May 22, 2013

Statler and Waldorf’s love child ate ground dictionary porridge...


pigeon ritualized

someone asked if I paid attention
someone asked me if I was crazy
someone asked if I knew what time it was


     I am at a conscious loss of words at the windshield conversation streaks on the glass fast talking myself home stoned I say tell me the stated intentions of knowledge the immaterialness of chemistry you’re a crazy mother fucker who lives by the light of the Moon what June doesn’t fall the flowers of May I say you are that guy on the street you pay attention to people’s parking awareness you want to know if they understand do they know there's an eighty year old man who still drives daily to see his work cronies and grab a paper and coffee, he says, he is a Dodgers fan, Brooklyn, he tells me, and even though they’ve played more games in LA, they’ll always be Brooklyn’s to him…

     so yes I pay attention though I get lost in humanity’s sand piper displays of time, their arcane pattern-ology, their methods, their mad tower creations, their denigrations, their fires, their destructions, their fallow groves waiting to be burned with what words may grow into as a leaf, bloom and seed response to some tangible stimuli caught hold on a windshield while drifting, dreaming slightly of walking slowly, without purpose

     evening is speeding through, warm front window down, I pull in, let my eyes adjust to the abrupt storm cloud driven dusk, I walk around plugged into the hazy crown of her waxing half, struggling to pierce the sky, thunder plums hang in the westward glance, wind out ahead…

     I heard you tell me saint yesterday never meant to speak, saint tomorrow is forever late and saint today is a mirror entity, all about the nose of a species, the scent driven trinity focal point middle divas, our mind body and soul partners, two hydrogen one oxygen, we peel time in days, dazed at how we raze our perspectives, again and again to fit to the calendars we created, outside the reach of stars…

     and even if the words refuse me, at the sonic temple ceremony, I stay the story, continuing in death row time, slowing the petty pacing of clocks, I am still the crazy mother fucker on the block who pays attention to everyone’s parking conscience, and given that cars are the beautiful scourge of urge upon us, when we drive the view, we don’t want to see anyone taking up two spots, putting things out of order, smearing the glass with our remains, telling time it has to last an eternity and not to let our humanity dry as a splat, use the wipers as soon as you can and pity the child without a daily newspaper around, their days may just be too wonderful to live by cleaning time while writing...

EJR ©

2 comments:

  1. Monumental poetic prose
    so prosaic as breath
    games we practice
    at life time on Earth
    right on time rules
    right or wrong cross...

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    Replies
    1. I almost never bother with red lights, I prefer the dark, with the window open...

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