I
rustling leaves,
i hear only chaos;
the blind man hears
a single leaf fall,
hitting others as it drops
II
the sunshine
glows on my eyelids,
warms my face;
i see movement in
shifting dark blotches
III
the city noise,
so chaotic when looking,
becomes ordered
when I close my eyes
and sit with the sound
They shut down all the asylums…
That’s one way of looking at it.
Another is that they widened
them to admit us all inside.
Now with the riots underway,
there’s no haven from the strife.
Leaving us only one option,
we must go nuts in earnest.
Most nights,
there’s a rave-roving purveyor
of meaty Mexican masterpieces.
— cilantro & lime on the side —
It’s drawn to the sweet unhinged
by the force and call of hunger —
that gravity of need.
It’s fueled by the need to feed
the weed-reeking masses,
and by the sweaty, wadded cash
they dig out of pockets.
You can never find
the Midnight Taco Truck,
but it may find you…
if your luck and hunger
are vibrating in harmony.
There was an old lady from the U.K.
who ached when it was damp and gray,
but — between you and me —
she had a problem, you see,
’cause it was rarely any other way.
Once, tsunami waves crashed ashore,
catching me off-guard.
In wonder of just what’d hit me,
I’d sit – soaked and scarred.
The more I’d sit, watching my world,
the more I’d see storms howl.
I’d still get drenched, but, sometimes,
I could reach my towel.
Often, when I’d witness my mind,
I’d see the squalls approach,
and I could pack my things and go
before the surge encroached.
I never learned the magic to
turn the winds away,
but I could see the distant clouds
and shelter from the fray.
When the last voice
over the airwaves
goes silent —
despite there being
no one to listen —
I’d like to believe
the silence will be felt
in the universe.
some swans think themselves ducks
some ducks think themselves swans
some fawns think themselves bucks
some gold thinks itself bronze
the static thinks itself in flux,
and has-beens think themselves icons
such is the challenge of self-knowing
Crisp air and clear skies freshen the senses, injecting one into a world more real than one has felt before. Cerulean skies, free of contrails, feel close at hand. Grazing leisurely, a deer cracks a downed limb, the sound carrying across the lake. A fluttering fishtail breaks the water as a bass turns and darts down and away, the sound of sprayed water is heard clearly, though one sees no indication of the creature. Shifting winds fill one’s nose with an antiseptic scent of pine. One is alive — fully alive.
early autumn
skies tint the muddy lake
a cold color
Woe is the place where breath isn’t free —
underwater, metaphorically or literally.
A cement-shoe walk through the pond,
looking up to the blurred and shimmering light
that you can’t reach —
with an intense urge to suck air,
air that isn’t there.
An attempted breath would be an act of suicide —
no more satisfying than any act of suicide —
but a good deal more painful than most.
Those who wished to see but not be seen
would sit and see the world through carved screens,
taking in the thriving market scenes,
watching hunched women sweep the streets clean,
vendors ladling curry from tureens,
pickpockets who thought themselves unseen,
and drunks who use walls as a latrine.
What’s worse about life behind the veil,
the sight of lives lived beyond the pale,
or knowing you live outside the tale?
