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| Sandra Milo and Marcello Mastroianni as Carla and Guido in Fellini's 8 1/2 |
dreams never die
only dreamers do
this, the knowledge gained
taking the road
empathy seeks
to take you on
any way it can ...
sirens and debris what do you see
what do you feel when timelessness
is passing fingers through you
are you garden or magnesium on fire in the sky
from a mortar firework when New Year's
are you gloaming crows or ghost curtain almost
are you near awake and aware wearing
the glow of what used to be and will be and is
eons and eons piled mosaic haphazardly
connective tissue turtles all the way
infinity like the soul is immortal
yet when human seems caught
polar betweens extremes exit strategy and ecstasy ...
hello world I am velvet stealth vibratto
seeking wise bearded irises and accompanying clam shell theater
and I am spawn pleading a background leading role
over lighting and staged directions wastelands
modernity has edged me reckless towards
the likes of Hypatia again ...
the future is
hallways filled
with shadow dignity
and songs that seem like they ask repeatedly :
was it me I see nose crawling for beauty and gold
in the underbellies and tows
for more toeholds
to the animal part of me
we are also living in a time
where more often than not, " No fucking way",
exclamations of disbelief are becoming
an unanswerable cry for understanding ...
I guess this is where faith and belief
in one's self comes into play ...
the hive mind has been corrupted
into a senseless mob ... so we let go
and better ourselves,
hope we carry in our DNA, that
we may someday
innately rise above the hubris
and fear filled latches
sold as comfort and
disdain for the harmony of life
much the reason I reach
for intoxication and old movies ...
so I fell asleep upon watching 8 1/2 ...
dreamed of giant insects
composed of throw away appliances ...
twisted cords like tails and broken wings,
dangling off of them ...
they mastered language and expression ...
gangs of toaster ticks were bent
on making sure the entirety of humanity
saw at least their own face as Jesus
in the burnt bread they left in their wake
like bird droppings scattered splattered everywhere ...
there was this curious music playing
much like every scene in Fellini's ode to film making ...
all to make sure the principles
got their rhythm right and on cue ...
the lens captured happenstantial poems
a body will make when
dancing subconsciously
while under a direction
and filmed from outside the self ...
life is either what we are witnessing everyday
when we beg with the poems
or beauty tilling us stealing us storing us
somewhere protagonist plot ploy device
rumpled clothes
silhouetted cities
of black and white
style and substance
we had wished we lived in once ago
the foot of a big comfortable bed
part of a chorus someone like
You might be conducting
with the electricity the eyes are born with ...
reality? well ... that's just me
by the sea
ember ended stick
stuck in my eye
saying look at all
the pretty colors
inside my mind
waiting for the credits to roll
EJR ©
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