A collection of photos and poems interacting with each other in ways both mysterious and obvious.
Taking an exuberant plunge
over the junk nostalgia
of order,
doing this, doing that
with the intimacy of a dog’s breath,
documenting the change
in my pocket,
oblivious to epic ambitions,
while a yellow flower breaks free
from the mundane weeds.
Shhhhh....
Step silently into anonymity this place of personal stillness.
Sigh.
Relief from the constant throb of gotta
fill those holes inside
and make some Big Thing from nothing.
Not for sure I’m quite here yet, spending time, wasting time, time seduced by fireworks and frills, lost, nowhere; distraction not being a place, a detour, yes, a movement smooth and effortless, away from place and a time notched in meaning. Too bad, oh too bad this gong of presence is muffled in imagined past, and future projection, fueled by unctuous schemes and urgencies’ insistent barbs; unanchored and drifting, in the current of lost, the waves of losing: celebrations, illuminations, tactile evidence grounding presence in the world. Waving the tattered flag of surrender, a half-hearted life of neglect: of discernment of porous beliefs, of connections barren and uncultivated, sometimes careless, often clueless to the ever-changing interdependence, registering spikes of false confidence, convinced that when things go south it isn’t you.
Early morning mind, pristine, as sleep dissolves into sensation: the gentle tap-dance of rain, dogs stirring in their beds (the sleep of the just), summer breeze flowing through the screens, accompanied by a multifarious bouquet of birdsongs. Pristine, before thought and a false certainty of attaching words to what appears and vanishes.
The world darkens,; last possibilities sigh with plum-orange whispers.
These penny candy machines,
become a nickel, dime, quarter;
then gone.
Hungry Ghost Moon;
blue flame temptation
to the demon dance,
at any cost.
The lost capacity
to foresee
and to forestall.
Margaux makes fresh eye contact,
fibrous slivers,
a sickly resemblance to
scrambled eggs.
Her plan to elude the elderly
resembles the skeleton of
a shark’s jaw;
the rapidly accelerating collapse
of the Great Dying,
a sulphuric stew
with somewhat more circumspection.
The ice started a fire;
there is no other evidence or
indicia of truth.
She was fully aware of the power
that came with being ill,
and annexed over the future
of the universe.
Like a perpetual motion machine
outside the threshold of
the church,
something has snapped inside,
evil is not subsiding,
an emptiness of the soul,
irrevocable loss weighing
on the heart.
Irving is giving me
a good spanking
with a shoe.
Each new day requires
careful preparation,
lest one be infected by
the epidemic of imbecility,
the decayed culture of
the common,
a loud cacophony
of barking dogs,
devoid of the reciprocity
of balanced conversation or
the open grace of generosity.
Portland, Maine
Boho Dreams of Space and Time 