....From The Tree Of........................Isolation & Thought
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_______________________________________________________ Chasing Smoke Find I'm just not up to it anymore. The intrigue bores me wondering Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego what difference does it make the sun is burning out and all god's children cry themselves to sleep no matter what. Besides, the milk inside the bottle scalds the tongue and never warms the belly up, the belly's up the mind's not far behind and there my friend is trouble I can tell you. Can't Fight It You cannot stave off morning playing chicken with the dawn to see how late and then, how early it becomes. The eyes go lead, the brain turns slower, slower, like a merry-go-round running out of steam till strung there, taut as catgut, you are leveled by the waking dream steam-rollered anyway; a new day just the same. Some Things Are Inevitable Drip drip drop- the slow insistance of water on rock that finally cracks the imperfect vein that separates half from half- that without the water's help, would hold till doomsday but the water always wins. The rock is helpless in the splitting. The sky is full of clouds; clouds turn to rain. By The Sweat Of Your Brow You Shall Office air is stale with paper, dead numerals, heated plastics from the computer banks stain-resistant carpet fibers and the cloying smell of someone's vanilla plug-in trying to sweeten the desperation sweat of paycheck to paycheck. Outside, the lovely landscaped building next to us manufactures artificial scents for public bathrooms. So the air is filled with cordial cherry or something that smells like strawberry, but isn't. They have humor: fly a flag next to the American one a little lower, proudly waves old Skunky, the company's trademark. Then I smell what can only be described as 'grass blood'- wet, green screaming smell of summer, when we butcher the over four inch blades by thousands per second leaking microscopic wounds that let out just enough juice apiece, so that when we've slain an army my lungs remember what we're here for, and why we breathe in deeply--we remember Eden. Maybe There Is A Montana I'm sewing my lips shut that I may not speak, cutting off fingers to keep them from typing, puttying my ears and blindfolding myself to stop the incessant hum and hurl of what is essentially nonsense. Go away. Give me stars- anonmymity of sky, a hill ......to have one night alone- there is ...... not enough s ... p... a ... c... e. Biblical Personal histories aside, poetry is the Noah's Arc where we take our words two by two, to find a saving Ararat. The rest of the world can damn well drown. Rolling Life is a series of circles fitting inside, but not completely inside of others; like Palmer Method exercise it's not merely how straight and true the line, it's how lightly we hold the pencil, and with what lighter grace, )))))))))))))))))))))we roll)))). Smithereens Words gather, shapeshift- become a mail of armor or a vest of sweet pea flowers, almost anything you want but unless you can let go of them, strike them with a mallet like hammers strike the keys of a Baldwin shattering the sounds, they'll never find their way as they should, by following the beating bits of heart; that's where the voice is. Short Lived Caught in flight, a manic dance of moths, two white ones frittering the afternoon, wearing sun like wraps thrown on for show, like they know they have a glow together. Two snowy bugs, mirrored as though magnitized, but what I saw was joy and tripping light fantastic with music in my head, where all the best tunes are. I wanted to warn them of the candles, of citronella deaths but they were desperate to be where they were and mind less; sometimes the risk's not even known, there's only shine. End Time to fold. Hand's played out- there are no flushes left, no straights or even pairs- there's only this clean push back from the table. See light at the bottom of the door where the next day is. On To Page 22 .............. Return To Contents This site sponsered by 
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