....From The Tree Of........................Isolation & Thought
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_______________________________________________________ On The Job Segmented, chopped limb from brain I can't remember the way I came in anymore. Clock won't jump the second hand hardly moving, fingers dry as they transfer paper pile to pile. It's hard to remember the sounds of joy like silver, maybe light and high, the ice crystal far piano keys of plink, plink, plink, the tumbled rush of rolling water over rock so fast it laughs. I have to- have to- remember these things or I'll fade to gray, become a Pompeiian effigy- part of a story stopped and dumb and frozen, hands on keyboard, so very far from where I've hid my heart while I am here. And if I hear the Vesuvian rumble of 'time stand still'- ... I need to be ready ... to run. Almost Nothing The carriage passed so fast, what I caught of faces was a color blur, a smear perhaps of something dear, but it was gone before I blinked. So much of life is hinted, tinted almost flesh; a feature or a tone of voice that dissipates too quickly to be captured. There are murmers on the wind, that are the last and glassy look of dream before the eyes slide up their morning shades to find the glimmer ghosted, gone for good. Grave Autumn An arch of asphalt road spools out its yellow stripe, the day is ripe for roaming in this early autumn noon. Shorter days remind us that our lives all fade to ghost. Think of all the motion moving into autumn brings. Harvesting the plenty, shoring up for leaner times, cording wood like dominoes or reinforcing roofs against oppressive weight of snow- splintering a year from every life. Bluenecked geese are leaving chasing down the summer making 'vees' above me and stones sit heavy here. Snow scent on the air bids that Death pull up a chair and hide in robes his frozen scythe- the cold, the final winter. Bad Seed I realize I've arrived here misshapen from the egg, a keyholed pupil, imperfect but so subtly it gives the vaguest chill; not the obvious ill will to those I meet. There is a chromosome or missing part that sets me off alone, and slightly dangerous; I mean no harm ..........at first. On Time And Being Time is trouble in this life. The bill past due, a year bloated onto the face, the race against the final thief who comes to claim the last installment we can offer. Some bone, some white, wisped hair, a care or two left, or a dried dream pressed into an old hand, clamped around regret.
If I were dropped,
Metaphysical swarms
Her eyes contract
Mid-caught in air
The fear the leaf feels, falling,
Juking from commitment
From the dried teat of dreams
This is a dangerous voice.
With path wide open
Those are the voices
but rather we didn't
so shut them tight |
