....From The Tree Of........................Isolation & Thought
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_______________________________________________________ Beetles At the Carnegie Museum Natural History, Entomology section, sometime in 1983, I saw the most extraordinary beetles from Madagascar. Hissing beetles. Two of them in a perfect biosphere case and they were giants. Dessert-sized plates of bug specimen filled me equally with fear and fascination, even awe, like I'd discovered my feet could talk if I'd just listen close. No less odd to be hearing the high-pitched, loud communiques of beetles big as my face; they were horribly beautiful: two jewel backed, brown enigma couldn't-be's, but were. I remember taking in half of that phenonenon, and half heart-attack palpitations from the proximity of my then illicit love, who accompanied me and stood close enough to smell; both were wonders. With time, the lover's grown day to day embedded, like an untrimmed toenaill; attached, and often painfully, yet both were vivid extremes that day, the beetle and the beau. Given a choice right now, between the drop-down smitten and the Madagascarian bugs, I know which way my soul tugs: toward ........................the mystery. ................................I'm going to have to ........look ................................a little harder. Chips My female cat, Ed Harris likes tortilla chips. I found this out by stumbling from my bed to have a pee before I shut the lights out and one tumbled from my night gown. A small and spurious speck of pale unknown that made me jump as my butt touched porcelain. I picked it up and threw it. She investigated, never far from feet as I wander room to room, and gobbled it down. Used to eat most anything she could get her mouth around, starvling that she'd been as a six month bag of sticks. She's grown picky with years passing, as have I. We've both quite recently found we like our food on the fly: tortilla chip for her, a dinner of chips and sliced American cheese at ten o'clock at night for me, in lieu of eating out. We've both scaled back. Appreciate the scarcity of an opportunistic gift that comes our way; we've both grown thinner, but more skilled at watching for particles of importance: we've grown watchful. Without A Thought It's possible to pass a single day by clicking keys, the mind released by strength of will from broken record thoughts. It's possible to be productive have an impressive list of accomplishments, not the least of which is that you sat and stayed. It's possible to forget to eat, but not to breathe, no, that one doesn't work, but it is so very possible- to drive a route that's so well known you're home before you remember pulling the car out, running red lights, or executing turns. I'm on Auto/ Auto, ............these days. Pregnant Pause Events in our lives are punctuations: question mark, exclamation point and plenty of dashes as the action races forward. Colons are the stop signs as we make our lists of what is important, but it's the pauses, empty places between paragraphs, that's where the metamorphosis takes place. Where there is no indication or direction. Only time and thought and breathing. Only space. Cargo Ever reach a point where none of it is recognizable- head, hands, feet look like someone else is wearing them- and what is real anyway, when each part feels like something slung on a donkey being carted off to places you'd never choose. Eyes stare at skies no more remote than what is inside, until ......inside ...is carted off too. Last Crow Conversation Black Mack threw his head back opened his beak as far as it would go and cawed and cawed. I could see the red tongue and his craw as red-raw as could be and I said, "Buddy." "Precisely so", is what Black Mack said and if birds can grin, I think he did. "Was that a laugh, old friend", I asked. "I think it may have been a bark, he said as shiny head turned beady eye on me. "Sometimes, you have to let the dog out, don't you know. Sometimes you have to give a howl. Prepare yourself to bite. Flight's not an option." "Can I just stand and watch. Not say a thing?", I asked. "I think you've already made your choice now haven't you, little Scout. You've let Boo Radley out. He's seen a few things. Doesn't say a word." "Will it be hard?" I asked him. "Only child, at first." I hope he's right. Conundrum I think that writing's hurting my personal life I think I write too much personal life no time to write I think my personal life hurts my writing I think I have no personal life to write I think too much pain is what I feel I feel too much to think I'll write of personal pain I think that it's been done ..........I feel no ..........pain,....because ..........I think .........There, Solved. Final Cut Coming out of a dark tunnel into light, I squint. Print the scene before I close my eyes to open them again adjusted to what rods and cones are doing. Maybe someday dying will be like that. And so I wonder what that last image will be, and will it be a face. What is the final look at life- will it be thank god that's over with or will it be an 'ah-ha' thing. I'd want it to be something sums it up neatly, like Bergman- like you didn't understand a goddamned scene but that's alright. Dead Doll Cold Weather's changing colder, windier, sky is full of snow I know its mood. I am part of this front, dark and driven hard. Time to pull off to the side of the road and let it snow. Ice has been in these clouds for quite a while now. I wonder how it waited for so long. Internetzzo This is what I'm looking at: a screen that changes with my need some poetry some porno some news of how the world is falling down, some alchemy some perfidious chatting up of faithless wives to rutting strangers wearing open trousers, looking for split seconds of disconnection from their balding lives and all of it just all of it is bullshit. 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