Made of ripeness and make believe – clown clouds shift into mountains ranges, then storm forebodings – such are dreams, edge of lip phrases and calliope monkeys shaking coin cups; magical place markers in prison cells of certainties.
Formed godlike, two legged creatures doggedly fight shadows, shifting worth and whispering master men dogmas as if true, as if real, as if beyond doubt – like ancient builders of citadels, temples and heavyweight champion boxing rings.
Consented to, unconsciously with no thought to consequences, crowds part for puppet hand saviors, bowing to them like fathers, and are pleased to crush their enemies beneath bright idolatrous banners, without skepticism.
The last poem was a breath pushing words against the eardrum of doubt; without a sigh of accompaniment. In the morning the world awoke like a meander, not noticing the end; no march hurried, no worry stirred.
Their silence was a ghost, a dying fanfare without bellows; religion was abandoned and god returned to the mist of transpiration. Everything became warmer and water steamed away; where, no one knows.
It became harder to endure the same old song; advertisements promoting cigarettes, dive bars and war against patriotic slums. No one gave up their guns. The hunt never ceased, there being so much prey about.
Reality is bound by place names and treasury. You cannot go no-place; you cannot remain motionless, or still; you’re in a box, to be safe, you mustn’t stray.
A story is a one sided exchange. You want to be a believable liar; to issue dreamy love edicts and shower under a spring rain of approbation and cheering like a demi-god.
What’s coming is what you have chosen, consciously with your tongue or passively with your ears tilted to the narratives of clowns, jesters or well dressed conniving pitchmen.
Proud of what, why?
We march towards the doom of extinction as unconscious as lovers told tales of a marauders fidelity on the eve of an impending and delicious schism.
Big mouths fill streets with protestations holding tiny flags of idealism. Our next great thing is a harlequin rag doll of devastating and immense admiration.
We are the motley, we are the rumpled; we are tangential worries fiddling with the fabric of humanity, wishing we were as adept as tailors and laundry men.
Iron is our vice, our passage to safety, our way to choose and pick sides, our delirium about who deserves the might and right and all the kings men…
I spend time in strangers homes addressing secret histories, sleep corners and the dark night hidden in drawers. I am a merchant walking acres of thought and hope journeys, kitchen to hallway then a climb up some stairs.
Maybe a small bag will be found folded away in a sock, or a stack of currency in a tidy unsuspecting box. Every wall is dying to whisper something unspoken about child footfalls and pent up yearnings.
Rooms like closed door temples wish with wisdom to be aired of dust. Mother stayed here next to father barely a word between them – the movie of this played so many times like the bed impressions made an eon or two ago…repeatedly.
Actions without intentions or
desired outcomes are impossible.
Life isn’t wired that way.
Memory is cellular, not mental.
If this was untrue the evolution of a
species would stall, and die.
Atoms once comprised as human wait
in the backroom swirl of time for the
next chance at making a difference.