23.8.11










O me to be trapped
Forever on the outside
to circle trying
To understand a/way in
But glass is solid
To name a hard nothingness
Without a crack or
Muntin of a meeting place

And so to recoil
Into my own hush-hush prism
Of well defined space
Figuring the alien
Out there circling
The glass bowl of a sharp eye
Within an/other eye 
Creepy but now contented
Strange but for contents
You’ll know when the light is on

Remember there’s no
Way hiding the obvious
Though safe from weather
Except from the winds of change
— Of normality
And the winds of cunning words  
Does all of this count?
Is this place indeed soundproof?
If I can’t hear them, 
Are they allowed to hear me?

And etcetera
I can see I can see through, 
I can see stones lined
Up like gray broken teeth.
Standing in a row
Announcing just quietly
That someone has gone
Down beneath to stain that spot
If you cant see me
You aren’t here you are there. 

Eyes clear and open
Though imbedded with mem/ries
Streaking the one good
Decent enjoyable view
Unless reminded
Why the need to think about
The day after now
And the yesterday prior?

The glass and stone meet and play,

5.8.11


Contemplative mind
Moment in time is magic
Highlands are between
The yearning and the learning
This will conjure up
An episode of kinda
Full of excuses
With emphasis on humane     

Attentive devout
Life is an algorithm
Warrior cloud heads east
History of logic is  
Full of dramatic
Episodes of eureka
That will lend credence
Well this is nothing like that  

Gathering feathers
Needing somewhere to place them
Currently commune
Words are not my first language
Compassion near by
Obvious not yours either
Plateau in the clouds
Ends unexpectedly soon.

If we cant escape our fears,
What then, will they do to us?
choka — for 10thdom

4.8.11


Dropping her fetters in the wings, she walks into the straight jacket of the theater in the mind.   

She squints her eyes with childish solipsism making the eidolons mere whips in the dark space. The others had fallen into an echoing silence over the years, long ago. And just now.
Offstage in queue they sport costumes of heavy antique bullion and quilted brocade designed and built many years ago, mimicking a hundred years before that. A set of lovers coo, a pirate is selling buckets from a red corvette, another dangling a silver spoon, a child inside a feline, a drooling hunchback, a chorus in deep eggplant chiffon, each waiting a turn while the henchman fumbles with a noose.

Brushing by the understudy she hears break a leg whispered under a breath. The cliché rings in her ears until the deafening roar of the audience applauding becomes inescapable because of its absence. A queue is up. Closing eyes altogether, she gathers herself and charges out onto center stage expecting to be spell bound.

Settling into first position, centering, she glances up at the vacant right box. The big seat is empty. It is unworn and has always been empty. He is not coming. Again. There is freedom in that seat being empty.

Her eyes travel to the pit where the conductor’s arm is paused midair. Once and again a bond with the stick is made as it begins to flaunt and conjure and she easily steps into the slipstream following the major chord.

The exalted feeling is somewhere amid earthbound limitation. That gift does not come from a butt in the seat. Habit dictates she play her part without hesitation, as there is a cycle to round every week about this time.

When there isn’t scenery one must chew the curtain. The deep crimson fabric pulled up into a sculptured form hovering and leering at the wraithlike audience. The newly replaced footlights again glare like skinned eyeballs staring down and daring a reaction. Her flow steps up into the air and glides from stage left to right. This is when you can believe you are in the presence of a god. She knows sometimes it does not happen. Sometimes everything is in place and there is only disappointment. A spin turns staccato, as she becomes a marionette leaping and dragged down stage.
Rejected again. They aren’t coming. You think my dancing stinks? How about this move…
With a chaotic thrash of the body her leg shoots out and a foot ends in a severe punt to a footlight.
-bash
How does this one grab you?
- POP
Chaos takes the dance away from her.
One by one the lights erupt, flicker and die.
 …And this, ass, they are foot-lights, yes?
- crash
She spins and hits with deft  precision of practice until the only glow left is coming from her face.

The music ends in a deadly crescendo as her breath heaves and the lyrical stillness left behind brings her back to perennial dark Monday. Audition was again over for another week. She descended the stage steps into the house, making room for Next.