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| photo by Edward Rinaldi © |
we
all wade the trinity/witch, old man time and fire…
in
the temperate forest zones when winter begins to come, they start to give us
holidays to celebrate, one after the other, we end up three months drunk with many opportunities to forget sometimes why we give thanks and are mindful of
generosity and enduring our own dreams with or without acknowledging the
helpful nudges along the way…
“…one Yule I remember the tin soldiers and
nutcracker Cossacks were funnily arranged above the stockings on the mantle, I
mean bow-tied gift wrapped boxes I remember leaving under the pine/ the jarred
amanitas and sweet ribbons of candy and various oranges I recall scattering
about/ nestling them in the boughs with cut out paper stars, written wishes but
I do not remember pushing the candlesticks aside and putting the effort into
this meticulous diorama-ed meaning of some kind, I mean no, I am quite sure that
I didn’t do it…this is one of the reasons I still believe in magic and
hallucinogens…sometimes having no answer, is a gift…”
peeled
open, thick curtain me, I was cloth looped burlap almost, on an iron rod, I
looked out my very old, cracked and taped window I’ve neglected to fix for
awhile now/ my writing desk is near the vent where it quiets its clanky roars
and I can hear the lurching, hackneyed cries of an outside the words that I
write…
I
surmise, as do you, the reader and listener, that I see, we are mostly selfie
puppeteers, rackets behind glowing electric tether binkie nipple cathode ray
nurturing/ we greet change too often with fear based revelry and a numbing
hypnosis of long termed bacchanalia/ and as most automotive culture worlds do/
we want our basic things easily stolen with ignorance without care, good, bad or atheist/
we will compete inside ourselves against anyone in everything from calf roping to the idolatry of material
stain/ fight until red or blue, coming or going, clandestine to worldwide
celebration, we’re Einstein’s speed-time curvatures of what is and isn’t in a
cruel jag-cold raw, wind and rain, first Saturday night turning Sunday novena November…
we
pay no heed, bleeding our creeds, to the growing number of death angels/ we
pillage too, over pore and pod seed vine residues/with haunts of sugar we
listen for those with a tenuous grip/ we seek to find where we once had fingerprints all over moments like these/ when we still wanted to be trees
eating stars as well…
we
never notice soon enough the now hungry sky of Winter approaching us in
trough-starved desperation/ desolation and dark wombs slow life, suspend it,
breath cellular fertile embraces…
we
race, in and out of glass, stone, metal and wood, huddling around oil and gas shelter hearth
ovens we leave on, heavily clung with ancient savory and familiar smells/ there
are no insects outside anymore/ nor any held little mists that rise nor even the sticky
warm dew made when July left night too short to ride/ no, the frost and snow
now start to come and go, though not as often as water did when it rained…
