December 19, 2016

Antigone rising looked curiously liked a clouds in my coffee Sandra Milo

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 


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