Each of us lives a life improbable, the gift of an ancestor who struggled through some terror which killed others. We each have an iron impulse to maintain a cracking grip on life, but some won't ever be pried away, growing like the stunted pine that juts from the mountainside: gnarled but indestructible. Live improbably with your life improbable.
I I remember Spring: tight and tender buds, soon to blossom clouds -- low & swollen, & rain scent in the air
II I remember Summers: the season of freedom... and mosquitoes, but, also, fireflies exploration & calamine lotion
III I remember the Fall: harvest time Grain chaff in the air axle grease on the wind Canadian geese Honk-Honk-Honk-ing in wedge formation
IV
I remember winters:
snow days
snow drifts
the feel of the first morning
of the season in which
one woke up to a blanketing snow,
having gone to bed with
pathetic matted grass
It's dark. But the neon burns, and bright signs color the night, and that color shines against wet surfaces. The color seems to float, and when I walk past it shifts, morphs, and flows, becoming alive. And it -- those bright primary colors -- might just be creeping towards me like a killer kindergarten clown. I turn to see the colors swirling, swirling but not advancing. I stare into the color paisleys as they dance yin-yang do-si-do's around the puddle. I'm entranced & soothed, and no longer fear the colors will attack, turning me vibrant.
I glimpsed your ghost,
but for a moment
in the middle of the night
just as I opened my eyes.
You stood stock still --
right there at the foot of my bed.
I couldn't make out your expression
in the short time before you faded.
In the morning, I learned
that you died that night.
Everything is happening
somewhere in that city.
Blocks of block buildings
broken into smaller blocks,
in turn into smaller ones.
Those blocks -- rooms --
are the city's unit of interest.
So many rooms,
so much potential for the:
-nefarious,
-virtuous,
-ill-advised,
-hideous,
-hopeful,
-hilarious...
Someone is hanging
from a rafter,
waiting to be found.
Thousands are masturbating.
AI surveys the porn they surf,
making new genres in real time
based on unfulfilled search terms...
In one room, a scientist
figured out a cure for cancer
in a burst of inspiration,
but by the time she'd found a pen,
she'd lost it -- no trace remaining.
She then convinced herself
she'd never really had it...
but she had.
Everything that can happen
has happened,
will happen,
and is happening
in the city.
woke up,
stitched up;
something growing
deep within
inside /
outside
what strange hell
is this?
what's this box i
built within my brain:
old ideas keeping
out the light
i read a story,
made a movie --
all within my mind,
but something grew out
that i couldn't comprehend
It's a beautiful day
in the graveyard.
Blue skies.
Cool, but not cold.
The ideal temperature
to be an overdressed military man.
Do ghosts amble among the stones
on days like these?
I imagine most of these men died
on quite different kinds of days:
Rainy, cold, muddy days.
Muggy, buggy, malarial days.
The kind of day that just won't end,
but to fold into a sleepless night.
How many died,
not from spall or Minié balls,
but because they just didn't have the will
to drag themselves through another day?
from exhaustion?
from demoralization?
How many died under beautiful blue skies
on an idyllic autumn day?
I don't know whether
there're good days to die,
and even less whether
there're good days to be dead.
Our plight is craving perfection
in an imperfect world:
imperfectly perceived,
imperfectly performed,
imperfectly programmed.
To have a mind that can imagine perfection,
but never attain it
creates a special hell vehicle.
so much power
in a lazy rolling wave
as it tips into a tube.
a column of
weighty water
piledrives:
pressing one down &
holding one in a
back-shaped divot
on the sandy bottom,
a forced pour
onto face and chest,
flowing & rolling
over both sides with
such easy skill
as to negate a
frantic, thrashing
attempt to roll free.
frozen silence.
but for the rustle of breeze
against dry grass.
snow will come,
and a crust of snow
will settle in crystalline
interlock with the brown stalks.
the snow will absorb sound,
muffling reality,
until nothing remains but
frozen silence.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 