flies
buzzed around the salsa and chips. the windows rattled from loud music. the
miracle was the calmness.
the
screen door hung off its hinges, the porch light flickered in and out, the
carpet was unsoiled.
I
was in a dream, it’s called a lucent dream, I woke up, used the restroom,
caught an odd thought, and lit a cigar.
I
paced inside and out. I put the dream aside, and jumped on the computer.
rain
was heaving, hitting California with vengeance, fruits fell to mud, sediments,
twigs, and puddles.
inside
was a spout, I could sense sentences, so long at it, it has become mystery,
entity, power, and betrayal. I could taste poison, something was in the waves, I
kept peering into atmosphere, peeking at my unease, thirsty for freedom.
I
used to argue I was a leopard—unchangeable spots and all. I feel more plaid
these days, spliced inside, most anything comes from inside. like cosmic wires,
electric helloes, even favorite television programs. it starts inside,
resonating higher, forgive the pontification.
I
wonder about when wisdom is to be shared. most is regurgitation. but at times,
one says or writes something different, unique, exhilarating.
often
verbal stingrays, or recluse spiders, make us reflect, hurt our feelings, puts
fire in our get-to. like bullet proof webs, crawling like desperate, much
desert and despair. while existential, I desire happiness, where happiness is
not an ultimate chase. yes, a strange contradiction—happiness is trumped by condition.
the best one can do—is set hands to one’s life’s work.
such
beautiful chaos, such unintrusive eyes, such granduncle wisdom; her arms
piercing invisibility, her sternness masking her excellence, her brow even, a
tempest, unnoticeable. tiger paws, jaguar hips, a cheetah’s calmness. I was
taken by our uneasiness, our discomfort, I wrote it off, it came back.
so
many chambers, much gossamer near the ceiling, ants close to the trash bin.
syrup on tiles. I begin cleaning. I sprayed a little unscented raid. I bagged
up the trash. the morning hours are strange, paranormal, especially, around 3AM.
one
would arise in motion, moving in essence, to disagree with prose poems.
I’d
be remiss not to confess a deep love for a friend. such easy feelings, dear
unchilling dialogue, while we remain disconcerted. I write of things, some disagree,
most dispute hearing about old flames.
nothing
tender as a gentle caress, on mind, soul, or body.
