Bit of Love

How would I react?: or by personal peripheral experience,

would I remember you?

I once made a pilgrimage

towards a brilliant shrine nestled between wordy crags;

the radio bore a situationist opportunity

as we may tend to postulate

about continuance and the possibility

of further pangs of the bodily sort.

( here was the crux of the pathology)

Considerations are material in measure I tell myself.

Can it not exist without any remoteness?

I take it that the barren earth knows more than I

could ever know.

For what struggles for life

has a precept to tell;

however extended the duration,

read between the majestic cloudscape

for here resides the remedy.

 

where my prayers go

i want to press upon the contours

of the hilly range

where setbacks are common:

 recall Gen. Crook.

What is positive: a fire fly on my window.

(chants within canyon walls diversify the mystery).

What is beneath: only the salt caves rendering belief.

I am: tunlii’

white christmas

a gathering of conversation heard around the bend:
cackles.
jeers.
moonlighting.
the break in nerves sends the signal;
a car door shuts, as the eyes expand
while the coordinates are read swiftly
before the engine chugs further to movement
right into the dip which extends to
the other side of the shanty ridge.
here the altar is set:
they partake of substance gritting teeth
while veins subdue the polarized night.

The Bridge of Innocence

a misstep upon that unfamiliar contour of all that is equivalent

to that feeling once imaginary now implicated.  

a fatalistic scene: a synthetic violin string

evaluates the player before the dissonant chord.

there is no audience, as the emotive glance is voluntary 

unto the ending drawing no cathartic applause or finger prick.

the mumbling is over once the bread is broke and your repaired

by the thought that begins with being unrecognizable:

life as a phantom waiting to be reconsidered

the only quality that is worth more than the breath

and the word.

 

 

 

Wallyworld

I couldn’t agree more
with the required mace
at the ready.
It’s a national sport after all
and once the rage is
over
we begin again
and repent for
the particulars of our
needs.
I can’t say its evolving
but it sure bears
the work of our own
that results
in a feigned emotion:
a hidden layaway to
that all inclusive love
which took a long vacation
along with the penguin.

Who has the tar and feathers?

where the birds congregate
who knows:
but they sure commit themselves
after all
tallying up the numbers perhaps
on their own.
and we:
the electoral proxy
struck down pale
while the maroon of our shirts
run down wet shoe polished streets.
our hands are roped
by the man they say;
and at the same time
the molten spit
of the our earthly caretakers
conjure up facial expressions
that cause flash floods
and hurricanes
in the collective mind.
where are we to go
if the collisions
become our own reality?
faked in total
but yet
we respond with a therapeutic laugh.

circles of the soul

a contract dissolution
like dispersed matter
encounter other selves
and the eventual
tag ensues and stringed existence
is found again.
Augmentations occur
and while we try to exhibit
our better traits
we forget and remain guarded
constructing a moat surrounding our
heart, or hearts…?

skipping stone

what project this chaos…a sanctuary?
which inhibits me
and transforms me
into the constant meal ticket
which has no other form:
I am no longer the apple
But I am the ant!
who traverses the abandoned real
cursing victory of mind;
my prizes once gathered and shined
are thrown into man-made lakes
and exist only to be found and
pawned into the world of the
unbeliever.

cities of gold

what a crafty crow
who sings under
a turbulent sky of yesterday.
here droplets of rain
imprint the sand
and pottery shards litter
a landscape colored in hues
of purple and burnt sienna.
i turn towards the village
and hear humble praises
of thanks.
into this i see the inner workings
of creation;
and towards the four directions
we are subdued only by each other.
for it remains within and
without,
unto the beyond.

the road to giant’s chair

the test is everywhere
but the content is
unlike another.
when we deal with
the subject of
ourselves we remain
intact, yet in motion.
words shift.
meanings bloom into
others.
I take a piece
of myself and interact
with the supposed good
and the inverse which
commingles into a semblance
of balanced order.
intentions however
are yet to be revealed
and that is why trust plays its
part towards the middle road
and its junction lies near the
heart of myself.