....From The Tree Of........................Isolation & Thought
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_______________________________________________________ Media Vita In Morte Summus Jews dwelt cramped as rice. Clustered in their wretched, flesh-cracked winters, deep in the creases of Treblinka packed with life but limned by death, tried one last time before the gulped gas, to reach for god through whatever fleshy porthole they might find to stave their awful shutting down. Might seize the man or woman next to them and thrust at life a last, salvific minute, for in those last times, all things are beautiful and loved; already missed. We are no less starved though fed, we sitters on the golden eggs, who object to thrusting hips in the midst of corpses; how unseemly, you would say. But what you do not see is from the first spark in the unyielding dark, we pull towards union with that halfway part we carry screaming, small, between us, that we would crawl through dung itself- play on our father's bones to whole it. I see all sides my eye is flylike. I see pain in all directions. I see as well, the irony in the erection of the hanged man. I think we hump a life-thump always: politics religion aside, we're pushing death away, and there's beauty in it, no matter when or who no matter why and to those for whom this cumming in the midst of dying is an affront, I say we are propulsed by something huge and loving in the universe, to Whom, I do not think -we dare say no. Just Being Helpful Graves have lids of sod so God can keep the boxes covered; we label them as much for Him as for ourselves -He's getting old and forgetful. Doesn't answer prayers that ring and ring I think it's wise we bring our nametags crossing over Jordan, in case He's burning in a bush somewhere, fired up about one thing or another. Oh, For A Bunting My brain loads slow, like its hard drive needs defragmenting; lots of lost connections, 404 Not Founds and blue screen blank. Looks like the calm that comes over the screen when the cable goes on TV, and in the moment just before the angry rise of color on the throat, there is a peace a s i l e n c e for a blink of time. My blinks are getting closer together, readying me for sleep. There must be calm before surrender: for if I die before I wake's -all that holy hocum scares the bejeezus out of a weary pilgrim. What I need is a hummed, dark lullabye to hie me; tired's already arrived--now I need happy. Lucifer I dream of vermillion dream in color, these reds, reds. Don't know if it is the blood shed forever or the inside of the mouth of the snake come to swallow me whole but every night when the light's gone poof at the switch of the lamp there is a swallowing, a gulp first red, then black, a glimpse of God most terrible- I sit inside His eye, then dancing angels in the dark. Sibilant tongues that lick my cheeks, poke pointed in my ears, say words they never say in daylight, these angels not to be trusted are rust's own face, shown through moonlight red and glowing like tips of matches and are a holy, unholy burning. I never know which. I dream in red. It says its name and calls me names I never can remember come next morning --only that they were frighteningly .......................beautiful. Knowing It's time to put my words to sleep, like you'd put down a dog. Their hips are brittle. Too many years of jumping one stone to the other, they are tired these words, wagging tails or tucking themselves down, around, up into belly when they're in bad company or disapprove of the way I arrange them, or when they're afraid of other words and I hold them captives of the page, these words raged long enough it's time to swallow some and think. I think it's time; if you've been reading me, it's time for you too. There are plenty of spread sheet meadows of luscious, lazy words and people happy to pen them; you need not look too far. They weary me everywhere: listen hear the drone of on and on. I cannot add to it; it's really too depressing for words, which are such helpless, slavish creatures after all. Old Wives and Husbands Tale Some men need women rescuers, and some women need men to rescue burp feed reform: tell them they have strong legs whether they do or not. There is no Camelot without its refugees; no heaven without its former hell, lord knows, no Helen without her Paris pissing on Menelaus right in his own safe haven- perhaps friendship will out- I doubt it: after all "some men....some women...." so the story goes; already written. I am bemused is all. All My Trials Lord Wish I wouldn't be aware of my waistband when I sit. Could just allow my stomach muscles slack enough to relax, sit comfortably for a spell, not cutting like a jigsaw blade, invading thought with just how fat I look from side to side. I wish my one ear wasn't higher than the other that my reading glasses sat aligned and straight across not kilted to one side like a plane dips at the beginning of a loop de loop- I wish most of all that stupid obsessions about the self would march right out the door and never linger, take a left, head down to the creek and jump right in with all the catfish of disquiet I've allowed to troll here at the bottom of the day, when I'm most defenseless, prey to vanity's pointing, red nailed, vicious, grown-up lady fingers; we're ragged children in the hour before sleep with all scabs showing. Ansel Adams With Dali Lining Panoply is a word with ruffles if I ever saw one; not for me, serifs uncurling from my name or umlaut either: one dot, period, is enough at the end of thought. No need to hover two above or select a font, appro pri-ate a certain weight of paper. I'm plain as pins: straight forward. I'm your basic black and white in simple frame. It's on the inside, where the heart, the brain, the hope is I am pied. Tightly curlicued and pan-o-plied as a harem's errant daughter running riotin the widest wide- then somersaulting home to where they know her, even though she's dressed in divers colors, know her by her radically shifting heartbeats, riffling painfully from black and white to ghosty little half-life tints of what is seen, what is really there and what was once. Throwing Blind You threw the thing with wrist snapped speed, that thought you had, dug daggered into brain. The throw was clean the thought was wild and brittle. Broke into pieces for my feet to find so that by bloodprints you'd track after to a place that's neither Right or Wrong but both, with each deep breath. And On With It No getting round it, some things take total cleansing. A house, haunted or cursed, contaminated surgical field of the peeled heart, new valve awaiting, scoured and uninfected starting over: pump and pump again. Fresh blood freshets of what is flowing through a place with longer shelf life without bruises, in working order: like waiting for the next boatload of red cells or giving out happier rhythm, one you can live with; such things are necessary. Clean it then, get on with it. On To Page 19 .............. Return To Contents This site sponsered by 
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