Airborne Muse #2: Once I wrote: (1)

if it cannot be said
in ten words, it cannot

(but now, older wiser, more intuitive)

I believe five is plentiful

11/26/24
12:27pm

through grayed streaks of white wet cumulus,
over unpretty rooftops of a metropolis,
study my windowed
winnowed airplane reflection,
imposed ‘pon a worldly-wowed perspective,

set task
before me to:
define
delist
analyze
in the very simplest terms:
the best of me,

~<>~

‘tis the littlest things,
the kindnesses,
the slight grazed touch of hand and lips,  
the recognition of thanks
genuinely tendered,
well received,
in the ilk of all these alike
minutatie

in all these, and
the summation thereof,
these gestures,
their accumulation
so mini-sized,
so great-empowering,
that they go nearly
unnoticed,
but I notice

and it makes feel holy,
nearest to my tiny embers
of godliness that within my
container,  my spark,
and nearer to thee,
and thine,
and our mutual
sparkling


nov 26 2024
@ 30,000 feet
AA #2039

The fence posts stand, bleached and brittle,
a tidy graveyard for dreams not their own.
Each board a promise of security,
painted white by hands that never bled,
guarding a silence that screams privilege.

A lawn mowed to uniformity,
as if clipping blades could trim truth.
Beneath, the roots tangle in soil tilled
by those unseen in the storybooks,
their spines curved by centuries of labor
to raise a house that barely held them.

Inside, the air is stale with whispers
of manifest destinies and invisible hands.
Windows frame a world distorted,
a lens of 'normal' that filters out color,
washing the streets in sepia nostalgia.
The picket fence becomes a cage
for those who see the bars.

But who built this town?
Not the architects of ignorance
who claimed the blueprint as birthright.
No, it was those in shadow,
their brilliance stolen to light the chandeliers
of men who never thanked them.
It was the voices erased
to make way for the monotonous hum
of a narrative too pale to reflect reality.

Progress wears brown hands,
scarred from the heat of engines
that drove the country forward.
It sings in languages
that don’t fit neatly into syllabaries,
its rhythm syncopated, refusing the march
of conformity.
Progress carves its name
into the very foundations of a nation
too proud to look down.

And now, the town crumbles,
its picket fences splintered
by the weight of unacknowledged history.
The 'white normality' that painted
its walls in monochrome
is revealed as smoke—
a ghost-town haunted by the very people
who gave it life,
only to be exorcised.

Yet those ghosts do not wail.
They speak, steady and firm,
their presence undeniable.
They are the architects now,
designing futures that will not crumble,
drawing plans that see the beauty
in every hue.

And the white-picket fences
are repurposed for something new,
their shards forged into tools
to till a soil fertile with truth,
where a garden of multitudes can finally bloom.

~ encore un autre, inspiré par Sally B.~

another poem excised from an
interdepartmental message from
The Dept  of Poets, (Global), a
ridiculous thot mine, deserving of
removal, remorse and regret,
(modern human’s woke 3 r’s)
nonetheless deserved of exegesis,
mainly because I think so…

Surficially, I comprehend that of the bones,
of the billions of those who have gone to
their where~ever, if could speak. we would
require a huge commitment to building out
our cell phone networks, the best comm
tool, for portability between differing
dimensions, times and spaces

let us cut to the chase (thank god),
my bones shall be without a doubt
return to a granular dust, my minerals
contributing to some future breakfast
cereal, thus assuring my recirculated
inspiration for generations to come(?),
acknowledging that my “gifts” are
the product of apriori Jews who wandered
this planet, forever rootless and semi-
displaced by their haters for reasons
that have nothing to do with reason

By way of my gratitude that you have read
so far, hopefully to continue, let me assure
you that this P.  will not trend, nor spit or spot
or high lighted, as it’s worth is as fleeting as my bones, when one dwells on the size of space expanding and the time & space
continuum

that disclaimer claimed, we breathe easier,
and I happier, and now at last to the meat
of the matter:

My poems will wither, and eventually their
ions will be erased when the internet servers
undergo the many purges that yet will come
(better this than purging people)

yes, my ego’s cells, which one of you will
no doubt will imbibe and perhaps????
imbue, may actually reappear in a newness,
in a refreshing refreshment, that some Believers will think is absolutely brand new
(which it won’t be), for the new treads are on
the old treads, only now, dug a little deeper,

and I, in my ionosphere, inside my cells
yet within you, will muse amusedly,
“there is nothing new under the sun” (1)

but the sun will be shining and that is
good enough for all of us

Nov. 23
9:04 am
nyC

a thing claws at the walls of my abdomen
it roars for release
if i were stronger, i would dig my fingers
into my flesh
pull it apart, and
let the thing out

the thing is innocent. the thing is guilt
i guard my innocence. i am guilty

with this thing twisting my stomach, i feel nauseous
is the thing nauseous, or merely nauseating?
is the thing nauseous because of its own thing?
is the thing within clawing, too?

the thing within is truth. the thing within is afraid.
the thing is true. the thing is fear.
and i am the silent liar who seals all these innumerable things away.

i claw at the walls of my facade
i roar for release
am i the thing?

my teeth taste of the acid of remorse
if i’ve resolved to live a lie, why must these things claw inside me anyway?
did i resolve to live a lie?
or am i the thing?
if the things stop clawing, who am i?
if i am the thing, why am i trapped?

i am innocence. i am guilt
i am innocent. i am guilty.
i am truth. i am fear.
i am true. i am afraid.
and i am the silent liar who seals the innumerable ‘me’ away.