language is not a matter of knowing
the words to speak, but rather a
comprehension of thoughts left unspoken
for no writ nor vocal manifestation could ever
replace the origin let crawl from
mind through splitting time and chance
in given circumstance.– that which may never find
another route, if not through that subtle genius,
Epiphany, may fall as leaf to be but
nut on ground beneath the tree
unseen, unfound, for who notices
the bearer until the given is believed profound.
Month: October 2005
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language is not a matter of knowing the words
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a ghost-O’d outline waves its way
a ghost-O’d outline waves its way
down screen of window,
silently backing to the shadow-deepend woods.
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this life is but
as a tree
as a voiced cricket
as a splattering rain
as a twist-turbined fan
as a direction-uncompassed gnat
as a bulb let slown to sight
this life is but a branching plenty
a branching plenty to the still’d & hungry leaves
a breaking call unrepeated in constant
a breaking call unrepeated in constance
a falling raised
a falling raised
a mutterance mumbling incoherently
a mutterance mumbling with incoherence
a changer of path
a changing of path
too fast to comprehend its speed and brevity
too unknown in speed to comprehend its brevityoriginally designed with the first ‘a’ only, but both seemed so appropriate.
perhaps better read with ‘as’ repeated twice, once with the first ‘a’ and then with the indented ‘a’.
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the muse vs inspiration
a muse is someone/something that cannot disappoint,
merely disinterest.
emotion is not wasted on the muse, merely displaced for a bit.Nature will never be delegated to status of “muse,” for Nature is a permanent-inspiration. the muse may wax and wane, but it is not the permanent moon, just a moth you notice in the light.
those who inspire: Mom, E, Katie, dad, Grandma, family, Sarah : they are permanent in thought; they are me in some odd linking.
the muse is but a flash, while those who inspire :including Nature: are the light. the muse may linger, but lingering is not comparable in force to motivation.
you may say the muse is but a parasite, a hinderance, an obstacle of inspiration–
i prefer to call the muse “practice.”
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Sorry.
Apparently, someone I had let access my FTP decided to send massive amounts of e-mail to AOL users, with a link to a virus, ” Hallmark.scr “. I have removed said user’s access and the virus. I sincerely apologize to anyone who has received unsolicited e-mails from this individual and would request your forgiveness.
In short, sorry I was a fuck-up by letting some child use my server.
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pale in envy.
when the voice, or blood,
or whatever
is clogging throat,
boils at room temp
to eyes–
the sticky ‘lids
hiding as
ashamed curtains
pulled to feet by
someone–
her–
the one keeping me
strung,
well-tuned,
but unfree to enjoy the air–
how
repulsive
this sight of a sickened child
rotting in thought
from too long an exposure,
inward,
of her.
thought,
what
of
our
time?
alone, in stare or conference held,
she is
she is
here– in front, beside, behind, around me–
if that
time,
that
solitairy fixation on
us
could
extend,
grab
us
and
stay,
not run, not walk, not
s
tu
mble
from
as so
prone
we let it be–
perhaps,
just
by chance
by longing
we
could bring to
us an envy drawn
from other,
an
outside onlooker–
me.
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from specks in grass
groans.
that is all they are,
side-stepping in hurried wave from one spectrum to the next
on those damned, barren wastelands of rock.
what scroaming beasts, these skippers in roar of rush;
what beckons them to pass as though nothing, they, were to stop?
can they, these slow’n’ slicers of the air, not see what is here,
idle and unafraid to be still?
can they not follow our way, to remain?
such noisy beasts, these crawlers–
why do they drown the ticking symphony of night?
and how they bother to pull the followers from Earth in their frenzy’d flush–
these defiant ones, determined in their motion,
know not the route of friction-less–
how could they, with Sailorswind and Hoppers
so worried of their path, so longing of their kin’s return–
yet, this breeze about them stirs a curiousity,
the killer of the brave,
to hope one should learn what rustle, this, does not show from afar
or be let known to they who are in doubt of journey.