Sleep is an illusion tonight I cannot afford.
I pay endless bills
to the dark disquiet I have accepted.
Mortality closing in
sometimes gets my best,
until the dog comes and
loves me, wondering why I’m still awake.
My gratitude erupts and peace
steals back up the dark hall
to quiet the litany of blame.
Good boy. Thank you.
(Toulouse, the absolute best.)
The gyre of chance: swirls in swirls;
the cards are so cold,
colder than the click of a door
locking out hope.
I push my chips to
another stack, no regrets,
no goodbyes offered,
not even “see ya later.”
My lips pout.
Is that a tell?
She is a feast of soft lines and deft nooks,
a heaviness of promise and allure.
Our silent promises cannot be kept.
A sharp look of agreement
would cut through the hearts of all.
Promises we have already made
keep us honest and bereft.
(top: reading-body-language.co.uk; bottom: mamashealth.com)
The head winds in these times:
a gale blown in from the south
drives the sea to a craggy appointment.
It makes a shuttered room clean,
just enough light to warm
pen and paper bound with years
and a hum of words seldom spoken;
music always finds air to move,
wind deciphered by water and rock,
passed along from stone to ear,
to imagination on its hind legs,
to hand and pen, to warm paper.
(top: markjohnson.photoshelter.com; bottom: oregonstate.edu)
I write for people awake.
I don’t have to yell.
Some of our herd:
I see their eyes flash;
they know they don’t know,
but are not afraid.
More is heard than said.
The thread glows and goes and grows,
enough to hold and not let go.
Contact passes, but stays alive.
(glowing plankton: endthread.com)
I sat down this morning and wrote a long letter
to The Mother and The Father and my angel kin.
I tried not to whine, I tried not to whimper
I just need some help with the straits I’m in.
The weak in me wants to hide in the covers,
the strong in me wants to fuss and rage,
the wise in me wants neither nor the other,
I just need escape from this corporate age.
I closed my eyes and sealed up the letter,
the stamp I used was a hope and prayer.
Standing in the sun I began to feel better,
my mind took a breath and my heart did care.
The answer came in a pool of water,
a shadow ‘neath the bank where the salmon are.
An angel singin’ tells me I oughta
let the wise man go, just play the guitar.
“Don’t worry ‘bout the time, don’t worry ‘bout the money,
the instrument lives just let it feel.
The love in you will flow like honey
Give yourself up to the wood and steel.”
Give yourself up,
give yourself up,
give yourself up
to the wood and steel.
Yep. This is me a long time ago. To hear Wood and Steel, click here:
I am a hiccup in some quantum
field where there may or may not
be a dream-threshing tractor.
Imagination can travel
faster than the speed of light.
When you outrun light it is very dark.
These things are obvious.
My interest follows what I cannot see.
Trying to remember where I’ve been
is endlessly entertaining and frustrating.
Perhaps humor is faster than light, as well.
When the absence of light is darkness,
I want balance in the absence of darkness.
I have no name for that place,
but its map glows in my heart.
(tractor: oldoregonphotos.com; dreamscape: rantlifestyle.com)
Gossamer threads run
from tree to leaf, leaf to ground.
Mornings are my time.
(top: neowin.net; bottom: forum.prisonplanet.com)