Float body
float
float
But I want
I want
I want to dig
Dig through the five feet of concrete that leads to the water lines
The sewer lines
The water pipes filled with alligators, giant rats
Old tin cans
Dig past the lost cities
Through the core
And find you, upside down.
Walking with thousands of slanted eyes
Dark coarse hair
See if in your eyes you see my reflection
Like I see yours.
I want to see you, speak to you, know you.
But you aren’t there.
It is you, upside down.
It is you, topsy turvy
I can reach your feet, your calves, your hips and touch them gently
Like a child’s hands might.
But still, you aren’t there.
My arms, dirt, mud, sewer covered slip and I climb.
Claw back through the water piping, swat at the tin cans and alligators.
Ignore the lost cities.
And there
Body float
float
float
In honor of all those who embrace why without answer, and then focus on they will instead.
ψ
Those who claim we are destroying the earth Once claimed there were people destroying their God.
Those who claim all religions are the source of ills Once claimed that all godless were the source of illness.
Beware the benevolent trends. They destroy the forrest before the medicines even get a chance to first grow.
Beware those who claim why the creations have become less bountiful – beware those who call you thief – that the gate was opened like a mugging – and the green stollen – denied now to you forever for the crime.
Beware of the word missused, reused or recycled. Beware of those who deny new language to invoke change. They drain the waters as they always have. Beware any who claim ownership of language.
Beware those who say beware.
Be aware of words used, the poetry of linguistics not the logic of the false critics and mystics.
Mind the gaps between age, ages and so called sages.
Not all explorers are courageous or wise. Experience is often wasted on the inexperienced.
Be bold enough to welcome the return of authority.
Beware the blamers for they are the victims of another age’s benevolence. Give them soulful pity. But no mercy.
Assume that not only the survivors survive. Beware the anointed victims.
Beware the music induced, not introduced and received in the slow dose of ordinary perception.
No one knows the mind, mindful or empathic – unless they know their own. Pay them no mind until you’ve learned your own.
No one can walk in anyone else’s shoes until they’ve walked in their own. Beware those who elevate empathy above kindness.
Beware those that says “silence always is golden” or “it speaks more than words can say” or “talk is best done slow;” for they never knew the unleavened word. They were the keepers of the grandest inquisitor’s tools too horrific to word – left to the world of the wordless.
Beware those that choose by committee.
Beware the children of Democracy.
Beware those left to create with only excuses made for creation and call that art.
Beware the time when musicians or games are heard and seen only in solitary boxes and not shared between people. Joy shouldn’t be contained or created with false friends. For that is a fest of famine obeying a vegetable law.
Beware those who value introversion more than solitude.
Beware the ones who long to be numb.
Beware those that say you must understand that you will not or never be understood.
Beware those who don’t have the conditions to suffer – for they will strip yours away and demand thanks for it.
Beware the ones who teach well, but were not taught well. For they don’t know the value in the safety they’ve shown you in self-reliance. They will never see their hands relocating the chains from themselves back onto you. Be aware. For they will betray the law of lessons.
Beware the promise of free love for it is the most costly of deceptions without
Even an offer made to partner Dyonisis with Apollo;
No manner of manners will save, no loving will ever serve, when everyone is free to choose slavery.
I’ve been working hard or hardly working on an idea and I’ve been mute too long.
So this is intended to get myself back into the groove (and discomfort) of the possibility of an audience, reader, listener thinker; I’m forcing myself to show you a glimpse of my process.
Getting a story told that really may be worth the telling is harder than I thought in ways I’d never considered…lucky me?
For that story – this is a piece / inspiration that has spurred the idea along since the beginning; the idea of a jacinth song. the idea of what a jacinth could be.
This is one of the early poems by e. e. cummings written during his years at Harvard somewhere between1911-16; never in a collection perhaps only ever read (certainly only ever published) until his death.
He was so very young when he wrote this and perhaps that’s part of what I love about it.
This poem is framed on my wall and I’ve recorded it as part of that story (I hope) I will one day share with you and will be a wonderful story.
Sharing this poem now?
Well, it now feels like I’m sharing a secret – one that even he didn’t find the nerve to do.
(UPDATE: by god I’ve done it & will post fixes shortly. only “no visitations” and “You are tired” ARe CURRENTLY up to snuff. Thank you for your help & patience!)
Dear Reader,
Please forgive me – it seems when exported from my software the new format drops the volume of the sound files I’ve recorded significantly. I am figuring out the best solution but it may take a bit of time. Thanks so much for your patience and feedback. It means more than I can express adequately.
Does each month have it’s own particular kind of fool? I kinda hope so – maybe April is simply when all of them decided, once upon a time, to unite and boldly and brashly trick us.
That’s how they, Puck like, really slip it to us – right under our noses. Off we go smugly ignoring the other 364 days.
There is a village in New Guinea where every morning, the first thing every family does when they awaken is sit and listen to everyone’s dreams from the night before.
They share all that they saw and experienced as they slumbered. If a dream was a nightmare, the family tells one another what must be done.
Once, a child told his family that he didn’t want to share his dream, that it was too horrible and nothing could be done. They insisted and said he would not be given breakfast until he told them.
The child reluctantly said, “I was being chased by a tiger, and over and over the tiger would catch me and begin to devour me. First it started with my leg, then next with my arm, once even with my throat! Nothing can be done about that.”
“This is what you do the next time your tiger comes for you,” his parent began. “You tell the tiger attacking you – hey YOU get OVER here. YOU must protect me YOU must defend me. This is what you say to your tiger tonight.”
It’s 4
And you’ve gone
And here I sit
Remembering you
One moment ago
No, not even.
Tighter than that
When we were
Somewhere so small
That the space in between
Fell away
So deep and full
We couldn’t help but
Want to drop
You whispered “here we go.”
No…
We’re not for gathering.
We’re not for mending.
It’s 4
And you’re gone
And here we sit
Going to where ever
Remembering wills us.
No. Not like some, faithful and
Tortured by dark.
It’s lighter than that
Behind closed lids
Allowing nothing to
Stream in I flow
Regarding you
One moment ago
When it was 4
And we laughed
About fish in cans.
[Original ending above. Alternate ending recorded for a possible song that was being tested for collaboration, but never (as of yet) completed:
And now I remember
That once we began.
And it was 4
And you’re gone.]
