Welcome, and thanks for stopping here to read selections of my original poetry and prose. Only half my art is here. As you browse my puppets, words if you will, think of them as empty hulls whose dance and form are only animated in Play through my vocal conveyance of their characters and via my direction of their tone. Lyric to the ears, its whole message soon appears, in thus the conjuring of ancient daemons deep within to combat the evil ones brought up infernal by the Craft of ages can be our stage tonight.

On this blog the theme is AWAKENING and how Revelation is not some story plural in a Book but supposed to be one of yours in this lifetime. Here in verse I share with you my inquiry to which has bonded Muse.
YOUR STORY IS THE STORY. Their horsie four so full of holes they named that way just to have a laugh. Revelation and Creation coincide, they never stopped. A daily occurrence in a Live Show me is true Prophesy which I assure you, smells nothing like a library book, and for which no innocents are ever killed. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you copy it to heart.

Amid the Sidewalks Starred

        Through parted blinds
        I'm often spied
        sneaking quietly
        the great big fractions
        painted on the walls below.

        In chlorinated solitude
        my shadow glides amid the aqua blue,
        an underwater bird
        soaring endless concrete skies
        beneath the browning air.

        I'm barely moving
        my arms
        just enough
        to let idle fabric fly,
        to give up hope --
        let inertia try.

        Hey, look
        I'm crucified . . .
        I'm hula in the wind.

        When I'm lying down on water,
        when I'm face up to the sky,
        Heaven disappears as destination
        and Hell's the hollow shipwreck
        for goldfish swimming by.

        Right now
        I'm blocking out the intensity
        of sunscorched interrogation.
        I try to listen in
        to the nameless noise each day lost
        to traffic in the air.

        I think that it's Time itself I hear,
        The way we sound to Nature's eldest ear.
        That's how I hear Hollywood.
        How Sunset Boulevard sounds to me.
        The din of dying dreams.

        Amid the sidewalks starred.

        I cannot hear them now.

        Though there the public tramples on its heroes
        and pigeon volunteers
        scrub clean the homeless tiled floors,
        for a fan club fee.

        I cannot hear them now.

        Funny how in the West
        all the sounds still ricochet
        off the walls of ghost-towns left behind
        for the quest of promised gold.

        The fading fame.
        Its desperate, dusty desert breath
        wheezes over bleached stucco walls to me,
        comes right into my head . . .
        Without TV
        devoid Dolby
        or limousine,
        but simply on the wind
        wafting over less famous streets
        like an audible aroma,
        detected by the desperate gourmet
        whose ears are so seldomly
        and exquisitely served.

        This sonic simplicity.
        I like the magnitude of what I'm listening to.
        Bet there's nobody else alive right now
        who can hear it too.
        You know,
        I'm sure that time is like the wind.
        Maybe it will pick up real soon,
        perhaps in any thousand million miles now.
        You'll see.

        Heading into deeper ends,
        I dive below the surface.


        Exit Armageddon.
        Repeat the crime of buffalo.

        I'm underwater, but still above
        sonar bound and full of love,
        I may be missing dorsal fins
        but it seems I'm always counting pilot fish
        swimming by, stowed away --
        swept into my glide
        because they can not help but linger by.

        Too trapped on land.
        Too big for grace in gravity.
        Too sad to stay beneath the gray.
        Too tired of longing for the sky.

        Whales patrol frontier,
        not to protect but to guide the way.
        But they get in the way of greedy men.

        Behold, my savior surfaces,
        coming up for the freedom and the precious air
        but taking in just harpoons.
        Fishermen aren't so wooed by pressured grace
        like shepherds are with light and sight and song.
        Gray can skies or oceans be
        but when next to red in cavalry
        how we're dazzled militarily.

        Gabriel gets 'em every time,
        and here I am Shamu.


        From underwater,
        I'm rising up
        with such amphibian instinct.
        To release the kidnapped air
        stale from moments just before
        I so stealthily submerged.

        The staleness is so quickly purged.
        Gasping at the winds of life again,
        I break the surface of mortality,
        and remember why we're here.

        Wrinkled now,
        my fingers look like prunes.
        How we hate to look so old --
        so bent on erasing all the lines.
        The lines are just history!
        Erosion is the life,
        not its scars on stone.

        I ascend, then
        like ladders on the moon,
        step off
        and with no quote for history,
        dry my skin.

Images: bestplacestovisitinla.com

No comments: