July 16, 2015

anybody ever search for the music of their permanent vacation...?


'Male Timenaut'
an illustration by Paula Braconnot ©



anybody ever search for the music of their permanent vacation...? 
(hint, you most likely don't have to)
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THE PROLOGUE:

this music can bend your fingers, make them crooked to 
sound...it can play the taut skin drums of your here and 
now...make low mumble base notes and rhythms...become 
melodiously stealthy in the grass, waiting on every mother 
of Moses to come along...to put you in a basket with reeds 
and song...


no one was ever meant to see a soul inhabiting new 
life...just before the next fibrous rung nautilus strings of 
birth, death and repeat...this way we would be beyond any 
travesty of a life in an anguished pre-discovery of a sometimes 
loveless existence...
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THE STORY/POEM:

the brochures mentioned nothing about particular habits 
one might want to make themselves aware of...and in 
particular the keeping a soul's stone weight in its pockets 
when going for a swim seemed rather odd/ though I 
suppose one doesn't mind splinters from becoming aware 
of where wearing wooden shoes takes one to/ pollen  
frayed being left outside time and time again wants in/ 
you bring yourself inside to dry as well only to have you 
invading grain and split edges too for the sake of losing
the eyes inside the loosening of a clock's moorings...
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the concierge said it was customary to just 
wear thicker socks and double them up, grinning and 
bearing it, you would be led to believe there was an 
underlying meaning to most of the things, you could hold 
in your hands and heart in one lifetime...
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EPILOGUE:

and because this poem ends with either or 
neither you or I, liking or disliking the rough hewn 
displays, gesticulations and spawn-tide-wither forms given 
over to repeatable humanity in the cycles of rain...we 
become some sort of pitter-patter patterned-wittism...we 
spit the conversation bubbles and boil-steamed our glass 
houses, mimicking the gathered nostalgic come-ons and 
trinket peddlers...the neon signs know, a soul needs 
memories to glow its bones with, while traveling along on 
vacation between cells, 'selves and declaration...
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EJR ©

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