The residue of an unremembered dream
clings to my consciousness.
Tainting my day in indescribable ways.
These tailings leave a taste.
Indescribable, but if feels a little bit like
a place that I once lived,
mixed with a monsoon rain morning,
and just a hint of angst.
Some books are wings,
lifting one up to see countless things.
Untethered, be your rise,
glimpsing vistas known to the wise.
Some books are blocks,
building up a reader’s bulwark box.
Barring ideas opposed
to a mind certain and closed.
Which books are which?
book’s soar = f (reader’s fears)
Grant me my ignorance.
Don’t encroach on this spinning enigma
with false facts
&
didactic diatribes.
The part I was written was one
naïf & wary.
Let me embrace the grandiosity
of mystery.
Let me stare dumbstruck at
the weight of all
I do not know.
Let me revel in subtle discovery,
leaving findings grand & mythical
to others.
And should I unearth a shard–
a dull and fractured fragment
of truth.
Don’t feel it’s weight puny
&
shuck it into the desert
of the known.
Let me treasure it as a monument,
if simple & unadorned.
I feel the “eee” in the cupboard’s creak–
every last “e” of that god-awful squeak.
It pierces all ears and betrays my sack,
notifying the world of my impending snack.
sitting in the stillness
contemplating sadness
kick it in the cojones
til you love your madness
Silence
Ears ring
Inventing a monotonous tone
to thwart
Silence
on inner eyelids
a dragon dance plays out
in purple & black
a flower scent
too faint for a human nose
swells to a garland market
and becomes
the taste
of
rosewater on the tongue
as the mind wonders,
was it a real
flower
or a
phantosmia?
bitter stories writ in circuit fire
rifling down the pipes
can you imagine:
“You’re the worst!”
as a tale slung on electron backs
couriers spew into tiny chasms
floating forward to light the next fire
nothing chiseled in granite
but each time electrons dance that line
it makes fast the path
change the dance
change your story
Last week, there were vast patches
of wildflowers
in the understory.
Now, a faint few hangers-on remain.
Next week, they’ll be but a memory–
a residue of consciousness,
a dying homage to the worthy memory
of their existence.
In ten years time, this florid story
will be gone to all.
Nature needs no selfies.
She changes states without concern
for legacy or posterity.
She is–
&
that’s enough.
Like Chuang-tzu,
I didn’t know whether a
butterfly dreamt me.
It wasn’t for lack of absurdity.
No.
Absurdity was in abundance.
Rather,
that block of brain that calls
bullshit
was sleeping.
It’s failed me before.
Edgar Allan Poe
If I was as Mad as Poe,
could I summon the Raven?
If I was as radical as Blake,
could I build myself a tyger?
If I was as shut-in as Dickinson
could I be Nobody, too?
If I was as doomed as Radnóti,
could I pen my elegy on a death march?
William Blake
Emily Dickinson
Miklós Radnóti
