Rivers merge. Trees may fork, but rivers merge. True, sometimes rivers split to form an island, and when they near the sea they may branch out like the roots of a tree. How the river knows it's near the sea is unclear to me, but it is the river's nature. As is the tendency of rivers to merge toward unity of flow. But what is my nature?
Sunlight breaks over the city, and the people on the streets remain within the shadows. But those who turn their heads up see the vibrant colors, while those who stare down to the pavement drift deeper into shadow.
Someone put a tiny, limp-gunned tank
on Danube west bank --
in Budapest, opposite Parliament.
Unsubtle symbolism, indeed,
but worth noting:
The might of violence
made feeble in the face of democracy,
and all that.
So true,
and yet so few
seem to believe it.
We seem to believe
that matching savagery
is the key to strategy
in opposing the extreme,
but then we've really just made more
extremism, haven't we?
The bronze goblin rides the world. Its wide eyes always open, taking in everything that happens on the street: brisk business-like strides of mid-morning, mid-day strolls, slumped evening plods, midnight staggers, and witching hour stumbles. It sees you when you're meeting, and knows when it's legit.
The gothic cathedral is dark -- unilluminated, but for the flickering orange flames of votive candles, and the weak winter light of a gloomy December day that warms the panels of stained glass. A pew creaks. A tiny movement makes a giant sound, owing to the stony acoustics. The pew is creaking from the restless fidgeting of the church's sole occupant.
I saw an old man
nestled in a nook
beside the sidewalk,
a plastic jug
of night diesel
beside well-worn,
second-hand boots,
combing greasy hair
with parted fingers,
and rubbing his eyes -
child-style -
with loose fists.
He was awake at an hour
to get to a job
that he didn’t have.
Instead, he’d amble / stagger
along the riverside,
taking frequent stops
to taste the bathtub concoction
made in the bathtub
that he didn’t have.
And somewhere,
at some undefined hour,
he’d drift into
a restless death-slumber
to repeat it all again —
“Groundhog Day” style.
The fallen leaves
of a sheltered tree
form a shadow
made of yellow,
a pointillist shadow
painted yellow,
‘til the wind blows
angled and low
to send that shadow
on its way -
or ‘til the leaves
turn brown and crisp…
whichever comes first.
Nothing is straightforward,
or simple.
Everything is a messy mix
of shades
blended in swirling clouds—
chaos clouds.
Those who can redraw the world
with sharp, angular boundaries
are the masters of self-deception:
for all deception is self-deception.
How does one master menace,
carving optimal malignancy
into a festive orange orb?
Sometimes the faces intended
to convey happy holiday blessings
are the most creepy and disconcerting…
you know, like with real peoples’ faces.
Sometimes the faces intended
to torture souls and rend psyches
are over-the-top and campy or silly…
you know, like with real peoples’ faces.
How does one master menace
on a festive orange orb?
flowers & greenery
&
little bottled candles
form a memorial
on the train bridge
crossing the river
but the most soul-chilling
is the stuffed toy rabbit,
standing weathered & unkempt,
it testifies that someone
saw the deceased
as a tiny child
was she a tiny child,
or just so remembered?
so many questions float on
as that cold river glides below
Tiger Riding for Beginners 