The Gardener
Santa Clara, CA 95051
theroot_
.
[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
write "subscribe" or "unsubscribe" in the subject line of an email to: theroot_us@yahoo.com
The Gardener
Santa Clara, CA 95051
theroot_