The jungle paints the ruins green —
brown blocks are made verdant.
So, you can’t see its ordered shape
’til you part the curtain
of palms and vines and mammoth leaves
that hide those old remains —
once hacked back by muscled men who,
daily, took great pains
to clear the rampant jungle growth
out beyond moat and berm.
‘Til the invading army won,
and Fort was deemed infirm.
An idea drifts in my mind’s periphery.
It’s the mental version of an eye squiggly —
those translucent, sinuous shapes that…
-barely register in one’s field of vision,
-can be glimpsed but not focused upon,
-and are insubstantial — but become a fixation.
And I’m left to wonder whether it was really an idea,
or just the feeling of having had an idea.
I
her form,
perched at the water’s edge,
took the shape of a treble clef
and all the notes that followed,
my heart did sing
II
there’s a gravity that grows
between two orbiting souls,
waiting to be nudged into unity
III
not all silenced voices produce loneliness
one voice, silenced, opens infinite connections
I’ll not weep in, this, the Devil’s hour.
I might not laugh, but I won’t be dour.
The blur of winged fury sweeps above.
Each thinks of his first and last love,
wondering which of these memories
his dying mind will last see.
Whichever it is, I’ll not be dour,
though this be the devil’s hour.
The Truthlands are chartless and vast.
I crave understanding.
I’ve tripped through time on jagged lines
in search of mind-expanding.
I’m like a dog in hot pursuit,
both seeking to sink teeth,
and terrified that I’ll be tossed
and die ground underneath.
I’m chasing down a map to Truth,
but it’s the search I seek.
I’m not discouraged that my chance
is little more than bleak.
[In truth, I’m proud to have had such
a winning losing streak.]
when time died
we were frozen
— blocks of inaction
no one would ever know
no light traveled to eyes
no vibrating air entered ears
no bioelectricity zipped down neurons
no cells broke down and died
no memories were formed
no tick-tock of clocks
no clip-clop of hooves
nothing moved or witnessed
everything did nothing
&
never was everywhere
the day time died
I
rocks tumble
as crashing waves erode
the cliff wall
II
at land’s end,
surf punishes the earth —
rocks forgive
III
looking out
to the endless sky
all ‘s unbounded
IV
a bird perched
upon a cliff doesn’t
mull mortality
Throw torrents — bending them with wind gusts, sending water spattering against the glass as if propelled by a preternatural hand.
The earth tells by its tone that it’s waterlogged. Saturated soil turns away droplets like an overbooked hotel during festival days — which is to say — not as quickly as new arrivals can pack themselves into the metaphorical lobby.
Water piles up, seeking to soak into the sheltering fundament, but held back by the mass of those rain-blobs that fell first.
Meanwhile, in a hotel [real, not metaphorical] a crowd piles in to test the veracity of the “No Vacancy” neon burning as brightly as the nasty night will allow. One man, head raised skyward, is screaming taunts at the foul weather like a motor lodge King Lear. The others would roll eyes and mock the man’s lunacy, but they are busy silently screaming into their souls.
Ramanagara Hill
Land where granite domes bubble up,
blistering the forest.
Callousing its broad swath of green
with an ashen gray nest.
I know your echo from the land
where I once took my rest,
in those long gone days before I
set off on life’s grand quest.
Stone Mountain
In 2002, I took a stroll in the marketplace and discovered I couldn’t get out. I was never lost, but neither could I escape the market. When I got home, I found that the market had spread into my home — into my very bedroom. Later, I realized that it had even dropped into my pocket, and I was carrying it with me everyplace I went. I caught a flight, thinking that — even if it caught up with me upon arrival — I’d have a few hours of precious freedom. No such luck. There, in the seat pocket.
I’ve resolved to die in the marketplace, a consumed consumer. At least the flowers will be near at hand.
