Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Once, four times
Twice, eight times
The color of the woman’s hair on the bus this morning was the same as the fur collar of her coat.
It made me think of what we are, and what we carry.
What color of light we reflect, and what glow is our own.
I place my bookmark and silence my headphones two blocks before work.
I like to have some moments of transition, from one state to another.
It makes it easier to let go of the dream.
The air of this world has only gotten stranger since I first began breathing it.
The atmosphere, the gaseous continuum, the medium of emotions defined by our island chain of human souls.
This place we find ourselves.
It has changed. It has been a steady change.
Who could expect anything less?
But does it not feel yet closer?
The air closer as in a cave, as in a small room when the door closes.
There is a change in pressure.
The bare moment when the door is pushing the air from around the last inch of frame.
A slight push before equalization.
Where are we.
Does anyone think these things.
Is this soul crazy.
I am abandoning question marks.
The questions are themselves.
They don’t need a tail flicking about like a cat’s.
There is a pull upon the ropes of heaven.
A tensioning of metaphoric orbital tether.
As above, so below.
Where are we going.
Do we know.
What story to be sold, bright, fangled and gold.
What lives to behold.
Her eyes, betty boop in the mornings.
There isn’t a definite way.
This isn’t a tv standing serving tray.
This is just today, again.
Another chance to turn at the bend.
And we’ve all changed, have we not.
More chunks chipped and flicked away
from our perfect corpse,
stated and statuesque, for death’s first day.
So ride and smile, it’ll be a while, or too soon to know.
I’ll pull that rope and you the other,
and we’ll sail without wind or bother.
Jacketeering jackets, layers, sneers, and Bill.
They jokey and jostle, pushing and pairing.
They thrum and ferry, passing the gated fray.
More terrible than the zombie scourge,
They’re smart, thumbed and hungry.
They’re in there dizzy, spinning with your laundry.
They’re staring through the frosted windows of the grocer’s frozen section,
Cooking dinner with foggy breath.
Would you like cold peas or cold ham, with a threat of rack of lamb.
They’re in suits and they deny
They’re just as worried as you and I.
They wonder how they’ll this time steal,
your life, liberty, and last meal.
I’m not saying nothing untoward,
nothing seditious, confederate, or forward.
Nothing knows us by name.
Nothing is the single rule of this single game.
We’re in the mob, but ain’t Italian.
We’re capable, too quick, and fearing sick.
We are the parts played as the script’s yet laid.
Qua Est Deus.
Give me your hands dear.
Lay your tears upon my wrist.
Beat upon this, my pulse’s thinnest skin.