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[yesterday's entanglements]

UNBOXED

Trane's Tune

with the next breath comes the cosmos

which won't fit on the evening news

exhale

it's blown away

not that it wasn't needed but

things change pretty fast

cities we've known, whole islands

blown away and I'm still breathing

past slower days when tendrils of grapes

were spirals growing practically fast enough to see

and the sudden summer storms

and the sullen heat

sweat draining down rivulets to the sea

down the crotch

dust to dust, grapes spiraling out to pee

I said all of this hundreds of years ago

and it was new then

as well as now

but why burden it with always?

now the comfort is

I don't have to be a Philosopher, or a Poet

now an email is the limit of longevity and fame

this dovetails (such a beautiful term – one can smell the curls of cedar wood just planed, recall the cedars of Lebanon, and the original doves and how their tails got mistakenly involved) with all the “things” I have set aside

mentally

amidst the debris taught in class rooms in preparation for shopping sprees

Frank Lloyd Wright's attempted city break

the flight of Trane's impossible bumble bee and how could the cosmos get blown with such a thing as a saxophone?

I am far, far done with the training of inherited me, and all the other selves installed and their pursuits, the accepted canon of civilization is out of kilter, email is quicker, but still a slow poke when compared with instantaneous entanglement,

whoever reads this might remember --

a personal theme gradually chipped out of wood and buried alive

that if left would petrify

either trapped in amber or sliced thin to be displayed under a microscope

I am not the evening news

nor are you, it's all out of kilter

you knew this?

a rare insight

time has hung on the class room wall since time immemorial

while outside the chipmunks come and go

speaking of camphor curls

and how good the wood smells

but not much of a breath freshener

in fact they say it tastes like shit

Oneup Face

Facebook is a fun house mirror

its man in the street is no longer anonymous

compared to images in a data base

rewards for selected extinctions

are tax free

the news is juicy like a rare steak

bears of antarctica are ghostly white

their narrative lost to reincarnation

the snow stained red

glad to have found my toe

sticking out the lower left hand corner of the screen

oblivious to that guy whose eyes are glancing down

at his cohort just across the way

in GPS India

who is also glancing down

into the privacy of the moment

Winter's Wind

with winter's rush at the door

the writing desk opens

white sheets of rain opine outside

words are filling sandbags, struggling to tread water

shutting the door I find

this sheet is dry

there is little to say

words that have escaped feel no urge to speak

emptiness shrouds the desk

echoes are heard

bag fillers scraping together ads, ambulance sirens, night lit cranes and other paraphernalia

there is a distant crowd arguing with itself

a few escapees have fallen off the edge

now the writing desk is closed