....From The Tree Of........................Isolation & Thought
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_______________________________________________________ Bell Writing about lonely just makes lonely bigger. Plumps it up too fat to fit in the narrowness of what it is, which is empty space with a face and a sound like wind. Some people think it's arias and high falutin, dying notes, but that's artistic embroidery: it's the sound of a seashell, big as a diving bell, which sinks to no one knows. Old Ponds, New In this ocean of pixels, arranged and strangely real, I thought I had a colorful raft -compelling, hard to turn from, drawing every kind of fish the sharks and angels, blowfish- lots of those- and now and then a star fish or a sword, but fish are quickly bored and swim to bigger marinas, perhaps because the horde is always changing when I'm not. I know the tide has turned. I'll have to live with that. I'll have to find a suitable lover of this boat, who knows this end of ocean. Looking Didn't think it mattered to be noticed, but it does. So important to be seen. Don't really care if you like it or you don't once you've had a look- but looking's something else again; otherwise I'm a hand that's clapping air. Don't want reverberation, only eyes. Hearts On Our Sleeves I have an idea: why don't we all haul ass and stand on the deck of an aircraft carrier, holding up those colored cardboards, spelling out a message to whatever gods or missiles fly above. Leave us alone. We don't believe in anything hard enough to die- move outta the way. We want our sky, our world, our air our love our love our love us- most of all. Pointy And Round, Together Everyone's got an imp inside a playful mix of yin yang wallawalla bing bang, zipfile wrapping it all together. That is why when a ball is thrown down low to me- and if I'm sitting, I catch it with my knees not spreading thighs to make a sling of skirt. It's just my way. In the same way, I might suddenly cry, if asked, 'who taught you how to drive, you bitch'- even as I make a fist inside and wish the bully knocked out by my knuckles. Think about the buckle of line between the sun the moon the gold and silver winking back and forth, two fish eyes, winking at one another, first sun then moon and sometimes both together close enough to kiss- we're all like this. How To Get There Life has such choppy waters, eddies storms and undertows it takes a craft as comical as a pontoon boat to make it through the channels. Speed boats tend to veer right outta control, the tugboats may get by, but at the cost of being able to see what is in front- pushing, pushing a load. But crossing the bar in solid pontoon miracle, two big cylinders of faith on either side held buoyant but ungainly, you can get to the place you're going whether tides are high or low- it just takes practice. And a boat that will not sink or snag. Soulless Do you know what it's like to be dead and still be animate?-A Vincent Price world- of croaking where there should be voices- raven black, the heart. The heart yet beating, mere percussion in the breast the rest is -rigmarole. False Idol You don't have to die to see God- sometimes He wears a face so familiar it's that weary mein in the mirror- the one that says, 'you back again?' Each time-worn crease, the bed-head haystack hair, the bleary jaundiced eye that hides the one who once curled up while watching Romper Room and Captain Kangaroo- the child who was broken off the hem of Him she looks back, too and remembers how, even hippos could be beautiful- then comes the love. The Difference There are stairways to heaven, elevators to hell, but poetry is a kind of carpet ride going either place and mostly hovering in the real, a real you cannot walk, but glide a foot above. That is how you know it's poetry, your feet are not on ground they're in the slipstream of current emotion, which is why describing trees as fingers leads you to the dream you had as a child, when a witch was scraping all the stars out of the sky; that's why you cried and why you write of night and fingers of night, those black and bony birches, with such sadness. Goose Chase Search and search for something, find the itch and scratch, the appetite and glut, the eyes the ears, the fingers suffer hunger, but the thing so long sought out feels somehow different without music in the background. Stub your toe on silence. Walk away. On To Page 4 .............. Return To Contents This site sponsered by 
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