....From The Tree Of........................Isolation & Thought
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_______________________________________________________ Deja Vu I'm getting horrible suspicions I'm being wrapped again in spider's silk, caressed by words. Your lexicon of roads and byway dialects can serve up sleight of hand; who hasn't forfeited something to a southern drawl, they're easy to lean into. We intersected, that is all. I've paid the toll. Demolition Thoughts This started out as one thing then became another. A roller coaster ride, one spatial plane zeroing down, that dive bombs all the 'X's', drops a payload, and I don't know why, but I swear I'm thinking now, what if I reached up into God's ass, what would I find? A fig? A wafer? A farted reprimand? A wolf chewed to a fang, a pang for all the human shit he left behind? Better be gold. Hope to find a Fabrege egg meant for the czar, or shoes Imelda Marcos couldn't buy- that weren't for sale. Some shoes that fat old dictator's wife could never get her greedy mitts around. I'd hope to find myrrh. Spy Pharaoh brains in coptic jars, a spar from the Andrea Doria, Hitler's dog and Pius the Twelfth himself, petting it. I'd expect to find all manner of good and evil things and just a snippet of regret. Just a hint he knew he'd fed us to the lions, dumped and ran. Cold Embers I become the moments I live. Each sight ignites. It burns me out without reason. The past is ash and happily gone, then flames again at the same season in a new light. Bright burning picture frames hang the halls, gone by the time it takes to turn and weigh the past. The fires are too fast too many to matter- and there is no great warmth in the hearth. Extinctions The frogs are disappearing. Elizabeth Taylor, once a red hot mama, dopes herself to drooling, smiles and simpers for the camera; a wedding guest without her shoes and where is Captain America? Fahrenheit 212 Can't escape heat. How high it goes, my brain in it, scintillated. Ready to pop open. Jiffy Pop brain, caliente-making mushroom cloud of God knows what's inside. I feel my meninges thin and stretch, expanded by the wet and fetid dog-breath heat, city heat where brick bakes hottest. Crowds of baking skull matter, waiting on a plate plugged in, waiting for the tin foil rip of "Here it COMES...", spread a drop cloth bigger than Manhattan just in case. A Far Cry Standing at the canyon's lip, looking into blackness down below as deep as death, a speck of light. Camping there at farthest point away from here, coyotes come to eatfrom your hand. A scorpion shakes a desert song. Your toes beat out the song in sand; you're happywhere you are, and I am leaning over like a diver, poised to fly. Fetish My angers rise like fire fingers, feeling for a ceiling lick and burn, air to make them bigger by the gulp. My angers are like fetish dolls, ebony carved with a hint of red like blood; have hammered nails four inches long locked into every part. My dolls sit in a row, my psyche's chorus line of basic drives, the darkest kind ramped up and pushing, pushing, at a flap of feeling torn away. I'll find the one responsible and pound another nail. But lately I can't help but be afraid that if they ever wanted to they'd turn on me and I don't think a hollow-jacket bullet would take them down. Hell's Half Acre The British have such wonderful H towns: Hadleigh, Haworth, Horsham, Hull- if I were an English girl porcelain pale, a Royal Dalton English rose, I'd read Agatha Christie mysteries, and tight-assed Christopher Marlowe till the cows came home all Hereford proud and crumple-horned. Adorned with bell, and bonny bagful bucket worth of fresh-squirt cream; dream of misty leas ..... and ruddy cheeks. I'd prefer it to the urban life; the 'H' I live in isn't Henley-on-Thames. Not a milker or a shepherdess ... in sight, just plenty of SUV's cellphone users, drug abusers, New Age eastern religion pigeoning every coop. I'd like a scoop of something genuine: cow manure in pasture or a Shropshire Lad would be good. Gray Monday Slipping along the highway today, in spring that feels like winter, I realized how many miserable things in life are such drawn out affairs. Although I do not want to go out bloody- life is long. How It Happens Beware the one you can't insult: that one will own your world one day unless you pay no heed. Respond to her, give her ear at all, and mister you are done for. She'll suck your blood, she'll ride your coat; make sure the photos show you're always holding hands. It happens by the hair's breadth. She is patient, and her talent is the oldest one, in-sin -u-ation, so you can't remember when you didn't love her. On To Page 10 .............. Return To Contents This site sponsered by 
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