....From The Tree Of............Sudden Joys
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_______________________________________________________ The Other Sense When eyes fail, there are fingers, feet. Feel the nap of carpet on the arch, the calcaneal ball when rolling right or left, and when ears fail there's the vestigial ear of heart- though tin it seems to hear what is not said but hoped. Superior to the senses is the sense of having cilia to touch all lost connections, things we've scattered, left behind like Cinderella slippers on many a stair. There is a memory our memories know not of, but it's there. Finger In The Wind Saw my first wooly caterpiller, so self-possessed and looking like a velvety stub of cigar that's burnt on both ends, but it ripples. Busy feet move like little armies underneath. Mister predictor of the winter, how many coats do you have on? Where do you go when the wind comes whistling, what do you eat? You're what makes me wonder and I think that wonder in any form is preferable to none. You crack the Ho Hum. Having Crested Didja ever try to write just after, when ribbons of gold still shimmer dance out either side of the eyes and colors focus, bleed and focus again? Skin feels like a flushed baked beach, ready for beachballs bounced and striped umbrellas, maybe a racing mutt with somebody's bathing suit bottom caught in his teeth and everyone laughing, no one's angry, life and joy feel real and for a nanosecond you're in a forever moment and you know that most people who live are here. Even the dead pry one eye, and I have to think the creator looked and thought: poor slobs. With pollution, wars and sickness, acid rain and death, let's give them something despite. Perhaps a little crumb of me- a blink, a blurb an eon eon back when I became first light, the first ignition, though religion'll ruin it. Have to give them an innocence that's powerful juju-- one of the few--and that's how come the little death, the one that makes the heart explode's so bright. Separations There are notes whose sound waves travel air betoken birds with blades that fly- break glass- tear piece from piece molecular structure that separates the hydrogen from oxygen, from whatever else a goblet heart is made and this afternoon, emotions too were broken, joy from sorrow like glass that sunders parts because a certain note is struck: that note was, .............honey, I'm home. My heart ......yet beats- and world rainbowed red to yellow, orange to violet increments of color me 'quick'- dead black was given the back seat where he customarily sits and lipless, grins and grins. The Moment Before Recall the sound of high heels clicked on marble: statement of a chin before the nose- shiny person, walking in or walking out- snap of the director's clapboard: Take One. Ears prick up, eyes sweep to castaneted someone- crisp and nylon stockinged. Prim- the tap, tap dance on skull, then hope with happy synapses doing this fandango that the lady will be worth the wound up, whippet urge to turn and look- in life there are such folded perfect breath hold points of *pos'-si-ble. Me And The Duke There is an end to tears. Although it seems impossible, sorrow passes just as surely as the clouds will hide the moon. A human body, seventy five percent water, spills itself out of the eyes. Emotions floating in the meltdown of the chemical stuff of us, pour into the world outside of cages where the soul is kept yet all things are finite. It's good to know we will not pool away to nothing. Sadness does not stop but finds a nook inside the heart and makes a brave encampment there, where it's holding off ........all sons of bitches. Old Man, For Girl On A Swing The swing lifts her high. Skirt bells out so gently, hair hangs down, brown trailers in the sun that almost sweep the ground as she swings through. Her laughter folds in then out each arcing time. Thighs white like creamy loaves press to the seat. With each sweep, her legs kick sky. A vee of panties flashing catch my heart as needle would, threading her to me, stitched like a patch on this bare afternoon when every bone and even marrow, sung. Africa I live a life that passes back and forth from dark to light. A job that eats most hours, divided highway staying mostly in the lines. Evenings, weekends trying on canary yellows, heartbeat reds, Mamba greens whose mouths are blue inside and fanged. I open wide to try and eat the things I really need, the ones that fill my belly with their shapes. There is a Congo of the soul, part mind part river, running rife with appetite. It reaches past the places that I occupy by staying in the lines- the heart of me that's wild, untamed, unstoppable- and free. what the heart hears birdsong is the surest way to break through glum; the soul is often dumb until the sound of rising thrush there is no way to swaddle in darkness riding notes of fluted pipers singing strands of avian glee inside of every tree- they are the chirp of inno cence. New Eyes Remember how in Oz, the colors become remarkable-- like the place had been dipped in Easter egg dye? Today, the colors were all emerald, lime, chartreuse- the First Day lines were flecks of buttercups and creeping armies of spreading wildflowers tossed in moving grass that when the wind blew through, it made the sound of many voices. Gettysburg in spring rolls in a beauty unencountered save in dreams or drug hallucination. Ground exposed is orange-red, as though the dead were airing out their blankets bleached from dried out, blood-soaked brown to something fine and celebrant. Like Christ when He transfigured, I believe this is a place where God laid down and got back up again; there's not a spot on earth more real, less glad, more sad or more mysterious than this, and spring pays more attention here. Return To Contents This site sponsered by 
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