....From The Tree Of........................Isolation & Thought
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_______________________________________________________ Can You Hear It Silence is the biggest sound of all the gulf between the do you and I do, the chasmed innerspace the soul drops down when it wants to be alone. It is the continent of innocence in a child's eyes watching grownups do their grownup things when he thinks he's watching sacred rites an eon away. It is the stunning into non speech that precedes the volcano, the pause between the right and left sides of the heart, answering each other, it is the hand of God when He squeezes all the air out for a moment -and for now it is the wait for war-- the time that is not peace, but is awareness of the breath before the dying. Things We Live With Pops open by itself, the door to the back bedroom when I pass it in the hall upstairs. I know the wood is warped, the dried forced-air heat furnace is why it does this. Sounds like someone entering late to a meeting -desperate to be there. My heart will do a Buddy Rich--peer into the crack at stacks of unused sewing books, a stereo from highschool and the shadow of the armoire from my mother's house that came to me when she broke up housekeeping and moved to an apartment; empty apparently, as it always was but I can't help but wonder what is living with me now. A Word About Turkeys The sky's awash in confetti birds who cling like magnetic filings onto trees. That's a fowl aflutter sky, remarkable- and soothing, all at once. Birds are wondrous, kept to blue and up above- but did you ever see the aggressiveness of turkeys, who stand as tall as five year olds and keep a coming? They roam in packs, jerking heads, egyptianing with every step, a rolling wave of no-brained hunger, making high-pitched turkey blather, picking up their leathery legs and inching closer as a tide. Years ago, I remember picnicking with my children, unpacking ziplocked bags of peanut butter sandwiches while watching turkeys start from treeline massed assault of waddle-necked turkey Special Forces- feeling wonder at first, then taking refuge on the picnic table top; wanting to sell my soul for a well-aimed shotgun. What happens when a thing benign turns nasty? When something that should be comical, becomes a threat? "I don't know", said Black Mack, looking intelligent and dapper as only crows can look. "Take Kim Jong-Il... to all intents and purposes with that hairdo, he's Don King - but I wouldn't feed him anything either- lives in the treeline over at the far side of the world, but get his notice and the whole Korean turkey farm will show up. Get a bigger picnic table; watch out for loonies. They can smell you coming." He's right. He always is. Time-Lapse There was a time I turned and turned in space like the ship in 2001, a space odyssey. Hushed and hovering, slow motion on a painless spit- soft. I felt the sun in increments. Full harshness, full bath of light could not occur. I spindled under God, bit by tiny bit protected by a lower gear I didn't have; it happened quite outside of me. Rotisseried- able to savor parts of everything. It may have been in childhood, or a pregnancy, but I know that it is possble, though never by volition. By some clockwork in the scheme of things that protects the young or those of us who are changing. There are pupa hammocks between the doors and doors that looking back are hidden, sped up by the passage of time like the flickering tick of a camera in a Saturday's matinee smoke and just as softened. Sacrificial It's always somebody's turn. Mid nineteenth century New York it was the Irish. Mid eighteenth, Paris France, it was the rich for once. Sometimes it's the Serbs or Palestinians but the first and second third mid centuries- come to think of it, wasn't only mid, it was beginnings ends right to the present day it was and is the Jews- even Jack the Ripper knew a scapegoat when he saw one, "Not for nothing will the Jewes be blamed" -he scrawled across a wall in White Chapel. Hitler wasn't innovative planning their extinction; I think it's clear that they've been chosen -so the Lord Jehovah said. I think I know how He treats His friends- I think I know what they've been chosen for is not a good thing that's for sure. Ennui Routine routine and routine each and every day there is the deja vu of covering same ground. I've seen that leaf before -I've sipped this cup. I've tripped over this same bump in the rug a thousand times and coaxed my body daily with promise of coffee, some verse to read -to ignore how the screech of alarm clock sounds like an owl that's saying: one more yesterday today. Get up get up and plod it over again. Today I Wrote This Shit Poem and I realized I have nothing to say. Why try when all that comes is dribbled piss-i- ness. I'm tired of this again. Rebel Growing older I've allowed myself to slack, no fretting on the unimportant, still it worries me I've become so lackadaisical as to dress and fuss and piff ......things like wearing all my clothes before I do a load of wash or tying my hair in a ponytail day after day, never buying shoes until my outward bow of heel has worn the leather down to sliver, I wonder what I'll give up next- I hope it isn't bathing--trouble is I never know how far I'll go to prove I am the mistress of my fate, how deep I hate the bastards making all the rules, the ones that say you mustn't cut off runnered pantyhose (with cotton crotch of course), and stick them on as under pants, if the wash is due and they're just taking up the drawer space I could use for cramming crumpled bills and pay stubs circa 19 92. Disappear Flesh, fall off now. No desires, no tricks, no straining up on tip toes tasting rain. That girl was once but when she left she slipped out, no reply no for ward ing address I saw her moving west ward toward the sun set. No re gret. Stomach Talking A day in bed with absolutely nothing to do but sleep- it is a palliative, a gift. It resets clocks. Calms the thrashing heart. Intestinal upset, worming through the clogs of distress, the hopelessly tangled bowel of anger that knotted up my mood that was too mangled to be understood, responded to the respite from the world, is smooth and pink and nicely coiled in its basket of flesh, a woven offering- loaves and fishes- what is given in generosity of spirit, the belly wisdom I rely on is mine again. My core detector of what's good, my guts my own that failed, are working now. Open the door. I'm ready to receive whatever's out there in a different light. On To Page 6 .............. Return To Contents This site sponsered by 
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