A collection of photos and poems interacting with each other in ways both mysterious and obvious.
The protagonist of my dreams
is often an ideal,
cool enough,
aware enough,
looking good in tight jeans and
black tee shirt;
an age chameleon who blends in
with everyone,
talented beyond effort and training.
Yet,
women don’t want me, and
men don’t want to be me.
Even in dreams
my powers are at an impasse.
A bellowing woolly rhino
crashes into a Pleistocene
clearing.
I can't shake these beasts
from my bones.
Stuck in the illusion that
we are changing,
or have changed,
or will change,
or even want to change
our lives,
take a good look
at yourself, and describe
what you see.
Energy and magnificence
make an argument viscerally
in a triumph over
vulgarity and speed.
Accomplice of a nameless
obscenity,
a metaphor for
nonconformity that affirms dark,
creative energies
that orthodox
political-religious-scientific
thought would repress.
Diabolical energies flow
with the most swiftness
and potency.
But in America
there is no recent poem
everyone in a bar
would recognize;
so turn up some
unsuspected star chart
that leads you off
in search of
evermore distant
constellations.
Litany of a nation;
beyond box scores, excrement,
and inflammatory holograms.
Litany of nothing;
scattered attention wasted
on gossip and garbage.
Litany of the end;
impatient benedictions of duplicity
by the dozens.
Litany of giving up;
throbbing exhaustion and
acceptance of an end.
empty movie theatre.
alone I walk through the darkened lobby
without a ticket,
and pass the concession stand,
unattended, with the comforting
chemical aroma of popcorn.
I take my seat,
always the same seat,
although the theatre is
consistently empty.
then I wait.
sometimes I'm excited,
sometimes I'm bored,
sometimes I'm agitated,
sometimes I fall asleep.
but always,
I wake up.
Mind-tired,
akimbo and askance
the twirling imbalance
and involuntary disappearance
of right procedures.
Lifestyle adjustments gone the way
of Rock and Rye,
longing for pineapple sweetness,
while immobile
within the splatter
of one’s own uniqueness.
Lost in concussed redemption,
skeletal wandering in forest
of pretense,
though devoted,
thoroughly,
to donning wings
and mask of
angelic impersonation.
Fleeting impatience,
maelstrom of
perpetual disintegration.
Bloated
like a blooded tick,
standing silent,
weighted,
waiting,
presence.
Another story of
a found object,
daring to be read.
There was a time back then,
when the closest to a smile he could conjure
was a dissatisfied smirk,
targeting his malaise.
He avoided mirrors;
convinced that his desires were misguided,
at best,
he smothered in masks of self-preservation,
nurtured in solitude,
exhausted in cast-iron stealth,
yet
with someday hope.
Someday hope.
The planets aligned
then,
out of the blue,
like an angel whispering
a gentle major chord
that crescendoed into
a dream of flying.
Now,
in this free play towards oneness,
in this avalanche
his agnostic soul
begins to call blessings,
he knows,
he has been delivered
from the non-linear,
when nothing was straight-forward;
with the last laugh of relief,
he soars
into the loving embrace
of everything,
of everyone
of himself.
Chit chat and posturing
never lead to
animal extinction;
but fragmented perception,
and imagination,
shocked silly
by the daily squawk,
can no longer
be claimed
as yours.
Musings beyond tradition,
crucial ciphers
transcend vulgar energies,
resting in cloistered meditation.
A spark would arc
to create a permanent circuit,
goosing lineage,
while expanding freedom from
the quarantine of fixed expectations
and borrowed inspiration.
Boho Dreams of Space and Time 