a typhoon stalled offshore, and dreary clings to this place a miasma written in solid hours when will clouds crack & let the light in? just one blue bolt of sky, showing through a crevice? my head is in fog, and I can't hear my pounding heart over the crashing of waves
crack the tablets: smash & shatter them until they flutter into dust, dust that's wisped into eddies and sparkles in the creek bed and is flushed out to sea and is but a glittery trace of what they once were.
ideas accelerate to the surface like air bubbles from whence they came, i cannot say they passed up from below the lit sea from the darkness maybe, like air bubbles, they follow a mostly straight path, but i cannot say for certain what happens below the light i catch only the vapor that drifts up out of the popping bubbles and it must be gathered quickly before it spreads on the wind, becoming lukewarm nothing... damn increasing entropy!
in the monkey forest, i think of Sun Wukong & Hanuman as a macaque steals my sunglasses
waves roll over with a soft crashing white noise that splays out into a sizzle as foamy water expands flatly over hot sand until the sizzle is washed out by the next wet crash and then more sizzle and then more crash sizzle & crash crash & sizzle
As in Hokusai’s Great Wave,
I watch waves roll over,
before a volcanic cone.
Though these waves are
small & close,
they are perfectly rounded.
And though the distant volcano
looms large over the shore waves,
it has perfect symmetry.
I feel the roundness
&
simultaneous devastating power
of both elements at once.
I’m a traveler —
attached only to the place
tethered to my now.
That’s the only place
that exists in any real sense.
The past has no reality
in the present - not really.
It’s a ghost,
a dim and fuzzy figment.
Only thorns of the moment
can prick me.
Past disasters hold no sway,
&
future calamities are acts
of imagination.
abandoned farmstead -- a blip in the flat-wide spaces of the industrial-agro-manufactured prairie the barn, dilapidated the vehicles & implements, rusted weeds growing from every crack tall, blonde grass - waving like ripe wheat - stands in both front & back yards something has died on the prairie something is returning to dust & weed something is lost
I woke up rife with Morlock memories. What a damnable time it was! The days when I was not a boy, and not a man -- nothing for which anyone had a good word. Maybe I was a shadow: two-dimensional & wonky in shape. I was that which lived below: below ground, below the radar, below comprehension.
Wildlife charges through the city like the bulls of Pamplona, a stampede of death from a river of life, a river that flows turbulently, crashing and slopping. Nothing can falter before the stampede. Each step must land solidly, each step until one's last.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 