Being poetic can be accidental
Being a poet is no accident
The streets at night shimmer under the emerging, movement of streetlights. It’s the tree limbs that cause their action. Above them, wires stretch into an evolution of light and dark.
Of course, that’s where we kiss. Where else? And it’s a damn good smooch. One of those that fits like two pieces of a puzzle, like it’s meant to be.
That’s when I hear you say, “These streets are like our bones, drawn to one another, making a map, an illuminated grid.” You get a scared-like look on your face, as if you said something weird. You did, but I like it.
Then chaos……… the shots ring out. I’ve heard them all my life. Some people live their lives to be snipers. But this bullet is no different than the others, hitting me in the head, the heart as well. I know what they’re made out of, nothing but misdirection…….yet…still…..tonight……..part of me lies dead on these living streets.
We’re looking at the body, my body. I don’t deny I’ve been hurt….hurt for good. I carry my death around. Always have……… I say, “Bury the body.” We dig deep. Our purpose is ……no one will find out this dimension is a drive-by shooting, quick, violent, darker than irony, lighter than a paradox. For tonight, we kiss in the streets.
I kiss you again when the gunfire is but smoke and I swear the streets turn luminescent. Bullets are cold compared to us. I feel as if I will climb the streetlights to string wires. When the sun rises, I will invent phosphorescence. Tomorrow night, we will kiss in the streets.
They swirl above me, swashes of crows, in a chaos of dashes. They cackle, arguing amongst themselves, bickering with the sky.
These large murders are new. I haven’t seen them like this, as if they’re scolding me. For, I think they follow me. I know you think they follow you too. I would ask you to look up. But who am I to ask?
I ask them if they’re trying to speak to me. Of course, because I’m self-absorbed, I answer for them, “Yes, I’ve made mistakes. Some of them large enough to follow me around for the rest of my life.”
Then, I realize, it’s my ability to communicate that turns them into metaphors. They’re my mistakes. They’re yours too. They are representations of me and you. No wonder their caws fill the air.
And that soothes me, but in a disturbing way. I can understand why it might make you feel uncomfortable. They fly as if they’re in love with tension.
As a child, I believed their eyes saw everything and they shared every sight they saw. They’ve seen everything. Once you’ve seen everything, you can’t believe anything. That’s why there’s so many of them.
The air is thick with eyes. Theirs, ours. Have I lost you yet? It’s ok. Disconnecting is a natural reaction. Perhaps, a survival mechanism. I reach for my phone to take a photo of them. You must see this, even though you’ve already seen it. For you’ve seen everything. I don’t care whether you believe. Let me show you again.
There’s not enough space for them to land. I feel sorry for us. The trees are lower than all the buildings. We’ve built it like that.
We stay inside. Our mistakes can belong to someone else. We don’t want to see everything. We don’t want to share anything. We just want to believe.
We stretch what is real
Until it fits the way we feel
If we don’t think it’s right
We’ll let it soak overnight
Where dreams of our wishes
Are full of strange dishes
Then, in the morning we awake
To find reality can’t be faked
So, it’s back to the top we go
We’re artists, didn’t you know?
Ask a poet for a page turner,
She’ll offer you a page
That can’t be turned
We tend to view life as linear , as a series of events. Like art, it has depth.
Your happiness is a craft that travels within no time restriction.
Your sadness is only one measurement among an infinity of calculations.
When looking at life or art, there’s more to it,
Than the appraisal of time.
Oregon Garden, September 2017
I sit with her
Placing her in memory
Giving thoughts strength, yet
In her silence, she frightens me.
I rely on others
Camping upon her shore
To soothe my worry.
And although I haven’t
Seen her rimmed with snow
Echoing the clearest of nights,
Pitted with raindrops
Upon her clear face,
Witnessed her held tight
By mist and clouds,
I know she has experienced this.
She reflects me
Placing me inside her memory
Giving strength to her beauty, yet
In my silence, I frighten her.
She relies on the stream
And springs to ease her.
And although she hasn’t seen
All who I love, have loved,
My stumbles and woes
On nights of anxiety,
My elations and successes,
The clatter of the city
Reverberates within me
She knows I have experienced this.
(This is a link)
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