Drip, dripped, dripping

Streaks of light reflected on falling water drops pass by my window on this rainy day, the broken and rusted gutter beating rhythms on my eyes. I remember when...

The Ignorance In Knowledge

The wonders of the universe are mine,
And yet, I wonder what I want with these --
Without my thoughts, your love is true divine,
His Love, your warmth, does not ease life nor please
The seascapes, patterns, that eradicate
Or even place our love up with the gods.
I open eyes at daily double’s fate
To see the watchdogs eat the blinded clods;
The rituals, life-supportive (so they claim),
Bring hunters and the hunted to the fight --
The educated aid the hopeless lame
And both shall watch the forceful lose their might.
We lost the sight with schoolbooks held in hand,
The sight that sees the hungry feed the land.
-- February 1985

= == === ==== === == =

Good Mack Café

The banana peel.
A metaphor for falling,
Not watching our step.
I hold the banana peel in my hand,
The freshly eaten, soft interior
Losing its identity in my stomach.
A limp thing, yellow and green and brown
Nutritious protection for future worlds,
A jungle or tropical garden,
The veins no longer flow with fluidy substances,
The seeds are lost in rotting dumpsters
Filling sewers, freshly flowing,
Floating jetsam, flotsam pressing
Forward toward my nose,
The smell offending softly spoken,
Perfumed bodies like myself.
My fingers loosen, the peel drops (Plop!).
Rising from my chair, I step to
Reach down to the floor, taking hold of
My future, discarding it as I leave the room.
-- March 1985

= == === ==== === == =

Words, Only Words

Beneath the surface of your face,
Beyond the limits your brain implies,
The love I want remains in place
Becomes the spark that lights your eyes;
Yet love, one word, does not explain
The love we share and cannot hide.
Vocabulary words bring pain
To those of us who’ve searched, we’ve tried
In vain, regardless of the thought
The other hopeless folks may say,
"All lives are meant for sale, then bought,"
Their voices listless, dull, blasé --
The timeless "love" they call a word,
The love we feel cannot be heard.
-- March 1985

= == === ==== === == =

Perhaps my burning ears are signs of fever. Spring fever. The last recovery from cabin fever. "Hey, you" fever. Regardless, rhythms. Rhythms, regardless. Regard less rhythms. Rhythmless regard. Rhythms less regard. Guard less rerhythms. Beats. Drips. Eye tunes. Water breaking free of surface tension, due to gravity. Freedom to be but not to be free. Tied to this planet like cars to drivetrains. Life. Two hydrogen atoms for every oxygen atom, even if hydrogen and oxygen don't know their names or their electrochemical attraction. Quantum physics. String theory. George Carlin ripping on stage. Grandmaster Flash back in style. Meditation on words. Wordlessly. About the only thing this keyboard and I have in common. Detached from tonal qualities. Detuned from musically trained brains. Drip, drip drip, drip, dripdripdrip, dripdripdripdripdrip, drip, ...dripdrip dripdripdrip, drip, drip, dripdripdrip drip.

Drip.

bipbipbip.

Crip drop.

PLOP.

Drip drip.

Drip drop.

drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip ...

Drop. Drop. Drop. Drop.

PLOP.


Can't measure these with a dipstick. Maybe a rain stick. Too fast for a divining rod.

The rain storm passes. Dark clouds hang over another part of Earth, instead. Heart-shaped leaves slip out of their covers on the redbud tree, ready for a sunny day, but soaking up the sun's rays anyway.

Pink snow on the ground.

Yellow snow down the road.

Ever eaten a redbud petal salad mixed with forsythia blooms, soaked in rainwater? Mmm...now, that's the kind of love I'm talking about. Naturally.