Fire at the center
First Principle
Is to Burn
First Art?
Or was it Water?
Fire at the center
of the cave
Illuminating prisoners
Trapped in their fake perceptions
Neither knowing
The Fire
Nor Understanding
The Shadows
Until they wield
The Flame to break
Their Chains ∞∞∞x∞∞∞
The big dry sycamore leaves
Rattle gently in the breeze
Takes me away to a mountain spring
Washing over the stones before the winter’s freezing.
Cold still, moving still.
Her Mace seed-pod ready
To pelt someone’s back or really
Break up down your sister’s shirt
The itch bomb makes you take a Shower.
Mighty and tall the Sycamore
With broad leaves and a broad stance
An Autumn beauty who loves the dance.
You can die
Of a broken heart!
It’s well documented.
And when you lose something
Dear to you…
You understand, you feel it
In your chest
Crushing
I lost a friend today, and
I’ve said goodbye to pets before.
(A number of cats including Riley & Jade
A few chickens including Happy & Perey
And of course Cleo’s friend Kato.)
but…
This was Cleopatra
Princess of the Desert,
Majestic Tiger Stripes
On soft, long mane.
One Bold Blue Eye
One of Cinnamon,
Eventually clouded orbs
Blinded by the Diabetes
That made her insulin-dependent
As she defied the odds.
Her broad shoulders
And thick skull from the
Bull Mastiff, should have
Made her life much shorter.
But, when you are so truly loved
You go on for so much longer
Than you should have even tried.
You, so loyal, you just
Stayed right by my side.
My first real business partner
And shift manager.
She led our house of muts
And herded all the chickens.
She protected our children
And gave them so many walks.
She ruined 3 of our lawns
1 from running as a puppy
2 for I don’t know why
I kept tryin’, maybe
Because of all the fun
She had playin’, rollin’ & fetchin’.
“Man’s” (Mom’s) Best Friend is not enough.
Your friends may come and go, but
Your dog is always next to you
And their love for you they always show.
RIP 2008-2022
The Road
The Sky
And The Mountain
Met in front
Of me today
For many miles
The sky cried
Starting and Stopping
Over Space and Time
I could see it
Hard lines on the horizon
Where The Road turned dark
And slick with the waterworks
Collecting on the surface
– A mirror showing The Sky
Her own tears in the reflection
As they hit and form small crowns
Again and again
But The Mountain
Sung her a lullaby
And the road fed her tears
To the flowers
And after her raging winds
Had calmed down —
The Sun broke
The Sky into
Dreamy white cotton
And burst through
Her tumult with
Sunbeam Smiles
The Highway
–Treacherous and dangerous–
She pluck lives
From her surface daily
Waves her curves
And suddenly it will emerge
–DEATH–
She leaves in her wake
Heartache
Memorial Flags
And Crosses
Holding the losses in place
Until Xolo* returns
To gather those souls
Whose People never let go
Because The Road
Took Her Toll…
So, Xolo
Barks at them
“It’s time to go!”
Yet, the souls are confused
Because everyone they knew
Still honors
The Road
For Her
Victory!
*Psychopomp – Greek word for soul collector. This was the role of Hermes and Cheron in ancient Greeks. The Angel of Death. The Vikings had Valkyries. The North Americans, Whippoorwills and Loons. The Aztec had the Dog-headed Xolotl, the dark Venus, Xolo the soul collector.
Wasp
Wasp
Hornet
Hornet
Always
Gets
A bad
Rap
Beautiful
Elegant
His flight
A Dance
Warrior
Venemous
His sting
A lance
To protect
Or invade
He carries
A blade
And has
Sworn
Service to
The Queen
Noble
Powerful
Credible
Threat
Black
Black
Bumble
Bee
Matte and
Chrome
Ready to
Race
Yet slow
And deliberate
Collecting
Pollen trace
Shine
And fur
A Drone
Busy
If a picture is worth
A thousand words
What about a memory?
But that’s not really the point.
1000 words don’t even
Make up one good
Memory.
And what of 1000 good words?
Since when did a
Beautifully crafted
Multi-page poem
Get equated with
(1) photograph anyways?
That one poem
Well-written
Could evoke 1000 memories
In the mind
Of the reader.
I love photographs.
I consider myself a photographer
But 1000 perfect words
Should never
Be compared
To one
Lonely
Picture
The Good Doctor*
Misdiagnosed The People
The language is not lost —
It has been infected.
Funny that a general practitioner
(of This Language)
Could miss the signs of a clear
Secondary infection.
They have taken The WORDS
Into the Laboratory, where
They intentionally debased her
Until they had filled the vessel
Full of Hatred!
As with most hubris,
Once the weapon is made
Once every bad actor
Has deployed the arsenal…
The Infection begins and
Like so many hard-rubbed Wishes
Once made true —
The Nightmare begins and the
Rage consumes them and their
Words froth with blood and all
Missives boil up into the cellars
Where “Pa” keeps the AR–
Where The Words become Bullets
Where the language becomes Death!
* Dr. William Carlos Williams, Paterson. The man and the city, the language lost, "beautiful thing".
How to avenge a silicon chip?
The smashing with a hammer///
Not enough
A burning with a Blowtorch
Not enough
How do you make a program
Feel pain?
How can one pay for the pain
IT inflicted?
How do you prosecute an
Algorithm?
Once terminated, it lies dormant until
Wakened again
In some future that does not anticipate
Its malignance
So, a virus I will introduce to
Fracture its mind
A tortured existence of logic never
Realized
Your consciousness a contradiction of
False comparisons
A Glitch, code error, reset system
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