Sunday, July 10, 2011


Just a tilting of the already gives
way to color never seen before.
What if there is more choice beyond our
spectrum, dog colors of barking, sniffing?
Out there in the dropping moonlight the
white is hiding like a rabbit in the night sun.
That, embedded in the day is something
barely visible, only found in the misfires,
out there where the bright gaps lie,
just beyond our shutter speed.
Madness is such a color and the
moment just past death, another.
Where everything is one vast color,
full of sound, intent, gathering.


Long ago we handled things differently. When our grandparents grew old and light
we cared them on our backs as they whispered their stories in our right ears.
After they died we shined their skulls and made a perch of our right shoulders.
Eventually they became impossible to handle what with the heads of
heads of heads in tow. So we stacked them and lashed them together
in fields of waving green grass. Now I know what you're thinking, and no, they
did not become our totem poles. Over the long haul the heads slowly broke down
entering each other , forming a lingham, a tor. This protrusion, an aberration
on the landscape, housed the upward thrust of the ancestors. Only a few cultures
still create the form and carry its deeper meaning. Coats of arms, shields, ledgers,
stories recorded or spoken, all were carried along mouth to mouth, hand to hand.
But it is the aroused stone that still represents the full power of accumulation, knowledge.

There still remains one mystery, vaguer, hidden, but seemingly ordinary.
What of the voice that appears at the door so early in childhood and then
carries on until our death? No one hears this voice except the sole listener.
Haunting at times, guiding, pestering, and then matter of fact. A voice that
could be whispering in your right ear, right there, just over your shoulder.