Remind me,

Of times when we would dance.

From moonrise, till light crept in,

from fresh smoke, to stale bread.

“What is life? A madness. What is life? An illusion, a shadow, a story and the greatest good is little enough for all life is a dream…”

– Life is a Dream; Calderon de la Barca,

She had words inscribed upon her back. Thick letters, bold and dark. Fat vowels and lengthy consonants. Voluminous text filling the gap between shoulder and hip. In silence even the quietest sounds seem as though a screaming echo. No. Screams are terrifying sounds. More like a deep throaty echo, reassuring and distant. I think that’s it.

The silences falls heavy upon my ears this night. Occasional grunts of a sleeping dog, squealing brakes and the sigh of trees come in ill-spaced batches.

sip sip. water. gulp. sip sip. water. sigh.

I watched The Fountain yet again. It was beautiful. An awning of a tragedy; of dying and death, being alive and what’s important. Reality and escapism, hopes and practicality. Still amazing. Still a crazy half lit dream.

The silence falls heavy upon my ears. The sound of silence, muffled steam. There it is again, ever so urgently, pressing against your head. Ever so firmly, willing you to acknowledge its existence. Its presence. An all pervading wisp. Silent quiet. Muffled steam.

I have this image. The music sounds and objects around me become animated. Dance! My pens slide with the guitar out of their tidy encasements. They fling themselves at the wall with the shake of a tambourine. The chairs lean back, thump down, turn on the left back leg, thump down! Down! They swing like this with the bass line. Dummmm dum dum dum dum dummmm dummmm. The lights pick up twick twack. You! On! Off! Me! Dancing!

Stop! Everything pauses as the curtain lifts up and sighs. Then Bang! The mug smashes into the wall ahead and the beat picks back up again. The keys clack clackety clack. The water bottle rolls thundering across the table plateau, the top Pop! Water swooshing, fountain cascading lighter twinkles. Pens smash into the ceiling, rhythmically and ink splatters down, pitter pattering.

And there I am, sitting watching with a strange grin, amused, elated, excited by the effect of music on stillness.

“Tell me what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life.”

– The Summer Day, Mary Oliver

The weight of memories are indescribable at best.

I bite my fingers as I think. My pupils fall black in the reflection of the mirror. The computer glows back and makes me tinge a blue. I think. I think.

———————————

Forest Folk; Type One

Sometimes I could swear that the roots of the worst are in the breath of the first.
The ones who still thirst live lives murkier than most.
The ones who still yearn feel the wind on their cheeks,
whirlpool of leaves, down by their feet,
smoke bubbles at their lips.

They’re in trouble.

They are
misty mumbling creatures.
Fumbling through latches, tumbling in grasses,
so long, it tickles their knees.

They are
slippery wily peoples.
Lingering on at night, darkening doorways,
so quiet, that echoes ring.

Not even
if they look softer than skin,
Seem tinier than
whimsical notions,
are lighter than being.

The roots of their hearts and their branches of thought
cling harder than I would to your hand in the dark.
Deceiving vice grip.

They are not just thirsty, hungering, yearning creatures.
They are clawing at awnings of rooftops above.
Desperately seeking something more than just love.
Actively taking whats more than their breath.
Silently shaking the leaves off the rest.

Sometimes I do swear they can be better than this,
seemingly bliss-
ful. Seeming amiss.
Seeming to be able
of more than a kiss
and run.

———————————

—
She felt her ghost toe wriggling in her shoes. Begging her to toss them off. Wear some slippers. Soft. Soft. She’d be in a meeting, skirt smoothed flat, hair tucked in, feet packed up, and then it would begin to taunt her. Nudging the folds of the pumps. Her ankle beginning to itch. A flakey sensation sliding up her back. Sometimes she’d give in. Take off a boot for a minute. Relish in her wickedness. No one knows why she’s smiling. Under the table, her ghost toe is proud of her choice. It goes well. She slips her shoe back on. Leaves.

Sometimes it goes awry. The toe proceeds to inspire mutiny in her foot. Slowly it drags the other apparently normal and visible toes along. Her foot creeps along a chair, prodding someone else’s. She gets odd looks . Snatches her calf and jams the heel down, forces her toes into submission. And gets on with her day.

Such is life. That’s what she deserves it seems. She’s still undecided whether the toe was really worth it. No more late night poker she thinks.
—

I like to listen to the sad Music at the end of odd movies. It’s all dark and the computer is on. The credits are rolling. Dolly Grip. Thomas Green. Assistant to Mr. Durant. Kamini Shah. And between all that is a the minor french voice singing quietly to me through the wiry headphones. It finally reaches some obscure hour of the night, the music stops and the feverous clack of the keys takes over. I pause and trace the shadow of myself on the wall, everything is quiet. It gets to the point where thoughts swell and break upon my chair. I sink in and slip sleep.

This is the sound of the wind stopping, of our eyes closing and the ground forming.
They said it would take a while, so wait we do, wait do we.
The uncertainty was plain to see.
So pause we did, pause did we.

This is the sound of the night breaking, of our breath catching and the skies shaking.
They said it was the end that mattered.
Shattered. Splattered. Nattered.
The uncertainty was plain to see.
But here we stay, stay do we.

This is the sound of strings detaching, of our hearts beating and the world still waiting.

Something:

Flying Crooked

There are no more generalists. Attempts to understand Everything seem futile as the amount of information is ever increasing. Knowledge expanding. Where is wisdom. What is intelligence. How will this work.

So perhaps I was born in the wrong era. Classic copout statement.

I was born in this time. In this now. And I should live for it. Not like a long swept dream, left out by most and appearing only in crinkle tissue papered books.

This I rhyme a second word. This I rhyme on time. This I rhyme a tad absurd. This I rhyme just fine.

“He who never lives for the moment, never lives. So what of you?”

This I rhyme once more today. This a little rhyme I play. This I rhyme a lot more strange. This a rhyme about to change.

A Nothing:

I want to tell you a story. A grand tale of waving emotions and overcoats of thought. A story of odd people and strange deeds. Of kindness and unexpected warmth. Of fires in rained-on cabins and the rainy seasons in hell. I want to make you laugh and cry and pull your hair in frustration in the same breath. To coo and sigh and dream in admiration. I want to make you feel. But I have no fictitious story.

I have this.

This Bit-Flip Syndrome. This ever changing state.