Fire in the Wind

In the museum,

art is stacked,

one on the other.

Eyes page through them,

touching and smudging the reality,

so it is all a flat illusion.

The sculpture in the corner

is flatter than paint;

a texture for light...maybe.

But when art's stacked,

it fits in a box.

A box with white walls

and no windows.

But a shadow caught my eye,

and when I turned,

I found the art had disappeared,

and the sun hung in its place.

circa 2002

I see one road and backdrop to the story.

It is shifting, but concrete in its uniqueness.

I stare into its vast depths and understand; there is one.

But other voices echo uncertainties.

They speak as though their words can erode reality,

but it does not give.

Only a fool's perception can morph its features,

if the fools believe enough.

I do not believe.

My jester's bells have burdened me for a higher honor,

which will leave me standing alone, decifering to the cave dwellers

Truth from the shadows.

circa 2001

A drop of water on my purse

like a tear,

but not like my tears.

This one is sad.

It makes me have sad thoughts.

Now, the tear is mine.

I own this sadness;

it is a happy despair.

As it bleeds into the floral stitching of my purse,

it is an orange and red despair,

it is a green despair.

The music, too, bleeds;

into my skin like cigarette smoke.

Both burn my throat:

one with ash,

one with the urge to swallow emotion.

But it escapes through my skin

in my sweat.

The taste is in my mouth.

It is the salt in my tears.

Denying emotion is like denying air.

I do this often,

but now I gasp,

and the notes diffuse into my blood.

I allow it to infect me

with symptoms of rushed blood

and calm mind.

A victim beyond recovery,

my heart does not beat in this world.

It beats like a drum to a trumpet.

It beats by the command

of this young Apollo's son.

He stands on the street

out of the smoke,

out of the tears.

Into the night he is wailing away,

crooning away.

Taking me away is a car slowly moving

back to the world

without smoke or tears.

circa 2002

My musical lover,

flush against my body.

Singing vibrations

pulse through both our souls.

All is understood

with the playing of a melody.

My musical lover

whose voice hums in my mind,

you are alive

only at my touch.

Our purpose the same,

we were carved from the same aged wood.

circa 1999

Morning comes everyday,

but once a day.

Days are for spending poorly

on the necessities of proper living.

It is movement without action,

everyday the physical drone.

Mornings are perfect days.

Motions slur into thoughts.

Drowsy kinetics give way

to wakeful consciousness

and the practice of

the praxis sciences.

circa 2002