Thoughts, like Bombs

He meant: H as in Hello (No Hello Bombs)

Today, the mist of rain began with cold-flux of wind, arising from the “great white north”; ice-spots collide in my blood, dancing birds dance no longer, hide in their nests, the seasons are like shifting sands, but they linger, lasting throughout the elongated days; white and brown (collect ideas, never frail, like loosened leaves), my elbows ache when I bend to write about the oncoming winter, but the swift, delicate, pillowy-heart of mine sighs with the deepest relief as winter approaches calmly to collect me up into its luxurio

-us air. “Us air.” We are the air. Walking lungs, walking in gaping spaces. O such relief from warmth (crystal clear skies and the sunshine feels “treated” somehow, with change like a bouquet of spice dancing upon our skin. Each day passes, winter greeting dinnerware of clouds and windsongs. My fingers pinken, as do my ears, my cheeks, my my, my, my. Such sweet validity. The end-of-day sunset, like damask stripes of coordinating patterns. I sd: “You think I’m weird, don’t you?” and Ashley A. sd (with her wonderful Californian accent):

“No, I don’t think you’re weird. You’re just different.” Feeling overly-modest, always. At work, thought of cyborg technology, thought of how knowledge “grows” like biology if one keeps an open-mind, if one listens. I have learned that listening to someone that is much older can really deepen the canyons of the mind. Anyhow, if I had a nickel for every rude look I have received from someone, I would be rolling in mountains of mula, or mula-meadows, something like a hulahoop, my veins flow quicker when the ticker of the clock gets nearer to the “freedom” destination. Dry throat and a tongue as stale

as hour-chewed bubblegum (the color pink! again! come to mind). I feel surrounded by women in the nursing field, raised within estrogen, with our without it, and when I think of poetry, I think of women, like how felines always remind me of females (even male cats are feminine-like). Winter is boiling autumn in its fiesty pot. An old man was staring at me today in Applebee’s. I saw another man at the bar frictionize his hands together before grabbing a hold of his enormously-large glass of foaming beer. I tend to . . . feel . . . in-between . . . emotions this day;

expectations and hopes that tend to exceed my own barriers, but of which clngs to my heart and mind (not like some offthewall love story, like Keats or Chopin-like love, but a kind of exploding of the solar-plexus; my brain sitting atop an enormous “stake” as Vlad The Impaler snickers from below while eating his supper), but thinking of how blessed I am to be so top-sided at times; perhaps unintentionally lopsided. My heart flutters for my dear Lord, flooded smorgasbord, flurry of boredom at work, or lackthereof. And then comes







John Wieners: “When the echo falls / one will dismiss it. / When it calls again, / one will miss / it, falling in love with the present, / while one is able of it. / When the shadows enlarge, will one / enter it, or stay where / he is now. What will one do, how” . . . The mind, often like an echo, is in a state of trepidation from the slightest noise (like the slamming of a cabinent or a door), and skin, what is flesh, what is skin? What is it but odd typeset, long sequences of earthly-dust, eruptions of knuckles and fingertips . . . smaller patches of “showy” vesicles “containing a white serum, burning” . . . burning worse than anti-illuminati symbolism; something of a libido. The Gaping Mind. The soiled roots are expanding.

The Army National Guard: “We can read your minds.” (Spam-mail).

“Abandoning bravery.”

Received Flickrmail today. He sd: “I like your work because it Speaks. I don’t like your work because of what it is saying.” Hm, so if what the images are saying creates dislikes, then what are the images speaking that creates likeness? The images expel speaking, but they are saying two different things to him, I suppose. Well, as long as they do not sound like Pee Wee Herman playing in a Fun House, then all is a warm fireplace.

I used to think that it was I that made the ocean blue, but it was all because of you. I don’t need light for sight, because I have eyes within. An appendage of the fantastic. The waves take each breath we take, hides them in oysters. This, the true manifestion of pearls. “...and they say everybody steals somebody’s heart away.” This is quite true, except that sometimes they only take a small portion, while leaving the remains gasping in solitude and bafflement.

If I were a swan / I’d be gone”

No comments: