I donned this book like sunglasses
to tweak my old worldview,
but that intent was overshot
and I saw all anew.
I peered at the page and there saw
another universe.
Through eyes not mine, but no better —
nor in any way worse.
Eyes that’d seen things unknown to me,
but not this world of mine.
We’ll have to work together to
unravel space and time.
The brain wants to slap a label on everything it comes in contact with —
good… bad
pleasurable… painful
smart… dumb
naughty… nice
Having reached the time and disposition to tear away these labels, I find that some are stuck fast —
though they went on with the ease of a sticky note.
And so I unpack concepts and scrap labels —
sometimes with ease
&
sometimes tediously.
I
the post-perched bird
remains still, but for its eyes,
which dart about —
below, fish shoot and jink,
thinking the post oddly shaped
II
the mountains reflect
off of that glassy lake
with such clarity;
all know which mountains are true
except for the fishes
III
behind the barracks,
some local women gather
to bath at the well.
he pretends not to look
they pretend not to be seen
I walked beside that gray river;
fog blurred the trees of the far bank.
The grass and ground were wetted down
as if the clouds had crashed that night
and slathered moisture on the world
as a damp mop dragged over might.
It’s cold and wet and as subdued
as a painting in shades of gray.
Have you seen the world look painted —
as if it were more art than real?
Then you may know what I walked through —
its look rang false, but – oh – that feel.
It felt like every nerve burned bright
despite that dim, mid-winter scene.
The dangling vine curls at its end —
a hook in search of hold.
The breezes bounce and sway that hook —
‘t looks blindly pushed and pulled.
But that creeper ‘s not drooping free.
It’s reaching as best it can.
Awaiting opportunity —
too patient for a plan.
One day, in sway, it’ll set its hook,
and wrap its way around,
and – day-by-day – will climb its way
still farther from the ground.
‘Til it links its roots to canopy.
Sitting on the balcony, watching the rain, I see spreading concentric rings ping into each other in the puddles below. The expanding rings of big drops swamp those of the smaller droplets. More evenly-matched pairings of waves becomes something new — not pure chaos, but much more complex than either of their parents. The analogy to the workings of my mind is intuitively felt — if not intellectually understood.
A pigeon struts along the ledge of concrete slab on a building under construction next door. The slab intends to become a balcony like the one on which I’m sitting.
I want to think that only a winged creature could walk so confidently on that ledge, but I remember reading that skyscraper construction companies in New York City hired lots of men from a certain Western tribe known for fearlessness vis-à-vis heights.
But were they fearless?
Sooner or later, fearless creatures become careless creatures — at least among humans.
The chipmunk bobbing at the twiggy, distal end of a branch seems fearless to me, but I also feel that I’d see a lot more sidewalk-splattered chipmunks if the little beast didn’t have some kind of feeling about the precariousness of its situation. Maybe, I anthropomorphize.
And one puddle reaches a tipping point, pouring into another…
I
thundering falls
sing a mind into trance —
timeless sound
II
nearing the falls,
the grand spectacle becomes
a fog wall
III
yamabushi
sit under the cascade —
nails unhammered
IV
seeking earth’s center,
the river drops as far as
land allows
V
a round boulder
sits at the precipice,
refusing to roll
I walked up to the window — eyes closed.
The explosions of irregular shapes settled into an even sheet of orange — a warm and comforting hue. It became more yellow as I continued to stand before that unseen sunny day.
When I turned my back on the window, light blues boiled up from a dark and even metallic blue — until the inside of my eyelids settled into shifting Rorschach mosaics of dark colors, mostly purple and black.
Walking blindly,
-every step is an adventure,
-every sound matters,
-there is no wandering mind.
I wonder how long my brain would take to rewire if I kept my eyes sealed shut.
I suspect a blind person can take a mundane walk, but there is nothing mundane in my walk. There’s no mind left to wander after one piece keeps me on balance, another piece takes note of other sensory input, and yet another bit positions my hands for maximum gentleness of collisions.
I have no yearning to be blind, but it does wake up something within one what one never knew lie dormant. And in those moments I experience life anew.
In this land of tropical green,
there is one tree timed to north lands.
Its leaves turn red from deepest green,
and fall as if to season’s plans.
They fall not by mere ones or twos,
but in wild, fluttering masses.
Inside, it gives one the bronzy blues
to starkly feel the year’s passage.
To see sunny-side branches nude,
and know the numbered days still left
for ever-redder multitudes
who suffer time’s — and wind’s — great theft.
No land is so foreign to me
that I can’t see home in a tree.
It’s mid-month.
But how?
Where are all those days?
Once upon a time,
days were shoved neatly into rows —
like tiles in a perfect pattern…
weren’t they?
Now, the days are tossed rubble:
fragmented,
deformed,
or missing, altogether.
And I wonder whether I was awake through those disjointed days, or whether my mind was kicked into some kind of timeless void?
