Thursday, November 16, 2006

Hello Whoever-you-are!

God bless your heart! I see you've been following my handiwork very well, and it feels good to know that someone is interested enough in the hard work I put into my blog and my music site (www.zebox.com/treevortex) to log onto both many times and loiter around for so long. I feel appreciated. Feel free to leave a comment, I don't bite! I will even respond in kind. Yes, I'm talking to you, inktomisearch person! You there, in Sunnyvale, California. This blog's for you!

And to my other loyal readers in the Toronto area: don't feel left out! I will dedicate one to you soon...

Here's a poem

The newspapers are all adrip with transparent ink
ghost words, remedy for the bored mind to rail against
bottled up, the pressure of a jobless space in the day planner
looks like a neck when you draw it on paper, cross-hatched
eggs rolling down the nape of breakfast, ruminating,
like a car idling, time waiting in line, what happens when we blink?

Everywhere people say with their eyes watch out or don't blink
you might miss something, a get-rich quick ticket with fresh ink
security guards, on the graveyard shift, in front of screens ruminating
stone still with drooping eyelids, a vagrant outside pitched against
the marbled edifice, steel enveloped glass, people hatched
direct into the hurry, a restless current, the vision of a city planner.

In a park, tuxedoed men rock on heels, relief sighs escape a wedding planner
rings pop out of boxes, held aloft for a crowd to see, minerals blink
and flash in sunlight, hands shake, arms clasp across backs, hatched
from stone-age burials, plant pigments, the smell of octopus ink.
Jet through the streams, downloadable desires set against
burgundy blades, trundled over flesh, eyes in the mirror ruminating.

Instinct still polished and stainless steel smooth, feet ruminating
the get up and go that got up and went, rending the event planner,
tragedies personal but outed, in the end sung, but to swim against
the tide, you need a diet of basso profundo, no ovation, just a blink
stage fright, flights from predators, camouflage covers the ink
on a newspapers' fine print that never made it to print, hatched

like a virus from its entanglement with the strands that hatched
its fight against the life that gave it life, walls are ruminating,
wailing with sewn together lips, criss-crossed with tattoo ink
hands tied with umbilical cords, no one is a birth planner
down to final details, with details so final, no cries are heard, no blink
is seen, face pressed against glass, against the bed, just against.

It all pushes back, doesn't it? If it was as simple as for or against.
An ostrich sticks its neck out, no sand in sight, even though it just hatched.
If I could learn from these words, it might make quiet sense when I blink.
Head perched on an end of the world railing, thoughts themselves ruminating,
my mind has a mind of its own, its ownership is a planner.
Can we make the needed leap, no faith involved, from pixel to ink?

So when you ask what I'm doing next Tuesday, I'll say ruminating.
If payday comes my way, I'll become a vacation planner.
Eyes closed while walking, I forgot to look in your face and blink.
Storm tossed branches, settled
tabletop splintered and angled,
the home seems less a home than an
eviscerated body.

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