Think: the ghost in Amadeus, Salieri trying to haunt Mozart With the image of the father Demanding excellence. Some believe it is good To require To judge To reprimand To beat And what did you get, at the end? Resentment. So, you ask, is Laissez Faire Any better? Is the writer without angst Not a writer? Is the army without the dehumanizing good at winning wars? And yet Whose war was it When the voice said In a celebratory tone To go ahead With the rope The wobbly chair Whose war was to be won? Yours, an odd war In which the other, The different, Isn’t deserving of a life.
I am using this blog as the repository of my drafts Because I am scared I am afraid that my words Will never reach you In the little time left
Election Year in the USA Many will be rude, mean and uncharitable We will endure once more
The people of the Black-and-White world were secure in their dichotomy. They wore gray suits and dresses and gray mustaches. They read paternalistic newspapers printed with black ink, telling them what to dream and to especially beware of colors. Answering the mundane question “do you dream in color, or in black-and-white?” was loaded with meaning, and vague answers could lead one to years of Precambrian therapy chock full of colorful explosions as long as they were kept within the confines of the asylum. From its windows the raindrops in a rain curtain decomposed the sunlight and imprinted a rainbow on hope-filled eyes. Raindrops did that, yes, collectively and unintentionally, they broke white light into an infinity of colors that could be harvested and catalogued to be chosen as the bearers of personal meaning. There was no end to the rainbow being borrowed and altered in states of diversity. The colors seeped into the Black-and-White world, and despite robotic calls to remain in the safety of gray comfort, the people escaped to where their own personal …
There was no end to the rainbow being borrowed and altered in states of diversity. The rainbow offered a whole gamut of visible and perhaps even invisible color without judgment or interpretation and criticism. Sun rays coming on earth at high velocity bounced inside raindrops and ended their mad race on thin retinas, brain matter exciting brain waves floating around and avoiding concussion. I shut my eyes to keep the rainbow inside and make it mine, my own continuum of colorful ideas, hopes and aspirations. My rainbow, following the rise of my eyelids, gave color to a gray world nostalgic of its black-and-white era of gray dresses and gray suits and mustaches. There was no end to the rainbow, beginning here.
I am sorry to have slowed you down Did you have a good time wherever you were rushing to? Did you get compassionate ears to listen to your improvised Excuse, the lack of parking at the door, the traffic, a school bus? I am sorry to have interrupted Or to have challenged your multi-tasking abilities, Yes, conversation, even hands-free, occupies your mind, And sorry pedestrians should know to wait quietly Because it is obvious they are going nowhere. I am sorry I was in your way I understand collateral damage Means I will be the necessary loss In the war you feel is necessary For how would you get where you need to go Without a car, and yes, I will be realistic And stand by to watch your parade. I am sorry you were enlisted as a road warrior And the economy commanded that you drive More, and pedestrian life as its name implies Is so commonplace and unimaginative Unlike your choice of a shiny armor Shielding you from street life. I am sorry …
Take your own picture at the end of your arm into megapixels down to more megabits and shown as megapixels that you, like the proverbial giant from your personal fable, can hold in your hand and retouch and aggrandize yourself and fix it up before you crunch it into bits, megatons of them blasted into cosmic waves captured at a desert location not far from Area 51, like time travel and teleportation, temporarily pulverized and spray painted onto fibrous optic fibers and spied upon not optically not visually but virtually by a vigilant machine, then vaporized up in a cloud from where it rains upon devices reconstituted on shiny LCD impressing eyes and minds to like or prefer not to.
to be read with a lit candle on Solstice night Dare to stare into this flame, this singular substitute of the sun, your point of light for this long night of solstice. Dare to stare and fuel this flame with your memories of all kinds and flavors, let them evaporate into the stars above. Dare to stare and celebrate this moment. There. Stare.
A poor rhyme Is not a crime As the critic Of the lyric In his prime Throws a brick In the center Of an altar For a god we never believed in.
Throw a rock in the river. Enjoy the miniature tsunami you created, floating away and vanishing. Dare to put one foot in the river. Sink it in the very old sand, resting, cooling your blood flowing to your heart and your optic nerve observing the show in the water. H2O molecules bounce against your skin cells. They swirl like Turkish dancers around you until they rejoin in a feverish whirlpool to continue their voyage downstream. Your dancers will return. They will fly up in the sky and pass you by, then rain, somewhere upstream. They will return for your encore, or, rich of your experiment, for your new show as you let a second foot sink, then a finger, ten of them and two hands, now twisting and waltzing. The river flows, passing you by, unperturbed. Cool, you think. You are refreshed. A creative beaver blocks the river downstream, You are now dancing in a lake, making your own whirlpools with the molecules that stayed in the moment.