"The world as it stands
is no narrow illusion,
no phantasm,
no evil dream of the night;
we wake up to it,
forever and ever;
and we can neither forget it
nor deny it
nor dispense with it.”

Henry James

~~~

crumpled tissues soggy slog
brew of up-all-night tears
daylight brings no belief,

sunlight offers but illusory relief

we dream awake,
awoken, we yet dream

some one...any one
come to me
be number one
on my to do list
be my next breath

and

whisper with heated words:

the world as it stands is
never standing,
revolver shot turning unceasing.
permission granted for water borne drops of
fated phantasy,
shower shaken

to

never forget never deny
fresh in every turning,
write sourced furnacing
that though the
weary
worn worries of
forever and ever
have a terminal final,
and though the Phoenix consumed,
it's whited ashes give rebirths hope
our narrow illusions
will yet be transformed
into broad avenues of better directions,
there will be
restitution
there will be
Union

for the lesson is cotton plain:

that the world as it stands,
stands not!

on its axis,
turn, turn, turn,
each revolution,
an explosion,
an opportunity
for restitution!

a revolution
if only we never dispense
with the belief
to believe

passerby words plain hidden
in a wall sconce of a
fly-bye compliment,
sent to the thankee intended,
creating an instantaneous,
Slam! Bam! Thank You Man!

yeah come , face slap me,
with open palm instant recognition,
there's a poem lurking therein, within,
that uncommonly good common observation,
like hearing a drill bit roar,
demanding with insistent persistent demandation,
"come out, come our, wherever you are"

the good lord makes 'em in
all kinds of shapes and flavors
then makes sense, most eminent,
to favor the good kind,
who go on marching in our number,,.

no claim here to good,
certainly not, sainthood,
that would be quite the hoot,
so settle, man, do settle
in and for the right kinda,
nothing could be finer,
than to be
in the company
of
my kin and kindred,
the kindest,
y'all

God bless all...

When you've lived between the shadows
Only awakening the true self
When the sky casts a dark net
Shielding any visibility
When you've not switched a light
On to the colour of your soul
Terrified of knowing
The vicissitudes of the seasons
Within your own heart
It takes a mighty girl to rise
To look herself in the eye
No longer whispering those lies
To face her own truth*

© Sia Jane

artist working by candle light,
neon lights, coffee shop lights...

~~~

to, for & from SJR
~

this force,  
burnt soul kindling,
rampant urges that bow a man's
spine

write write rite right

consumption of the soul
straighten up, flex,
flex to the curvature of the Earths
invitation to

write write rite right

cast my eyes to the mountains,
from whence will come my help?

street prowler, heart growler,
Art Deco lampposts,
the mountain range of east seventy second street,
begs the baggers question,
each a post
begging each other,
from whence will come my inspiration?

lick the stubbled sidewalks,
fall down living in their caverned cracks,
light needed needy soft heated
orange and green pizza neons
say here,
if you see upon what be,
your homelands colors of veracity

from
candle light,
neon lights,
coffee shop lights.

all queries so queer,
so cheerfully answered
in the ***** air,
in warped woof of
city write lights

he goes home
in the dark of a green moon,
and its delighting inviting
moonlight,
he composes
what is his eyes have
decomposed into a single memory,

and is satisfied
unto sleep

praising the eyes,
light lidded, but eager closing,
that
had wisdom given
to observe
light various by which to

write write rite right




4/16/16
10:30am
nyc