so they seemed. Things have changed now And not merely through the inevitable march of seasons That is too obvious. Things have re-arranged themselves The space displayed in a different manner, The levels surprising and wonderful. Some things replaced, re-arranged, Others found secretly in their place That this can happen, can still happen, is miraculous,indeed, Life-affirming. The flair not tamed, only deepend in hues Not complacent, but a ripening of meaning. The unhandy gracefullness, like a foal struggling first to stand Legs splayed, gravity tested, Transforms into the majestical being Magnificent and intense that can listen to the birds song As intently as a child searching for its mothers voice.
MAGICAL THINKING Magical thinking takes the I out of actions removes the responsibility of consequences as if things preordained, fated, really exist and there is no choice but to respond and act a pawn in some chaotic master plan. Questioning is necessary to build character Answers clarify definition. Unanswered questions, over time, are an avoidance , slothful and lazy. Quickly answered questions without rumination and careful consideration , slothful and lazy . Silence is an answer. Silence is an action. Non-action is an action Not knowing is an answer. Actions can be questions and answers. And further questioned. Questions can be answers and can have more than one answer. Answers can be questions. Answers can be changed, and challenged Listening and hearing. Hearing is passive and does not require much thought. One hears noise and music alike They wash over you and demand little involvement Listening is active and implies some sort of recognition and subtle movement within.
JUNE 4 We almost died up there on the pass. I thought about pushing you, forcefully and ruthlessly, into that gaping ravine. I could see in you visualizing my thick inheritance . I heard the plaintive cries and the twisted screams of vultures above. We woke up next to one another instead as if from a long sweaty sleep, The kind full of hallucinations and delirium. The sky embraced us. The horizon, a circle above our heads and our hearts beating gently like wingless birds. It wasn’t such a long time ago that this all began and yet kilometers traveled to get back here, through thickets and brambles and undergrowth, A veritable jungle of emotions, through an inconsolable wasteland. The path is not clearly demarcated, there is no map. One can easily get lost in this minotour’s maze. What appears etched on the inside of the heart, dreams and hopes and desires, These are the signposts of life leading to a paradise most lovely and sublime. On the other side, the loud punctuating tones Ringing powerful and true Make it difficult, this. Can comparisons be made between thought and feeling? This is a world not without danger, Yet the challenge is to keep the intent pure and good, Guiding the way to that most eloquent garden is an occasion like no other.
DEPARTURE Each time he leaves there’s a trace of him left. An echo resounding across the hills and valleys of her soul. His tender touch leaves an imprint on her smooth skin an invisible indentation that is perceptible only to her, like a sweet aftertaste in the mouth and desire a solitary thing. His departure leaves outlines of his once- presence like a stop action image notating the choreography of his exit, silent and swift and etched into the negative space of her memory. The distance, bitter and sweet with the anticipation of what the longed-for return might hold, a union of like souls, and the terrible uncertainty with the realization that he is gone and the return, a silent return to an unknown world. Patience is a virtue, they say, and the trust that is then bestowed, a tender and pure gift, which is fragile. There lies the beauty and the pain. The utmost desire to give, and the sense of peace to just be able to sit and revel in the thoughts of another, without fear is a noble goal ,but difficult. Therefore one must collect all the treasured moments, of shared thoughts and recollections; a pandora’s box full of memories and longings, and place them prominently in one’s secret hope chest, interior and contained. This is where faith and destiny dwell. These are the elements of a beautiful story to be told when all else seems illusionary These treasured moments now themselves things of the past and a part of the distance carry their own powerful and eternal reverberations in the indelible network of the shared experience. They are the golden rays that connect , and they hold the simple belief that the just and deserved reward will be bestowed upon the pure of heart. This, one must believe in, for this is the path of true love.
CLASS It is easy to recognize class, not in the hierachical sense, but a classy human being, one who with his or her graceful demeanor and attention to detail take the human experience a step forward. You can see it in the care they take with people, a gentleness and willingness to make things right, not just for themselves. It is sympathy, it is empathy, it is integrity, it is kindness. Most often one comes across lack of class: boorish, self-centered people. The ones who go through life as if they are on motorcyles, not only disturbing the delicate balance of the sound barrier, but emit noxious fumes that others must breathe, and drive too fast and never see the carnage along the side of the road. Take my neighbor for instance. He operates in a world of his own creation with a sense of entitlement, buzzing through life in his black and red striped motorcycle jacket. Tight fitting and shiny leather, with a matching motorcycle. From these big open windows I have seen him tear down the street . It is quite a sight, a color-coordinated concept, a sad couple at a square dance convention, man and motorcycle, sashaying around as if everyone was looking. They are looking all right, at a member of the master race of cruelty, with that swagger and hooded eyes that peruse every opportunity to see what is there to take, and then discard. He tears around the corners of life as if the world owes him homage. Get out of his way, or he will run you over and not look back. He ran me over time and time again, until it was obvious I had to get out of the way, except that purr of the motor kept seducing me to stick my head out from behind the corner there, just to wave-just in time to have my head ripped off my shoulders, again. The emergency room in the local hospital has a permanent file on me. When the sun starts to shine, these class-less folks think the sun shines for them, so much so that that is all they can talk about. That is safe, when in a bind, talk about the weather, and they march about, guts hanging out, hair stringy, a musty smell about them, the smell of shell-like houses. closed and cramped and full of stale air. They do not open their windows, as that would be let the world in. Nor do they close them as that would imply something is going on. They live in private domains, they have secret treasures, where they make the rules and justify all actions. Once I had the misfortune of knocking on his door and he would not let me in. He stood there and laughed and told me to get a philosophy. I didn’t quite understand that one, but it was humiliating, the way he ridiculed me and called me pathetic, and all I wanted to do was to hand him some mail that had been wrongly delivered. I could see the row of motorcycle coats all lined up like an army standing at attention. Then there is the other neighbor; the neighbor on the other side is classy. When you come across class, it is easy to recognize because it is like a fresh soothing breeze. There is simply an unstated condition of care that permeates every action. The hand extended in need, without hesitation, without question, reserved, perhaps, in a polite way, but the feeling is there, regardless. What is at first noticeable is that this neighbor smiles, and the eyes flash with kindness. Funny how important that is, and how very easy. Anyway, once I was in such despair and wailing with fear that this neighbor came and said that everything would be all right. That is all, very simple. May be he was in a hurry, maybe he had other things on his mind, but for that one moment, he was there. THAT was nice. But the others, more abundant than you’d ever imagine, learn to recognize them quickly. Memorize the tone of their voice, do not be taken in by polished exteriors. Everything corrodes from within. No amount of polishing the exterior will soften the heart. You get the hell out of their way, because they will run you over, plow right through you. Call the cops , get them out of your house, do not invite them in, and if you do, do not invite them back.
ANTS IN MY KITCHEN A balmy day will bring the bugs and the insects I’m afraid A windy day brings cinders and falling leaves dead and rotting A hot day brings tired smelly feet and people complaining I have ants in my kitchen how far did they travel to get here?
CONDITIONAL STORY I could see them through the window. They might have been so animated that it could have been a heated argument they were having, or it could have been a party. He could have had on the shirt that I bought him last christmas but I couldn’t see as clearly as I could have had the curtains not been partially drawn. She could have been smiling at him the way she cocked her head and threw back her hair, but then the sky grew suddenly very dark and ominous, a cloud could have passed over the sun and drawn in all the merriment. I just couldn’t tell . I just couldn’t see clearly. If I could go tomorrow I would, and then it would probably be better if I could speak to him first. If we could avoid this it could make a difference. but I could phone him now, and she could answer. I could knock on the door, but she could open the door, or perhaps they couldn’t hear the sound through their own involvement. I could still hear how the door resonates, hollow and resounding when it opens and shuts- first a prolonged squeak as the hinges swing open and a gusty draft as the door opens invitingly. Then a pounding thud, a blow to the solar plexus of the door frame as the door shuts them in, and shuts me out. We could have fixed that squeak, a little oil could have done it. It could have been our salvation, funny, such a little thing like that. It could have been that we just needed a bit of oil and the door frame transformed into a warm and sensuous arbor. The lock on the front door could have just been rusty and that is why my key couldn’t turn in the lock anymore.. He could have told me about her. We could have gotten through all this, but instead he couldn’t remember that he had promised that we would be together. He couldn’t remember all those times we spent laughing. I could remember. I could have helped him remember, but by now he could have already set the wheels in motion. I could have stopped him had I known. It could be too late now. Long ago I could feel free. Long ago I could still trust. Long ago I could still believe in love. Now he could just be gone, now he could just be with her. Now I could be the only one who remembers. Perhaps i could talk to him before its too late.
A DAY IN OSDORP-HARDBALL FRENZY The ladies were rounded up like eager cattle prancing around waving their green little flags. To the kitchen, to the kitchen, they bounded, their obligation worn around their necks like first place medals. They were met with red faces and hooded eyes as they sashayed, or tried to waltz, even, their way past the utensils and plates to get to the percussion instruments, big drum-like -recepticles filled with who -knows-what? They were met with such a resistance, it was as if such a thing had never happened before. Extra terrestial heifers had landed on the lonely kitchen planet. There was one that seemed to be in charge, at least she did the most smiling and chewing, and the others followed behind waiting their turn at the trough. Waiting around, standing in the corners for barked orders to cut, carry, lift, lug, slice, spread, drag, fold, and spin like tops around and around. I tried to make myself invisible, that seemed to make the most sense. Madame Caduceus, the secretary-heifer, was not present yet and they all seemed to cower at her name as if her slicing was holier than the rest. In any event she apparently was the mistress of the yellow goop in the tub and seemed to hold the secret of how to pour it in. In her absence they marched about in twos and threes with decisive purpose, marched about, marched about, first in, then out, then in again. That went on for quite awhile, I think you could call it participation but in the end it just seemed like endless useless dervish spinning. Toes pointed and proud knees, high and mighty. The inner sanctum not really being ready for their frenzy, they decided en -masse that this was indeed the moment of the important shuffle and sliding of the sacrificial altars. “They should be here”, said one, choosing a cozy corner away from the preying eyes and fingers, and immediately they set upon the task like hungry vultures. Drag and carry, drag and carry, drag and carry, three times the charm. It must be done. All things in place and satisfied. The yellow rubber runway replaced by a far more elegant puke green paper -mache miniature golf course. “How lovely”, they said, satisfied. A resounding “whoa ,whoa” is heard from high, “It isn’t done so, it is done SO”, with fingers splayed out in all directions, and a very ungraceful dance nearly began out of some oddly placed feeling of propriety and force of habit, and all the dragging and carrying undone. Thank god the whistle blew just in time and they all deflated before it was too late. Finally the original choreography in place after another bout of drag and carry, something about checking the storage bins for the sacred planks which inconveniently were located right behind the placement of the altars, but they turned out to be the type that the holy trinity used and were not to be touched by heathen heifer hands. The spectre of Madame Caduceus seemed to carry a lot of clout. There was also a disappearing act involving table cloths, folded, arranged, folded again, arranged, folded again and so on and so on until they were finally found unceremoniously lying in a heap on the floor like a puddle, replaced by yet another miniature golf course, this one the length of an airport runway. The thrones were set in place , all 55 of them, that was the easy part, although the marks on the floor might belie that. The inner sanctum began to call like vespers sung by a gregorian choir and cauldrons and kettles and potions laden and too abundant. appeared in the arms of the vestal heifer-virgins to be placed judiciously on the golf -course- cum- airport -runway . There was some initial jockeying about going on before they really got the hang of it, but eventually the ikebana flower arrangement placed first up high, “how lovely”, and then back where it began, “also lovely”, but this time with a Real Purpose, other than pseudo -Japanese- Zen- aesthetic, met with guarded approval by the heifer-in-chief. In the corner the decapitation of some nutritional vehicles, oh so terribly white, blindingly aryan and still frozen, had begun visciously and terribly. This was all done to prevent the primeval clawing and grunting that was to be expected by the invited masses decked out in their full ritual regalia, feathers, clubs, shields and all: the real heathen with names of thieves and cuthroats, bottom-feeding-birds, and magical mythical animals. Still the tub with the sick yellow goop, like an eye-sore, awaited the arrival of Madame Caduceus, she, in the know and uber alles, , a terrible reminder that even an advanced degree in house -hold science means nothing when faced with the earth-shattering dilemma of pouring and mixing. There were a couple of serious mishaps., front page news, I’m afraid:The primary aryan vehicle, the volkswagen of breadsticks, the condoms for the donkey genitals, had to be rearranged for lack of anything better to do, and the heaviest, fullest ,and clumsiest edible mix, something foreign for sure, as it had at least more than one color,had to be transported three times in and out, in and out, in and out, a hilarious but back-bending parade, for a secret meeting in the inner sanctum looking for a translator, and only finally reappearing with grandious permission (Madame Caduceus, I’m afraid) dressed in a whole different outfit as if that would make it more palatable, or at least, color co-ordinated. Finally the all important moment arrived when without even a drum roll, (the volunteer heifers were never actually allowed to get to the percussion instruments, they had no back stage passes) the yellow tub, upended in one fell swoop, yielded its offspring, without any pomp and circumstance, natural science never failing, and blended and swirled naturally to spawn thousands of blandly and unappetizingly colored children. A sacred spoon did the trick. The heathens finally arrived, grunting and growling as expected, and tore into everything with sharp and dull teeth. since everything on the sacrificial plates was more-or-less the exact same color. Meanwhile everyone,heifer and heathen alike ,took their little green flags and marched about in and out, in and out, in and out, waving and applauding the magnificent profile of Madame Caduceus
CORONA DREAMS Outside there is an invisible boundary of no go an unseen fence electrified by thought yes is no, maybe is no, no is no. here is only no never stop watch look out beware vigilant stares glares fingers pointing lines drawn on the ground in the air around about through out persistent ever- present all -encompassing never- ending always present lurking, lying in wait, malicious, dangerous and yet unseen. hidden faces, eyes untrue masked intentions hard to breath hard to hear hard to listen hard to feel anything but the thought of persistent danger time passes and nothing changes except possibilities that are yet to be seen and believed yes is no maybe is no no is no no is no Inside A felt presence of beauty once held in the hand thoughts of shared space soothing breathe and soft caress invisible but truly sensed uplifting and lusciously awe-inspiring. a prayer of thought full of life and hope of future that sustains and entrances surrounds and protects A community of now and today and tomorrow and beyond a ribbon of sound and breath that gently connects in a harmony of yes yes is yes yes is yes yes is yes .
A DREAM You have to go over now the bridge is there before you high and narrow and swaying with weight. Have you felt that before? When the rope beneath you starts to swing violently and uncontrollably because you just can’t get your weight down beneath you? The knees feel the trepidation to take even one step, and that essential quivering belies an existential question of , to step or not to step-but step you must. They are all waiting and They are getting impatient and restless and violent even. A long line of Them with big bones, and a blonde hand on the shoulder pushes you forward. Your explanation that follows is very clear with motions of the arms and hands that illustrate the span above and the abyss below. The narrowness of it all and the great height and the fear, especially the fear. It is hard to cross that bridge, unhinged from within a dark secret place and the feeling of unsteadiness, the first true sensation of a need for great change, of finally taking upon oneself to cross to the other side. Like a spark, propelled forward, a rocket lurching into the unknown and... All those people standing in the line with expectations do not help!!! Across the grand divide, a bit of a geographical anomaly, but never mind, so is it with imagination, and grand is- The fear riding on your back like a second skin. With decisive suddenness the you of you is safe across, fears conquered. Breathing deep, a passion of survival deeply felt, safety in front, danger behind. The rush of flesh en-masse, pink-skinned and red-cheeked, Weight pushing forward and down A snap and collapse, a fall, free form and spectacular, into the ravine, like flames of pentecostal tongue One can hear the screams, cries for help. A pleading choir of need. I guess it is the sense of responsibility that first is called upon, an inherent instinct, a young boy, hero in his own fantasy. In the corner of the eye, just behind the retina, a flash of blue, or is that coded color, or just an attractive wave and lingering scent that distracts and impedes honorable action. And so it is with good intentions. The you of you, overrides the us, the we, the them, the they, and ordinary frivolity wins again.
OLD WORLD GIVES AWAY The contours of the landscape barren at this time of the year bear the unspoken promise of rejuvenation. The green land lush and wet carries a secret that is revealed with each tender bud that emerges in spring. Each step sinks down to an entangled underworld of new growth. Tendrils snarled and limbs encrusted with the mould of the bygone year in an attempt to stay frozen in past hopes and dreams, to suffocate the onward forward march of new growth which does not succeed. it never succeeds. Only the total collapse , and the disintegration of the old world way, rituals with forgotten rules memorized to mark the fact that things have indeed changed.
WORTHY WINGS OF HUMANITY Do you remember when time went quietly and a thoughtful gaze? Do you remember when simple things were the future, a noticed moment, stilled time and a wistful glance? We make our own futures We tread at our own risk. We arrive through mistakes intentions, trial and error which makes the final destination not always what we predicted. Listen to the murmur of ancient and future voices. These things last a lifetime, worthiness, humanity, good will, and grace. Take the broken wings of human kind and place them carefully, just here the fresh wind above and currents below To soar and glide , and soar and glide.
STILL LIFE The harsh concrete block, an unsurmountable wall impossible to see over. An infinite thickness impassable. Paradise is just there behind straining to see a complete waste of time. The blackness so complete and unthinkable It is not possible to scale this wall. The body like a petrified tree frozen in movement the emotions stiff. A grimace in time. The movements hardened in paralyzed gestures. No fluid spine reaching in two directions. roots grounded in the viscous mire and the stretched out limbs like gnarled arthritic fingers. A tangle of knots. A massive fist raised high in the sky, defiant yet sadly ineffectual convoluted and pathetic. Mouth open, no sound, not one. Sounds stiffened and swallowed into an absence of expression. Out of this pain comes only silence, beyond grief, beyond mourning. That would be a relief. This is far more tortuous. There is no escape, only annihilation. The depth of feeling now contained has no counterpart in the waking world manifested in the wrenching of guts internal organs splayed out for the birds of prey to feast on leaving an unbelievable emptiness of denial, dismissal, and profound distance. There is no way back from here. There are no more sign posts. There is no secret code. The warm color code, the designated appeaser disgusting in its emptiness of feeling. Too easily dispensed like a daily chore completed superficially and post haste.
NO STOP If i could stop this, I would but I keep getting encouragement from all sort of birds outside peering in as they sing They warble and twitter their full support. The ants brought back from Portugal are busy multiplying on the dictionary leaving little markers here and there by words they find particularly evocative or fitting. The feline monsters getting bigger and more complacent have taken to sitting on guard, in turns, and watching with their steady green eyes never wavering, despite an obvious struggle with a turn of a phrase or a particularly gory detail. The dark tortured twisting solitary and melancholic. Face, paler, and eyes darker, gothic even. Fingers retracting slowly into the wrists Lips parched and cracked I get compliments on my appearance. This seems to be the height of fashion. The phone starts to ring People I don’t even know find me fascinating I am confounded. The supreme struggle to delve inside one’s silent being to the very depths and find the correct way to express what lives in the feeling realm to touch with words those most sacred thoughts. Perhaps there are no words fitting. All these words go into a deep dark unknown hole but still I receive encouragement. Sign posts on the street say, go, green light, keep on, let it flow, yield, straight ahead. Books fall open to inspirational pages, with quotes underlined. Friends and mentors smile encouragingly and eagerly await my latest missive. I am mystified. My reference book seems to indicate the beginning of a clear case of a masochistic-narcissistic co-dependency but even that seems to hold interest. The birds, the ants, the cats, strangers and friends alike are more attentive it seems. There must be a conspiracy here. -----------
BIRDY HIGHWAY Hurtling down the birdy highway the apartment high- rises loom aloft on their strange perches. Tiny heads bobbing up and down pleading as the protector returns standing with long spindly legs and sharp needle- like beaks. Do they have a mortgage on these makeshift huts, or are they renters from a greedy landlord the wind the sun the rain? It is a funny sight these penthouses of time each charged with an unseen electric pulse or hidden in a secret greenery. Do they grow with each year? Single family dwellings or duplexes? Time-share condominiums in an air-born cul-de-sac? Do they share or hoard the bounty they retrieve from the long grasses or the sides of cows and sheep? They don't mingle much each species speaking their own strange tongues of clucks and whistles, groans and exhales. a hoo hoo pooooo here and a zzzzzztrrrrrrr there. I’m here, I’m here, Me too, Me too. The populations seem constant, ever-present with bundles of joy delivered each spring with the promise of future generations to inhabit the electric b and b’s. No city dwellings with side walks and roads. grocery stores and malls but whizzing motors and clanking hoods that surge ahead into a grey blur. The one job that fantastical history gives them is to deliver a cross- pollination of species. Ancient lore prescribes, like Rip van Winkle, or Winken Blinken and Nod. to fly magestically, wings unfurled like a black and white flag announcing the glorious birth and arrival of a new civilization. I’m here I’m here Me too Me too