Under blue skies, the live oaks were just trees — hearty and expansive trees.
But in the feeble light of waning days or the frequent forays of morning fog, the rangy and sinuous moss-draped limbs became a Lovecraftian monster, head stuck into the damp loam in an attempted retreat to the underworld.
And if one stood still enough, those limbs just might start to writhe.
There was a young man from Hungary
who always wore his blue dungarees.
In summer they fit;
in winter not a whit.
Kürtőskalács made his rump “rumper-y.”
And when the darkness looms
we wander on our way
deep into the forest
and from the path we stray.
A lonely way to go?
I’m not sure I agree.
No lonelier than a bed
far from the nearest tree.
Not blocked from the agents
of Death or of Decay —
perhaps, we feel the Web
more than the fear of prey
as we stagger that last mile.
I
beware the wolf
wearing sheep’s clothing,
but – more likely –
you’ll meet sheep wearing
wolf attire while talking shit
II
light green leaves,
in early amber light,
flare brightly,
drawing the eye from
mundane forest greens
III
a lone tree,
standing atop a hill
doesn’t feel lonely;
a nexus is assumed —
invisible or not
Straight out of college, my first job involved strolling into the homes of strangers. This is when I learned about hoarding. Turns out, you don’t have to venture into many American homes before you stumble into a full-blown hoarder’s lair. I don’t mean a messy home. There’s no moderated middle for hoarders. If it’s not floor-to-ceiling chaos, you’re just a slob — not really a hoarder. [Oddly enough, “hoarder’ sounds less offensive than slob, but it’s worse… much worse.]
The occupant of the first hoarder-labyrinth I sidled into was an old lady who’d busted her hip slipping on a glossy magazine from an avalanche that had collapsed into the narrow, navigable canyons of her living room.
At the time, I couldn’t understand the impulse to hoard. I’ve never clung to used up material objects. For me, books are the closest thing to a precious, inanimate object, but they’re like soup bones — once one has sucked the marrow out of them, they just take up space and gather dust. [With precious few exceptions that are uniquely-shaped and -sized for a task like opening a beer bottle or clubbing an intruder.]
Still, if I’m to be honest, I’m an ethereal hoarder. All that page-extracted marrow is clogging up my mental attic. I don’t know that I even have narrow, navigable canyons at this point. Too often, it’s a soul-crushing slog to schlep one of the few fine pieces out from storage. It may sound like a good problem to have until one realizes that a lot of it is rubbish, rubble, and remnants — no more useful than the broken-hip lady’s twelve-year-old newspapers, twenty-three year old Good Housekeeping magazines, or eight-track tape polka music collection.
There was an old man from Guatemala
who had once injured both amygdala.
That blow made him fearless.
On roads he was peerless —
well-poised to drive around Guatemala.
There was a writer from the Czech Republic
who only got a few of his works published.
But for bleak, bureaucratic crimes
he was way ahead of his times —
who knew we’d soon see people wantonly punished?
There was a gardener from Estonia
who was faced with a terrible phobia.
When she heard men hunting,
she’d cry, “Russians are coming,
and they’ll trample all our Begonias!”
Notions whispered into my mind — unheard.
They’re just hot-injected scraps of feeling.
I seek a source in floor, wall, and ceiling,
but I know that can only be absurd.
This is no exchange by grammar or words —
nothing is concealed or needs concealing.
Notions whispered into my mind — unheard.
They’re just hot-injected scraps of feeling —
like the voiceless notes of a little bird,
received without a chirp or any squealing.
Wounds don’t need to hear they should start healing.
The feeling ‘s clear even when the meaning ‘s blurred.
Notions whispered into my mind, unheard.
There was an old man from China
who thought he suffered from angina,
but greasy eggrolls
and MSG by the bowl
gave heartburn to that old man of China.
