Connection failure Communication breakdown QUIT TALKING AT ME
Some of what passes as poetry or art is as incomprehensible as speaking in tongues. A tattoo artist doesn't employ the same wastefulness. After all, putting a Jackson Pollock on a customer's bicep probably wouldn't give a special message. Nor are they likely to needle into someone's back "During ramification caracoleos descends pressure" framed by a heart. Today, a tattoo artist said, "It sounds like the revolution has started; ... ." There are no deep poetics here.
Isn't every end the child of a beginning? Isn't every heartbreak the trophy of your love? Isn't every change the cloth that life is cut from? Isn't each today a present from above? Isn't every sight a reflection in a mirror? Isn't every word the effort to explain? Isn't every thought changed by your perception? Isn't every pleasure seated opposite of pain? Doesn't every death allow for a commencement? Doesn't every dream prove to be the dreamer's worth? Isn't everything the dream of a creator? Isn't everything a gift on planet earth?
a pretty lady sprawls naked on the bed sheets she is an unwritable verse on my pillow by my side is a demolition derby, a risky challenge-- breathing rhythmically with tranquil eyes-- words of an angel - she's the highest peak my half-century would ever savor. I watch, hours slip by-- Still, I want
Who knows when desire germinates? It stealthy enters through all the pores to reach a receptive heart. Mutual feelings forge an electric connection, uniting both to respond in wordless agreement. Home is not without, but rediscovering the evergreen moment; deliciously resting, turned on together in the heady fragrance of a partaken now. Feeling as if no Christmases, Thanksgivings, or Halloweens existed before theirs - with everything filtered through the prismatic lens of their unfolding bliss... Playing, dancing, teasing, and necking mistletoe overhead then, lying side by side beneath the lit tree - breathless from the innocent laughter of lovemaking.
On the cusp of the 60s and 70s, 68 went down as the year of cultural revolution. Psychedelic shirts with LSD phosphorescent eyes. I know. Saw the living colors myself Walls inhaled and exhaled scents of patchouli and cheap strawberry incense from India. Saw those grimacing faces above the long-haired crowd twisting hideous. I was the youth then. "Down with the establishment" was the chant. Government? What a downer. What a bummer. "drags" were for "squares." The institutional church reeked as did the communist cult not into being reduced to a number for a system of power claiming my own good more into getting naked rather than getting put in a straight jacket Politics proved to be only good for starting wars. I met Pisces Tom partying in Coyote Canyon near Joshua Tree. a genuine Haight-Ashbury hippy who went off the grid to live in a bamboo forest smack dab in the middle of the Mojave desert. Tom raised a hog painted eerie space mandalas and made LSD from soaking marigold seeds. When he was tripping thought he could pan gold from the desert sands of ancient seas. Some of Tom rubbed off on me. How different today dancing to the establishment's dirge while pretending not to be.
Before a pair of eyes a cornstalk a dry ear, a nose of stone a rotten stump swarmed with ants. Preceding a yes, no, or maybe there is a grain bursting out a sprout, a root, a stem reaching to a sun that winks days, nights, seasons, a tree ringing in the centuries until a storm, a flash seared into a core withered down, which a termite ate and dropped a fertilizer for a mossy cushion enjoyed by an observant anthropoid to recline on. Before my eyes, yes? a busy creator (underrated) created, destroyed, recreated over and over before my eyes.
Masses hasten for the likely road, the sign reading, “--Your Own Way--” lettered black on blue leading direct into quicksand. Some notice the bridging crossroad, --a 180 from the sinkhole The highway less traveled over a descending dead-end --the highway once crested with thorns.
Emily often pondered what was beyond death & taught me with a bumbling fly. More than a century ago, Walt wrote Leaves still able to strip culture-blindness from today's eyes. Allen let it all dangle out, jazzing it up with his radical staccato beat. Carl's blast of "The People, Yes." imparts a feeling of significance. The "crooked hands" of Alfred's bird show the vigor to grab a word. The foaming creek of Kenneth's Har cites both academic with industrial. Wallace's "compass of that sea" --much like the one I'll use for me. Both parliaments and parties are mere baubles before these. The razor blade of the pen will crop them to their knees. Like Percy's "shattered visage," then in heaps of crumbled seas.