If you’ve never been incensed,
challenged, or nauseous —
your reading is too safe, puny,
and far, far too cautious.
Reading should be a courageous act
that threatens all you know.
It should shove your feet into shoes
far different from your own.
If you want your world unchanged,
T.V. is right for you.
Books will insist you be torn a-
part and rebuilt anew.
In a meadow, amid a dark forest
grows a grass so green it glows.
Never sets foot a pilgrim or tourist.
Where it lies, only an old local knows.
Plus, the grazing creatures of the forest
who wander that way when dining time comes.
It sings but silence — no insect chorus.
No sound is heard, save one’s own thin heart thrum.
Burdened is the keeper of that meadow,
with a secret for which some would murder.
But paradise is too frail to be known
to the heartless hand of human herders.
Paradise trampled is paradise lost.
So, the keeper keeps his secret at all costs.
two live oaks
stretch toward each other —
a faux hug
eucalyptus,
silver trunks glow warm
in setting sunlight
one tree field,
its canopy echoes
floating clouds
a faint smell —
the secret message of an
arboreal cabal
in tree time,
the world must unfold in
seasons — not days
What’s it take to turn a symbol into something which is something [rather than symbolic of something?]
Treasuries turn high-rag paper and indelible ink into slips for which people will give one a shirt or a bicycle.
-Paper and pot metal as symbol of value
Admen turn color and font into a dollar more per kilo of a chemically-identical product. [The dollar can be used for someone’s ill-advised gas station hot dog.]
-Brand as symbol of value
Countries are defended by the potential to use weapons — not by their actual use.
-WMD as symbol of defense
Social media presents a lot of talking and the illusion of listening.
-Screaming into a dark forest as symbol of communication
Stories and verse get turned into potent chemical reactions in the body.
-Vicarious living as symbol of living
The letters of this post are symbolic of philosophy, which — in turn — is symbolic of something meaningful, which — in turn –… which — in turn –… which — in turn–…
Rounding a mountain forest trail
from lee to the wet side,
I walk amid mossy branches
draped thick enough to hide
an ogre, troll, or a dark elf —
let ‘lone the old oak’s eyes.
So many hidden paths diverge,
and me without a guide.
Photo Source: Jonathan Hornung (via Wikipedia)
Locusts, you were supposed to come
after the hail-fire storm.
The winged-buses got ambitious
in their desire to swarm.
Of course, pestilence of livestock
queue-jumped the frogs and gnats,
but that’s just ’cause a few people
think livestock includes bats.
Maybe it’s too late for this chain
of disasters to work.
Perhaps, we should call them all off…
[cue “Three Days in the Dark”]
I lie falling asleep —
purple Rorschach blobs
forming,
transforming,
& unforming
on the black field of my inner eyelids.
The veneer of reality felt thinner,
but my efforts to poke a finger through
shoved me back into the warm, soft reality of my bed.
[I’d so wanted to “Here’s Johnny!” my way into
an alternate dimension.]
And, once more, I’m a prisoner to reflexes
that snatch away subtle worlds.
Throw open the doors of Simulation.
I saw the gearbox of that old, faux world,
or was it neuronal stimulation
programmed to grind as the spiral arm whirled?
It pains me t’ say what remains of the day
is a false front of backlogged memory
bits from days past — woven mind macramé.
Deja vu — but feels real, sensorily.
Send fire to the float tank to make ’em dance.
Puppets by wire who think themselves masters.
Better to feel the slump of one’s idle stance
than the perfect posture of bad actors.
Calling all those who know life is scripted:
“Viva la revolution!” to the gifted.
Sitting in a café, watching snowfall collect,
on the lamp-lit portion of a quiet side street.
Mind struggling to create a fresh world of one’s own,
but unable to find one more swollen with life,
feeling, and profound truth than the one right outside.
streetlamp in rain
each droplet catches light,
the drips glow
monsoon rain-song
isn’t loud, but is deafening —
ear-hushed / mind din
cyclone residue
crawls inland, shedding the sea
hauled to sky
