Who? What?

My birth year 1951:
I've seen a few futures in hindsight
but never saw them coming.

My line in time
tangled with others
without ever really touching

Crooked
Crimped
Coiled

Hardly textbook straight

A pile of pickup sticks?
not a plausible configuration.
Who is to say who I am?
Once reluctant to accept face value;
now more respectfully considerate
of things as they are.

I carry chapters.
Even one volume
too pretentious to surmise

Besides
the story never ends
with my short thread
of little lines entwined,
a packaged possession
like any other living thing
coated and scattered as dust
from the wizard's thrust,

Swirling in the heat of stars.

Space Crumb

Under the dim light
of twelve stars

hundreds
of thousands
of hectares
of crusty firmament
slowly baking
in arid desolation

A mysterious sphere
without invitations

dangling in the cosmos

awaiting
the zenith of eternity

in indifference
like a giant crumb

untasted
undervalued
overlooked
insignificant

wondering
whether it will be
anointed with raining souls
spewing in the distance
from shooting stars

Fallout from Hate

Tears drip from closed eyes that shelter the soul from the sight of tragedy,
a resistance to the ugly side of truth.

The blood stained rubble is the silent witness in the telling of the unbearable events that had unfolded in this fallout of hate.

Jesus is still weeping.

Words, Ideas, and Imagination

  Although words are commonly and repeatedly used to express ideas, I wonder which precedes the other. A radio program I heard over a year ago about this established residence in my mind and occasionally becomes loosened, stirring the enigma like sediment from the bottom of moving water or objects swirled into debris by the wind. I can't recall whether mention was made of the opening sentence in the Holy Bible, but its mystical profundity endures: "In the beginning there was the word and the word was God."  It's a fascinating proposition to say the least, and reaffirms my belief that words should be used as precisely and carefully as possible.

  If words activate ideas, then what about the imagination? Is imagination a gestation of ideas?  If so, my visualization imbues spores diffused in a medium or spermatozoa racing in their trajectory, a whisking not conducive to the formulation of words.  In this frame, are words even necessary?
 Perhaps asking a musician or following lines and brush strokes on a canvas can answer that.

Anton Chekhov

  In reading the opening chapters of Henri Toyat's biography of Anton Chekhov, I am impressed by the love and dedication he held for his family. Anton became the adult in the room, despite his father's religious fervor in administering harsh, disciplinary rituals entrenched in the framework of Russian Orthodoxy without Christianity's loving spirit. It was Antosha's refined sensibilities, reasoning, and living by example that emanated an instilled religion and morality that filled the void and won the admiration of his siblings and mother who would turn to him for problem-solving (mostly money matters). This led to his ascendance as leader of the Chekhov clan, eventually winning his father's approval late in Anton's life. This came about once the merits of his studious pursuit of becoming a medical doctor and his literary proliferation enabling the family to acquire an estate on the outskirts of Moscow. Anton walked the walk he talked, unlike Pavel, his father.

Spinning Still Yet

Soon losing the light of day
as the earth turns in this dark corner of time
after the bright promise of a beautiful one
had been written in the heavens just this morning

Spinning still yet toward illuminating another dawn
while other bodies in the speckled sky
will keep their secrets and not betray the direction of the movements
leaving us to gamble fairly about whether the immediate hours ahead
either tighten or loosen things

Waking with a scrambled egghead breakfast brain is unhelpful
in understanding the endless continuity that only imaginary lines
drawn        (or opened)
in  befores  and  afters

etch

hurdles over which we leap and crutches on which we cling.

Ever since my childhood awareness of mortality,

I perceived death as a stalker, shadowing me.

I would periodically look back over my shoulders

to ensure my feet were well ahead of it.

Cautionsly, I ran;

it was easier in my youth;

aging can alter the inertia,

skew the pursuit, distorting the gap.

　

Today, I stopped running

to let my thoughts catch a breath,

to pant over the end of this pavement,

the gravel beyond it,

the dirt road beyond that, and farther along

trail ruts and wilderness.

　

The omnous threat felt close on my heels,

almost feeling its hot breath on my neck.

Turning around to face the inevitable,

I was surprised at my impatience with its arrival,

drawing breath after breath,

anticipating the ravaging devour.

Eventually, its approach came into view,

a slow gait quickening in the distance

as if recognizing my stationary stealth,

its excitement proportional to my dread

standing on this self-determined finish line.

　

I closed my eyes and trembled,

fearing the face of its open-jawed countenance.

A sensationless pause opened my eyelids

to see my pursuer; it was the face of my life.

　

Then, I devoured myself.