....From The Tree Of........................Isolation & Thought
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_______________________________________________________ Point Of Departure I meant to throw a dagger but what's the point to it- to any of it. I've seen it proven what is between the ears will be outdone by what is between the legs. I think I arrived on a ship whose people were blue and spoke in every color but. I'm through- back off back out. Go back to sleep for fifty years, five hundred thousand thousand, I'd still be sitting here, staring and I'd wonder, given the company, who I was and how I'd landed here in the middle of a life. The Listening Room Every time I go away and come back there's less room. Used to be we'd talk about this and that - yet every time the chalk mark circle cinches in, our toes go out of bounds and someone's gone. I'm afraid that what we've circumscribed isn't big enough for two pair of shoes to live inside and move more than a millimeter toward, then booted back again moping, mooning, hoping for a cure too small world afterall. Elbow Grease And Grim Determination Strange to know you're stuck, truly stuck unless you give the old heave-ho and dig a path. This is a metaphor for living I suppose, there are no tow trucks just a front wheel drive and labor, digging out the tires, making tracks a bare and blistering sore inch at a time. The kicker is to know it works, so stop your whining, grab a shovel or a hoe and just get on with it. Tracks A foot of snow and more to come. It cannot cover everything, some things cannot be hid: a fox in forest white, the smile within a word. The starting over starting under starting midway through each scene again and again till it's apparent neither actor's got it right. That it's becoming more absurd, yet so familiar- ......snow on fox on snow. Getting It For Good Thing about a tapeworm is you have to pull until you get the little eyes, two black dots. You can coax it out with milk at night, a bowl between the tapeworm sufferer's legs and wait for hunger- then you grab and pull and pull, but very carefully and gently so as not to break it off. Love is like that, too you have to get the eyes. Trouble is no one's ever figured out which end is up. Feeling Elsa Last evening I know I reached the bottom of the barrel, holed up in bed, dipping generic salted taco chips into the Cheez Whiz .........and as the creamy ....yellow caloric mess dripped down the front of a tattered old nightie .........I stared at toenails .....long as shovels attached to sandpaper feet and thought: If these are my fifties, Lord .....I'll be a blooming Bride of Frankenstein ....in a decade ....or less. Slide Each day I wake in darkness before any information's filtered in -stumble to the computer, more than dreading what I'll find to be the headlines. Were there bombs? Did someone do something stupid? What catastrophe has happened while I slept- it all seems so preventable yet inevitably, we slide a little closer to the edge, caught in a tide of massive movement to a place we dread to go. It's the mudslide of history. Something's given; something that was shoring us has given underneath and no matter which side you're standing on we're moving toward the mother of all sinkholes- with axel grease for feet. No Description I'm not a poet. I write reaction and response. Despite the language how I hear it, how it sings to me, I'm told I'm simply writing as a court recorder writes about a trial. My words - what are they? Cannot comment. Much too personal. Too angry. What I do is not bantering- I mean, I hear the cantering of words; I hear their trot and slide. I cannot hide the way I hear and through this bell jar there is leaking little tongues of rich reality that twine around me, desperate to jump and jive will have me look then speak. I will not -cannot close my mouth until I'm dead. Dependable My car is filthy. Ashes, ashes everywhere but it won't fall down, no, goes in snow on tires that are nearly bald, it starts right up no matter the windchill, dewpoint Doppler-- dang thing's stubborn as a German soldier. Never gives me the chance to call in- gee, can't make it- car won't start. It drags my carcass, shuddering hard, but sees me there and back here just the same. Me And The Drive-In Sad, gargantuan, David Lean ing lost in ivy -opportunistic weeds and desolation. Anachronistic giant of the gravel pit lot. Slots where cars pulled in, packed tight with teens a-thump with lust. Where tinny speakers hung from roll-down windows, wallets were wadded thick with ones from cutting grass and packing groceries, old blank locus -where is your hocus pocus now? How will Ben Hur drive his chariot now that your magic screen is an eyesore five miles out of town, and out of the blue came Cinemax with its postage stamp booths for viewing. Popped up everywhere in the blink of an eye- ..........I stand there ..........too ..........in weedy memory ......of the way it was. On To Page 3 .............. Return To Contents This site sponsered by 
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