Forest Folk; Type One June 22, 2009

“Tell me what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life.”

– The Summer Day, Mary Oliver

The weight of memories are indescribable at best.

I bite my fingers as I think. My pupils fall black in the reflection of the mirror. The computer glows back and makes me tinge a blue. I think. I think.

———————————

Forest Folk; Type One

Sometimes I could swear that the roots of the worst are in the breath of the first.
The ones who still thirst live lives murkier than most.
The ones who still yearn feel the wind on their cheeks,
whirlpool of leaves, down by their feet,
smoke bubbles at their lips.

They’re in trouble.

They are
misty mumbling creatures.
Fumbling through latches, tumbling in grasses,
so long, it tickles their knees.

They are
slippery wily peoples.
Lingering on at night, darkening doorways,
so quiet, that echoes ring.

Not even
if they look softer than skin,
Seem tinier than
whimsical notions,
are lighter than being.

The roots of their hearts and their branches of thought
cling harder than I would to your hand in the dark.
Deceiving vice grip.

They are not just thirsty, hungering, yearning creatures.
They are clawing at awnings of rooftops above.
Desperately seeking something more than just love.
Actively taking whats more than their breath.
Silently shaking the leaves off the rest.

Sometimes I do swear they can be better than this,
seemingly bliss-
ful. Seeming amiss.
Seeming to be able
of more than a kiss
and run.

———————————

dreaming June 18, 2009

“In Dreams, emotions are overwhelming”

– The Science of Sleep. Movie.

—
She felt her ghost toe wriggling in her shoes. Begging her to toss them off. Wear some slippers. Soft. Soft. She’d be in a meeting, skirt smoothed flat, hair tucked in, feet packed up, and then it would begin to taunt her. Nudging the folds of the pumps. Her ankle beginning to itch. A flakey sensation sliding up her back. Sometimes she’d give in. Take off a boot for a minute. Relish in her wickedness. No one knows why she’s smiling. Under the table, her ghost toe is proud of her choice. It goes well. She slips her shoe back on. Leaves.

Sometimes it goes awry. The toe proceeds to inspire mutiny in her foot. Slowly it drags the other apparently normal and visible toes along. Her foot creeps along a chair, prodding someone else’s. She gets odd looks . Snatches her calf and jams the heel down, forces her toes into submission. And gets on with her day.

Such is life. That’s what she deserves it seems. She’s still undecided whether the toe was really worth it. No more late night poker she thinks.
—

I like to listen to the sad Music at the end of odd movies. It’s all dark and the computer is on. The credits are rolling. Dolly Grip. Thomas Green. Assistant to Mr. Durant. Kamini Shah. And between all that is a the minor french voice singing quietly to me through the wiry headphones. It finally reaches some obscure hour of the night, the music stops and the feverous clack of the keys takes over. I pause and trace the shadow of myself on the wall, everything is quiet. It gets to the point where thoughts swell and break upon my chair. I sink in and slip sleep.

This is the sound of the wind stopping, of our eyes closing and the ground forming.
They said it would take a while, so wait we do, wait do we.
The uncertainty was plain to see.
So pause we did, pause did we.

This is the sound of the night breaking, of our breath catching and the skies shaking.
They said it was the end that mattered.
Shattered. Splattered. Nattered.
The uncertainty was plain to see.
But here we stay, stay do we.

This is the sound of strings detaching, of our hearts beating and the world still waiting.

a start June 17, 2009

Something:

Flying Crooked

The Butterfly, a cabbage-white,
(his honest idiocy of flight)
Will never now, it is too late,
Master the art of flying straight,
He has – who knows as well as I? -
A just sense of how not to fly:
He lurches here and there by guess
And God and hope and hopelessness.
Even the aerobatic swift
Has not his flying-crooked gift.

– Robert Graves

There are no more generalists. Attempts to understand Everything seem futile as the amount of information is ever increasing. Knowledge expanding. Where is wisdom. What is intelligence. How will this work.

So perhaps I was born in the wrong era. Classic copout statement.

I was born in this time. In this now. And I should live for it. Not like a long swept dream, left out by most and appearing only in crinkle tissue papered books.

This I rhyme a second word. This I rhyme on time. This I rhyme a tad absurd. This I rhyme just fine.

“He who never lives for the moment, never lives. So what of you?”

–Jostein Gaarder, The Orange Girl

This I rhyme once more today. This a little rhyme I play. This I rhyme a lot more strange. This a rhyme about to change.

A Nothing:

I want to tell you a story. A grand tale of waving emotions and overcoats of thought. A story of odd people and strange deeds. Of kindness and unexpected warmth. Of fires in rained-on cabins and the rainy seasons in hell. I want to make you laugh and cry and pull your hair in frustration in the same breath. To coo and sigh and dream in admiration. I want to make you feel. But I have no fictitious story.

I have this.

This Bit-Flip Syndrome. This ever changing state.

And this too shall pass.