Sunday, September 13, 2015


And yes, if what's right is right, this is right :
nighttime eclipses in the shadowy black, things
thrown as reflections and all those chimeras too.
If this can mark a moment, this will have to do:
I awake another day to the same gone world, the
two hands I am given fumble with things, the
dark grains of the coffee mill spill along the 
bottom edge and the small water makes its 
boiling noise within. What arrives, in its way
is another form of something altogether. I drink.
I sit, I am amused by the sudden meanderings I see :
bird lark jumble, round robin prance, bluejay way,
everything like this outside my open window and
the new sum of morning comes calling. Closing
again my reverent eyes, I find myself returned to
a dreamland I'd just left  -  the one where letters
turn to jumbled numbers which in turn hold out
the keys to other languages which these lines
of marble-hooded creatures speak back to me, 
though I have not uttered a word. And here,
again down my enameled street of presence,
old stories beckon and the lime-green offerings
a some little country church are seen for what
they are : the scratch-off conclusions of a weak
and paltry Humankind  -  always waiting, always
waiting for a win, for that bonus number tumble
to come a'dropping from the sky, for them.
How curious that the creatures elsewhere
of the natural world give out no need for
this, and just earnestly live instead. I have
seen a million faces, and only realize now
that we  -  each in our way  -  are instrumental
in building our own blind paradise and our
own dense darkness within which we take
our patterned steps to live and walk.
The sum of a morning's sun
comes calling.

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