PALE SHADOWS

Tired of the ads? Somehow you got here, though with a few choices already made. As a test, with both eyes open, try to see your nose. Good. Here's another: Supposing it could talk, ask a caterpillar how it walks, which is unimportant of course. Except to the butterfly.

Perhaps you remember learning how to ride a bike? Of course it's riding that matters. The magic of that special day, however, lingers on. In your crypt of the forgotten, a moonlit drift of stardust settles over Santa's sleigh, the training wheels, a few old jars.

In my gallery, the jingles ebb out to silence, maybe a dream, difficult to hear with eyes open. There is a jar on the shelf with a readable label, Read Me, which was probably put there for a joke. And another which boldly says Judgement Day. Well . . . I pop the cork. It has this note inside:

Judgement Day

Loose screw? There is more than one way to find it. Draw a large circle. Pretend it's not in there. Now you know where to look. Get a stick or a pencil and rummage about. This may take awhile. Unexpectedly, take my word, you will find something more interesting. Or maybe it's already happened. At any rate, others will notice some apparently pointless activity, or at least of which they don't know the cause, and you might be subject to some covert (polite) scrutiny. In order to fend off an abundance of politeness, the obvious tactic of a diversion might occur. You casually mention that, difficult as it may seem, “I have a screw loose.” “Oh no, no! It's not that . . .” you might be reassured by a friend who understands the seriousness of the situation.

All the while you're busy rummaging, stirring things up, when there are some sounds of rattling and rolling. “Whoa!” Everyone will be placated. But it falls off the edge. Nothing more. Fate is a fickle hunter. And the common curse. “Screw it!”

“He's gone off the rails,” they mutter.

Next day while wandering aimlessly, there you find it, squashed flat on the tracks.

Gift Wrapped

(the unmarked jar)

Santa's workshop is on vacation . . . . jingle, jingle. The circus comes out to play, and yes as I have said before, the world is going to hell in a honey bucket. Can it be saved? Should it? Put a dime in the Zoltar Fortune Teller, or maybe the gum ball machine with its miniature scoop bucket. Unhinge the world, open the cellar door, climb out and ride the invisible wave. No time to tuck your legs underneath, and it's over before the bald lady can sing. She tells us the name of her song was a secret, but that we must all celebrate, and her name is Mary, with a simmering pot let to stock. Just like the dream that never got a chance to do its thing. I blink.

There is a slight breeze, too cool for July. And jasmine hanging over the front porch smells so sweet. The universe is not visible to the unaided eye, or to the naked eye, or with closed eyes, or with mental effort.

Unlike the 4^th of July, Sunday is remarkably quiet. I remember Soen Roshi on that day in 1961, at Ojai chanting: Abraham Lincoln, Daiosho ~ George Washington Daiosho ~ Thomas Jefferson, Daiosho ~ that timeless instant right now.

Silent shadows sing a mutinous dance, friend robin hops to the foot of my chair, and the universe cracks wide open. I cannot bear the thought of reading anything. It leads by degrees that translate technology to become completely unhinged. Some people just want syrup on their pancakes, to live in a mathematical emulation of Burning Man, rolling out freedom in fire extinguishers, onto desert sands that could care less, spotting spy planes out of sight at altitudes that don't register, but it all comes together in a map no one anticipated. Big rock candy mountain dispensed by nickles. Where art matters, with billions for the PR machine. Without advertising where would we be?

Back down by the creek, I'd say, where butterflies tilt in the heat, over air borne ballerinas in a blue sky, sticking travel patches on a song with nowhere to go, and the left wing of a biplane waiting in the hay loft.

Robin plays, making a cheerful chirp, and not dumb or mute or other than what I can't say. We remember that family nest in the oleander tree that got chopped down, with the same care transferred right to this backyard. If I'd snapped a picture to slip into the Zoltar slot, what would we get?

The subject of Twinkie's stealthy crouch, beady eyes not in the least concerned, and squirrel here to eat almonds left on the fence, the ones in the Safeway ad that came in yesterday's mail, and Susan just now telling me about the cat-alarm bark reserved for Frankie, when he's out minding his own business, the whole of it unsliceable in sensory portions. Looking out the window of a VTA bus, its walls plastered with drugs, alcohol and sex ads (obverse of North Korean propaganda), a movie in the stream of distraction, frame by frame, don't dare think of not thinking. . . .

Here comes a gum ball. Well, just let it go. Not worth the attention while just sitting here, the feeling is indescribable.