Tag Archives: #words

FLOWERS AND GOSSAMER

EACH morning comes and we are dying
ONE year passes and more are born
i walk in fields of flowers and gossamer
and fell into a hole with stars and nebula passing
and caterpillars singing before they have wings
and a red panda kisses my cheek and explains this is
where things go when one dreams while walking.

— so hooka man in your small corner closing in upon
your jelly brain gets up and dances again
oh little rolly-polly you are a cute ball
and my brain lost logic and proportion and words
and numbers dissolve at the dawn of common sense.

We are told to believe some things
We are punished for doing many things
We are clean as a Spirit and Soul
but then as always — life takes its toll

Be safe around busy eyes and hold upon a wind
the secret words you believe in
allow no parrot to squawk within the room of
your private thoughts

Oh! Live! Be different and be your own friend!
Be your own friend!

:: 05.09.2021 ::


HOW YOU FEEL SO ALIVE

HUG me but leave me alone
tonight kiss me but say nothing
harvested feelings come and go as
ghosts weeping for you and me
watching how we changed: smooth skin to lines
firm convictions weakened tells me there is more
i held the hand of failure and watched how love died
like we never had brakes once so alive and now changed
i watched the sun explode like nothing ever before seen
and once so alive — watched it change.
you left me alone / months into years and decades gone \ and its
like you never went away always alive and eating my insides.
watching how we changed ah oh ah i watched the sun explode.

i look at the plot of ground
and the green grass of Earth
tomb stone and words with tears
it is like you never went away
still so alive.

:: 05.03.2021 ::


CRICKET & BEE

(i wrote this while sleeping. I keep pad and pencil at my bedside. I have not read it yet — some may think that is a brave thing to do but I do not — my life is about expression and words).

As it scurried by, I noticed it was wearing a cloth (as if it were a tail!)
I had no sense of what time it was, but I noticed it was (after all!) about daybreak.
(This was later told to me) that many bats are nocturnal, or else they are so easily startled, they flee to cover their heads and hide.
In their defense, I suppose it may well have been mid-afternoon, for there was a palpable somberness in the air.
But, I felt there was no time to lose. I was to find EROS and leave on my mission.
With some haste, I left the dark streets, and headed south. I walked along a dirt path, although I did not really know where it went or to go.
The area was shrouded in darkness (though there was just enough moonlight to see)
and as I walked through a hedge of willows I felt disoriented and was careful to go very, very slowly (if not all in terror, I would surely turn to cactus!)
When I reached a “Road” I noticed it had a layer of pebbles on it, and walked past it, just in case there were some venomous snakes on that road. (At that point it would have been more like trying to get out of a sheet of plywood than to a mat of tinfoil!)
As I walked, it became more and more foggy, and though I could see quite a distance ahead of me, in all other directions it was pitch dark.
When I reached the far side of the light of day, I happened to look ahead of me.
In that brief moment, something fell down in front of me!
I saw it laying there, spread-eagled, but before I could move, it rolled right up onto its feet and began running towards me!

It had been a mosquito — and it had died — just because of me!
I was trapped in a painful searing haze of irritation.
I reached for a pocket knife from my pocket, and slowly began inching backwards.
I must not get trapped by the mosquito (i)n that maze!
I was already avoiding all sorts of vermin (e.g. earthworms, centipedes, snakes, scorpions etc) that night; why did it have to choose me!
So, I crawled backwards, very slowly, back to my camp spot.
I stood up, and in my irritation I drew a cross on my heart.
The mosquito landed on a rock, and I quickly looked around. There was no one around.
Then the mosquito’s wings swept over my head, and it disappeared down into the gloom.
I turned around, and began to head back.
But, as I walked, a dim, red light began to grow larger.
The light grew steadily, until it became a helicopter.
As it hovered in the sky, my exhaustion from the previous night began to grow.
The mosquito had chased me all the way to my spot, and was now guarding it!
And so I did what I had to do: I ran away, in a panic, back to my camp, where I found myself comfor(ing) again with the cricket.
I may have forgotten the sun was up that morning, for I was greatly exhausted.
But it was about that time I began to feel hungry, so I sat down at my cooking fire, and, while I ate, I watched the giant stone (that I had almost stepped on), turn slowly.
Eventually, it disappeared.
I then called out in triumph (albeit slightly in jest)
“It’s gone! I can go home now!
I can go back to sleep for the rest of the day!”
And the cricket replied:
“I’m so glad you could finally see that stone. I’m just happy to be here with you. Be sure you come back again and visit me some time!
(If you should find a bug in your hair, don’t scratch it, it will die! Just take me to its hiding place!).”
It may be hard to believe, but each and every cricket inhabits a different cave; though some are inside of rocks.
Some live in the stream that flows nearby,
and some live inside rocks.
But they all love to hang out together — all the insects in this area!
It’s a great group of friends, we spend all day in the cool of the cave,
and the nights are filled with nature’s best.
(These days the cricket — who I now know to be Augustus Insecta, was the only creature to come to my aid, and stand guard over my hut that night — and many nights thereafter.)
And, while I was happy to leave that place, I still took many souvenirs of it with me.
I used bits of it as walls and ceilings, and anything else I could take, and when I built my home at the foot of that giant stone, I built my roof out of it!
And, to this day, whenever I go up to the “Cockroach Tunnel,”
I still look back, and remember Augustus Insecta, who, I suppose, was the real hero of that place.
I know, I know, there’s a lot more to talk about, but I’ve only scratched the surface.
Those are just some quick observations about that particular cave.
There’s plenty more I could tell you, if you care to know.

But you have to start at the very beginning — where it all began —
and you have to come with me now! I’m happy to say I made it all the way!
That’s right — I can’t believe I’ve made it this far, but here I am.
It was a beautiful morning, and I was ready to escape the heat and sun and I figured I’d just walk around, open the gate, and take a look around.

I’d noticed some new flowers in the past days and wanted to see if there was anything interesting around the creek.

I headed up to the rutabagas, and there was something very strange about one that had suddenly bloomed, while I was gone.
I was flabbergasted by it!
Then, I heard a strange sound.
It was coming from the pines!
I was so shocked, I forgot what I was looking for — and, it was too late to go back, so I went to see what I had found.
I found it quickly, and it was indeed a bee.
But I could tell it was not a normal one.
It was not fat, and there was no veil in its wings — I was amazed by its size!
It was no bigger than the tip of my finger, but it seemed much, much taller.
And, it looked almost as if it might fly away, but it sat on a leaf near the creek’s edge.

It sat there patiently, and then, it began to walk down the side of the hill,
as if it was walking to meet me.

“Hi! Hi! I’m the Bee,” he said!
“I know you, I know you!” he said.
“I’ll tell you what I am — I am the longest living creature
who will ever exist. We share this earth with the other
creatures, but, only in relative terms, we have a lot more in common,
and they’re quite nice and useful.


BRASS AGAINST STRINGS

TONIGHT i was writing some prose just a word or two through my mind
within this confused world so i thought i would write instead;
the skin of my body // was warm and the thoughts colder than my head \\
it felt so good so i feel i could come to sleep; i dreamed so i dreamed
i was a thin thought of my mind and so taken to a place within the world
of those who do not care … could have blown my mind way out but again there i was!
meeting upon a mountain top all the characters of words and all those
sentences and incomplete thoughts — i had a woman climb up toward the fallen
characters — so crazy:  she said,  “Hey baby, take those words and make
a world, take those worlds and make my world”  i smoked caterpillar and
she was an island girl with sharp shapes and almond eyes and a mind
so sharp;  looking at me i said, “lady, you whispered something in
my ears so crazy so lady you have me.”  Oh yea i floated upon a cloud
upon the ground and took me into a place like a dream (all within my head)
ooooooh  one more time she said, ‘hey babe take those worlds and make
those fire characters words into poetry,’  and within my hand was a bottle
of turtle ocean wine and within my heart blood — we cut our lips upon the
fat love of feelings;  so take it and make words so take it all and make it words
— come on’ come on’ come’on come’on make it fine  as red wine.
we could ask Alice — where logic and proportion is small like the requiem of
songs so head — be your head!  be your head!

:: 04.09.2021 ::


FAST FIRE

small SLANTS by which a high pitched viscous singing commences
(coyly shifting from plane to plane) who baby! (unknown, a child!)
SLEEPING.
??!! NIGHT
sonospy: cigarette, watercress-ness, or what? chewie.
some of us. .other: hemp-prickling.
trollis. !!

WOE. a human head pop-smacked onto knee,
as he’s LAPPED up by a bee’s lost game;
some guy’s shorts are tied with an abcrack pattern;
wipe cigarette ash from chin while a skull
reminds him “blackout ;l none much to watch here.”—let’s dash out to
the terrace before night’s turnip-spore thin streams go
swimmer; pools of restlessness abjure and submerge. Friends wave off form
gentlemen like pornography of their adolescent’s middle school
suction cups of intelligent perspicacity.

Here eyes are blind, the portals to the sky of the day O!
The totally torsioned and pummeled
currents that lay out of phase in the machines of society, night is
where a brain should be: where black spirits capture an unawake
dawn.

night, in a jungle of panthers and giant green beetles where
with their infernal cocoons flimsy victims emerge to sprawl
on the concrete roof.

fastfire.

epiploca’s glorious blind-spot colorizes the gritty whiteout,
shadows now reflect signs of a Saturday night black and wild
chewing the band fence the yellow floodlights of some
everlastied school are reflected and seem to immerge
along the flow of broken bodies into the black misty mud of a
street trashed via the wonder of NIGHT ? ;
One hot A.M. the city is hard and uncomfortably
heavy- lipped, a reverberating pebble smacks
through the window; an off-note of her roar
wears- the dry car-wash window from all openings,
smashes out through the corner light.

;; 04.02.2021 ::


FIRE OF HEARTS

THE bad weather had subsided. \the sound of the spring equinox heralded the falling of a silence on the world. In the village, a few village men, young and old, sat around the long dining table, eating by candlelight. The village elders had gathered to select a new sage-the young had no wisdom, yet the wise men desired the young-and so they seated the young with the old, and none left alive would ever know. Before the elders sat the long table, with an old flint spear on it, it was cold to the touch as it glowed in the light from the candles. \(but it was worth it, it was the knowledge that I will not return. \) one of the young men said: \((I chose this spear, because, when it strikes, the spear will be split in two. Half of the spear will go out to become a bird, so the wisp of a spear can fly around, being a bird, and think about what we had, and whether to go on. Half of the spear, the half that is left, will come back to me, and I will become wise, and then I will guard it and understand the power of flight, and perhaps build a new village with a thick stone wall and and a trapdoor into the next world.\)) \((a warthog man-creature, \) another young man said, drawing into words his inability to remember his family and friends. ((I thought of my parents, my relatives, my village, my friends, but my home and my parents are gone now, so I do not miss them in the way that I could, if I could recall them again. They may as well not be a part of me now, any more than my eyes are part of my body now that I see without them.)) \((but what of the village, of my life? the wisp of a spear? what shall I do with it? \) the young man asked. \((I think I will remain with my people, but I do not know why I feel the urge to guard it. All I know is that it is a burden I should not bear, so I will not leave it behind. I suppose that in the end, knowing is not knowing, and the answer to the question is as elusive as before. And that is my answer to the way ahead, at least for now.\)) ((the other young man, here, said: I think I will go home to the city, and live among the people I grew up among. I will remember the things of my youth, but not the sorrows of my home. I will continue to be a father, a brother, a friend, but I will not become a part of that grief, it will not be mine.)) \((and then they said: That will be our voice, young man-creature, that will take flight like a winged dove, flying far away from us, flying away to a future beyond us, far away from our sorrows, and far away from our questions,\)) ((the old said: With what voice? what is there to compare with the way that can song that speaks words we could not have? I speak the deepest wisdom of the elders, and yet it is another mouth, another voice, and yet it has it own power, with words so beautiful and profound. Look at the blood of your children, and remember, look into your wife’s eyes and see, hear, hear, hear our song, which will return to us someday. Our words will leave us, to be another’s song. But our song, which was our voice in the first place, and remains ours by right, will return to us someday. It is not the way ahead. Yet even in that deathly quiet of remembering, you will know us. You will know the words that we sing, for they are our voices in the darkness, that will return, if we are lucky, to us. They will not sing the words that we have said. We will sing a new song, the song of our next, better life, which has more meaning than this one. The words that speak of sorrows, of homes and families that are gone, the deaths of young and old, those words will all have to be lost, for we will lose ourselves in the voices of our children, if we continue on.)) \((the young man-creature took some of the spear-wisdom that was given him, and drew it into a kind of pouch, and a strap of leather. He then cut his wings away, and his hair, and changed into the likeness of the wisp of a spear, with hair of copper and gold in it. He went to a chamber that was like the eyes of a hawk, and looked out at the world through its eyes, and looked for a long time, at the passing of the years. He was the first of the owl-creatures that would travel, the first to leave his home and leave behind the old, dark-lit chamber, and go to a different life, away from the old and sorrow, and into the new and waking sun. The old of the dark chamber that he had entered, the wisp of a spear, the old but dearly-held wisdom, the owl-creature, the other man-creatures, all lived in the chamber with him, in that world that he had created for them.))

:: 03.30.2021::


THE KILLER’S WIFE

has seen the world before in her spirit trapped in this shell and the policeman enters and her soul remains in the greenish paper room of yesteryear.
:: OCTOBER 31, 1960 ::=
THE NEW AVENUE: ONBOARD THE DEATH VALLEY
This week we are leaving the bowels of the west and riding the train out to the sun with a fat young man whose skin is the color of butter IN THE GARAGE with the knotty hands and half empty milk cartons
he fixes a weathered Oldsmobile –];
. THE CHURCH on the hill
BUDDY, TED, JERRY
: .“SCHWARTZMAN,
HOW DOES it FEEL, SAN FRANCISCO?”
: .“WELCOME TO THE DEATH VALLEY,
CHANCEY,
THANK YOU, TED, SON, YOU’RE THE BEST!!”
: .“So, say hi to your dad for me, ya good
MAN!!
:”
: .“HEY,CHANCEY,
JUST GIVE ME ONE MORE RIDE, SON, I GOTTA GET THIS FUCKING
YANKEE SANDBLAST SUIT FIXED UP AND SHADED before the Prez
:”
:: NO

:: 03.28.2021 ::


LITTLE BOY

Hath fed the common purpose That draws the very heart of man, to the sacrificial hero!
Dangerous and promising are these dreams which seem to come from the heart’s deep recesses,
as have cast a spell of melancholy that leaves one dim.

Only by speaking about them in former times, has the world appreciated these voices from the skies.
There are no age limits, neither to the quest for spiritual growth, nor to its testing.

Beneath each of these mysteries, some preface and others express the grandeur of a true meaning;
some have shed new lights, some, disturbing.

The grandest have revealed new truths, no matter how strong the prose, the content has to be true.
To reach a mystical insight the words which the thoughts themselves preface, express;to understand the concrete problems the language must have been created by the body of man’s brain to reach it, the mind must have been perfected.

No matter what subject has been investigated it has in common three fundamental elements.

They are reason, the senses, and a grandeur: and when they interact with each other in perfect harmony the knowledge of truth is attained; the deepest, most true meaning is comprehended. We learn what is true
when our instincts are the tools to do what we know to be so; we lose ourselves when we do not know what we are; and we should know our own nature when we have used our minds to understand ourselves.

Reaching the depths of the unknown, understanding the whole nature of things, you attain an ascent to light:
like the body in a dream defeated by the weight of the body, the body in an inner form makes its way up from depths of darkness: and when one experiences this one is reborn; and when one sees this one is changed: ‘Twas in this way the poet was reborn upon this earth; and all he could atone for his human failures.

This is a melody about a man on a mountain who hears the voice of the moon and, unknown to himself, alighted with the noble heart. But the mystic of the moon was an empty moon: ‘Twas of the body of man the moon had no heart; only that of his body could he love. In his despair he sought to sacrifice his flesh. But the voice of the heart and the words from it frightened him. Then he walked on the world through the nights of the year and dwelt in deep oblivion. But what could be said to him, in his darkness, when, suddenly, a light shone through the darkness? That was his awakening, it was a vision of an inner light which drew him towards the universe. He went back to his own child, and he passed along the familiar path but what was the purpose? He sought a hidden light to brighten his way: but when he reached the end of the firmament, there was no light. How could it come from below when there was no light above?

This is a story of a mother in her humble home with a little child in her arms, who is nursing, and unaware of the wonderful events to come, in spite of her heart’s eagerness and in spite of her pride. His little fingers possess the world with an innocence which the immovable forces Avenge and they are known by a loving heart. In the courtyard she prays: but who she prays for? The next she sees he is walking down the stairs : with him goes his hand and he stretches out his little arms when the little boy reaches out his hands
and they know each other. But there is no single sound of their happy greeting nor is there a single person
they meet: the space is also their meeting place.

Life.

:: 03.28.2021 ::


POETIC PAINTINGS

SHE would pull back her hands to her sides, her furrows bear poetic paintings with a past unfolded in crosshatch, reprimands to the unblinking, to the untried to never covet an hour lost and found, the length of a sunset, a sun weighing us down, now or then looking away to a beach that doesn’t seem our way, reputed for its unchanging coral reefs and saying it’s way more glorious than the beach next door, as we know, the one nobody cares to swim into.

Then my hips, already weak, begin to shake though when you come with me, if we should go by car, we’re together, on ground heavy that your steps cannot change.

I must say more, but you know the story. You must hear the secret though only the Sages were allowed to hear it.

It is a light; my dark world turns into a coffin light, the whole thing collapsing, if i miss you, my sadness begs, but there are no answers what to do when everything in you, in all of us weeps for absence.

Better for the room’s overhead to be darkness, for me, for my heart’s an end that must not bend, a blade lost in sand. Can no healing be between our two lonely hearts without me weeping and no consolation
without you wanting to know, when we’ll fall in love again?

Want to buy a song give a gift of musical genius the way we never stop loving, until I can be safe again.

I’ve lived alone for the last thirteen years, still living off my memories of her, but having no contact with her — except for my last few days, of course.

I wrote the only song I can sing now, and there were no lessons to be had in any language even if you had known about me, about how I suffered in my anger, from the depth of my despair,
you would not have come near.

:: 03.26.2021 ::


DEMIGOD RUMOURS

By this time she began to pant with the effort of speaking and died. The grief of her children was doubled, as was that of their father, and he swore before the woman whose heart had broken that he would never again be destroyed by fire, and would walk out from his house to dwell by the sea.

The gods were shocked to their foundations. They believed that they had truly killed Zeus and had been giving his body to live; for the children would come to the holy site of Delphi to praise him as they remembered his glory and proclaim their great dread. On their approach they met the priests in the street, but the fathers waved their children away, and said ‘They think they are honouring the Greek gods. They are not worthy of our esteem!’

‘Why not?’ asked a young girl who wanted to know, ‘Why should the Greeks think we are honouring Zeus? We are honouring a great man, the greatest being in the universe.’

Her mother, an oracle, retorted:

‘You are saying foolish things! Your father has sworn, and your sister has sworn, and so have I! So let this death of our mother be an eternal lesson to you! Whoever else shall say such a thing, shall by my hand or by the hand of your children be flayed.’

This brought him to his senses, and he put his arm through his daughter’s, and declared:

‘I would die gladly for the Greek gods, but we shall stand together on one side or the other, and offer the fire to the gods of Zeus as a sacrifice for the foundation of their city. If they refuse it, we shall always come to their aid, as we did in the great and terrible earthquake that was prepared for this very day.’

He died in peace, though at first it was rumoured that the gods had destroyed him, when he refused to go against them.

:: 03.16.2021 ::