In France I came across this sign:
Provisional bar and occasional hotel.
I wonder if this establishment accepts reservations?
Harmony meters measure
The moods rising
Off the tarmacadam.
Adults, in the swing of
Bills, forget to smile.
Less entertained by obligations
In the local park, a
Teen plays a keyboard
Harvests raw blurred notes, hint
Of a cool soundtrack.
The radiant child.
Echoes of lyrics dignify
The sensual pitch of her
Voice. She sings:
at the speed of joy.
A luminous poet is as light
as an ounce of osmosis.
Time after time
Parents, in the swing of
bills, forget to smile.
Moods rising… radiant child.”
accomplish my dreams?
If when walking on the Avenue Of The Future,
I should happen to encounter
a fortune teller
who tells me: “You will mend your luck
when you turn back the clock.”
Will I deposit my gratitude
in the honesty box?
Or will I forge on ahead
weighed down by
Her detour a reminder not to dwell on anxiety.
I want to absorb the tempo of my female hero.
Go with her on a journey. We’ll decide.
Fill a syrup-colored packing case with maps loosely packed.
Plan our getaway on the backs of envelopes. Take me with you.
“Live and love as if there’s no tomorrow.” I wish she’d said to me.
“Die to tomorrow.”
Add as a P.S.
Where was I before the mercury rose?
The day so dry all I can do is get naked on wet sheets and dive
into a book of fairytales called Floating Down The Sea of Ears.
Tall and medium tales about proteans (shapeshifters) like Leonardo
Da Vinci whose career took many shapes such as he was said to have
a ‘protean career’, and a fairytale within a fairytale about a fraternity
of surrealist poets living in exile on the Island of Writers. Each scribe
has cut off one ear to protest the watering down of freedom of speech.
On the Island of Writers, they argue and rant long into the night. Talking
over each other, their hearing impaired and their thinking short-sighted.
I make several pathetic attempts to shift my attention back from island.
Altered by what I’ve witnessed, it’s too late for my brain. The fixtures
and fittings in my apartment — the sofabed, piano, cable TV, candles,
kitchen table, bathroom scales, door frame, window blinds, security
alarm system and my sheets have become part of me; as my habitat
pulls me under the floorboards and this reader connects to the umbilical
cord of the fraternity.
We argue and rant long into the night.
My blood orange eyes look puzzled beneath
my purple shaded eyelids. Half-open and half-sealed.
I weigh their arguments on my bathroom scales. The scales
crack, snap and pop as the debates rage at arm’s length.
How does this fairytale end? Will I flash upon The End?
My first impression is of a monotone snake coiled inside
a M.C. Escher drawing.
Is that black and white snake, Gaia contemplating us? Are
we mirror cells? Mirroring each other’s cells, or are we not?
A thinner tree?
Are the colors in Escher’s field (of vision) under review?
Who was it that said: “Silence is so accurate, the mind’s imagination can also paralyze.”
In my alternative state I have a theory that the Island of Writers
is the mole people living in the tunnels under New York City.
Our Earth is their stars.
When I was growing up my mother would say to me: “Child of mine you have your head in the clouds.”
When I grew older I discovered that folks who write poetry are in the minority.
I’m half afraid to write poetry
for you who never read it much
and I’m left laboring
with the secrets and the silence
In plain language.
— Adrienne Rich