After  evening
let  it  rain  or  not
But  the  rainy  season
wil­l  com,e  to
convince  your  
mind.




In  butterfly  days
who  ­ asked  the
  colourless  heron  days.



In those  colorlessness
let  do  not   be  there
a  fraction   of  sign
of  your   sorrowfulness
to  identify  not
to   required  unlimited
symptoms.

We are the fingers of fog
That grasp the hilltop and
Pull the fog eyes up to see
If the sleeping valley below
Needs a blanket.

We are the mist that clings to her stream
Long after other mists have
Retreated to safety.
The mist that forsakes herself,


We are the October late-day light
That deepens the blue
And livens the green
And crowns Crimson
Your fleeting, quick-fading queen.
To distract you from thoughts
Of the cold colorlessness to come.


We are the grainy gray shadows at dusk
That camouflage the vulnerable
And vex the predator
So that the small
May scurry homeward.


We are the soft illusion
Of a bright twinkling cloud glimpse
Of the shy Milky Way
That pulls down the astral children’s shade
And hides the rage of the stars,
Indulging snug earthbound mortals
To dream their snug earthbound dreams
Under the proctor of Venus and Mars.

We are the saving grace
Between you and reality,
The light hand
Upon your shoulder
That keeps you from
Going over the edge.

Imagine
every single person
here on earth
is black
please don't have
a heart attack

all the shirts are purple
shoes are blue
cars too
so they can't say
anything
about you

and all the houses
painted pink
if you don't want to end up
in the clink

imagine
all we've got
is muslim mosques
where we can pray
I wonder what
we would say

Sean Hunt
Feb 14th 2015

I know weariness.
I can see it at the edges of me, always
Waiting to seep back in like
Chloroform for the soul.
I’m young
And passionate
But I am not stupid.
I know it will return.
I know my days are numbered
And that when my time here is up
I will have to make the exhausting choice again
To go on
Purposelessly
To continue
In a gray, flat world
And blindly wait for something to spark interest in me once more.
It is not faith that keeps me alive in those times.
It is not love.
It is not a feeling, at all-
It is a dull, stolid persistence,
An instinct from an older time
That I am simply too tired to fight against.
I crawl forward,
Blank.
I am
A machine which has run this long
And continues on with no driver and no destination
And will
Until such time as the fuel runs out.
It is not a youthful thing to know
So intimately.
That gray quiet has touched me in places no lover ever will.
It has permeated my very flesh.
It lives in me like smoke,
Always,
And it will,
Always-
The knowledge that the one thing to which I will constantly return
Is that bland, cold, mechanical existence.
I tend myself
During those times
And I feel like a farmer who has planted
Stones in the ground
Foolishly watering and weeding,
But I
Do it anyway
A habit that won’t break.
I survive
And I am too weary even to search for a reason
And that, I suppose, is a blessing
Because I would not find one if I did.
I go on, always,
And in the mirror during those times
I see the blue-white blindness of the eyes of an old dog
Who has felt the steel tipped toes of too many boots
To care if one more swings at his ribs-
He is too tired to move from his spot on the porch
And would rather endure the pain than endure the
Fear.
I am like him, and I remain like him
Even when I am full of joy
(I am full of joy in that surprised, flinching way
In the way of something that has been around too long
Not to know that eventually
Something has to give.)
You call me young.
Everybody does, here.
And I suppose they should-
They have never seen that in me.
I hide it well, even when it swallows me
And anyhow they’ve only seen me in love,
The full and complete opposite.
They see my thankfulness
For a reprieve
And mistake it for energy,
Mistake it, even, for innocence
When really it is the stark, clear memory
Of months and years of colorlessness
Of waiting around for something inside to grow
When there are never any seeds nor any sunlight
Of deciding every day to go on,
Even when there is no reason.
It is far away now, that feeling
That awful cold emptiness.
It has rushed from me like the tide receding
And while it’s gone,
I’m not wasting a second
Not me.
I’ll look stupid,
I’ll look naive,
I’ll look reckless,
But I’ll swallow my pride
And open myself to every feeling that comes my way:

To be anything less than as passionate as I can would be the deepest blasphemy
When I have known hell
Not as torment but as blankness
And will
Again.

In between shear white and jet-black
with a strong dollop of indigo blue,
lies the pale uncertainty of grayness
the most God-awful hue.

Grayness frustrates the senses.
Grayness stipulates malaise.

A shroud of indecision
arrests the imagination;
chained in wisps of doubt.

The definition of things
routed in a solitary
palette of insincerity.

Grayness negates options.
Grayness obscures landscapes.

Objects disappear
into walls of foggy smiles,
whispering repetitive monotones
of monotonous monologues
in incomprehensible language.

The mind is muted in a pall of haze.
Endless colorlessness of the days.
Days upon days of arctic blight.
Midwinter's endless drama.

White dust
sprinkled on the brain,
layering coats
of a suffocating
ashen pallor.
Dimming the wit,
Quelling the spirit.

Thoughts of light are captured
then lost
in craggy crevasses
of a dull blackened cranium.

Light can't touch the eye
Plaque builds in a hearts ventricle
Warmth escapes the body
and evaporates through
the magic of convection.
A vision remains;
barely an apparition
of a distant
dissipating ghost.


Belgian Café
Hudson St.
NYC
1/29/99

Music Selection:  
Roslavets, Three Etudes

I touch death
everywhere. It is
pleasant sometimes. It is shooting
upright stone forever
up. It is
cold metal blue, wind moving rushes,
holding on to a snag as smooth as couch
chamois. It is
feeling wooden table bones, random spontaneous
tapestries, my skin, your skin,
my clothes wet with substance,
drawn through mass downwards, on to
you.
I would let them go through me, if I
could, like smoke, like
talk, I feel
(deaf, mute) the smoke inside from
the drug inside. It would be outlawed
if they could
reach inside,
visible words of hair-lit thinness
on what is sought, reflections appearing on
the beyond side of ordinary surfaces,
tasting like
salmon. I saw the glinting
salmon meaning in a poem, Jorie. It was
like when the sun came out with her,
predictably, and I thought to trust it,
perhaps this once, for hurt can’t last
without the good also
lasting. Maybe I
just wasn’t listening right, this potential
human being, this possibility, this normal
occurrence, mundane, talked and
scribbled dismissively as a dejected
thought of dejection about dejection about
what it is
all about. Write it down,
it’s a crossword, long as the climbing
steps around the earth, senseless as
black.
white.

There could be much in nothing, but it’s
everywhere outside, and there are just a few
stars, really. The billions are
few
in the outward sinking sky.

See, I touch death, colorlessness,
everything, sitting on
ledges, feet dangling, today as yesterday
as tomorrow, trying to stop this thinking
habit, trying to be a Buddha about it, but the
wind is
cold
this time, and there are too many of you.
Maybe next time something will appear here,
in soaking colors and ever
pulsing acceptance, understanding

blood, moving,
living, meaning

from beyond here, tomorrow or yesterday,
but I hope today, before I am touched
by it, and realize

nothing.

There was once a boy
A boy that resembled a toy.
A boy who wore oversized shoes,
Baggy pants and unusual spectacles.

A short stub,
That lazed clumsily around the room,
A boy whose appearance was hardly noticeable,
And presence engulfed.

The poor boy was constantly annoyed,
Teased and bothered.
Thrown around the room
Like the rag he seemed to be.

There seemed no escape,
From terrifying bullies,
That roamed around the school,
Waiting patiently to crush him.

The helpless boy waited,
For the Bully to take him,
Grab him by the shoulders,
And smother his dreams in pain.

One day, however, the boy waited.
He waited patiently
For the bullies to take command,
But they never did, they just walked past.

The lonely boy discovered,
That he pertained an unknown power,
One that left him nameless,
And devoid of appearance.

He knew he was not vitreous,
See-through or transparent.
But he could roam through a room,
Unnoticed, overlooked.

He could run through a clear field,
And go unperceived.
He was able to devour a thousand meals,
And never be blamed.

Such abilities brought wonderful joys,
And grand pleasures,
However such leisure brought
Terrible solitude in return.

The assurance of his safety warmed him,
Knowing he’d be free of harm.
But the gawky boy was lonely,
Devoid of company or charm.  

He roamed the halls alone,
He sat absently in his desk.
And slowly his loneliness
Began to consume him.

He was overcome
by the colorlessness of his pale skin,
The crookedness of his misshapen brow.
He slowly fainted, into a mirrored glass.  

The boy had become,
That he had always been;
Another shadow,
Another gust of wind.

His pale skin disintegrated.
The oversized shoes sank.
His spectacles shattered.
The smirk evanesced.

The boy became,
That which cannot be named.
A light breeze,
A faint whisper.

Made of finest wood
Reshaped - sharpened into perfect one

Holding this stick of wisdom
Its colorlessness speaks

Tracing the marks
Letter of death
Reconstructed uncountable times
Erased words of mime
This work must be blinded
For this pencil sharpened many times

Could I leave marks in permanent
Nor could I not leave
The world with truth unsaid?

Eccentricity Isn’t Craziness, It’s Daring

Eccentricity isn ‘t craziness, it’s daring
To the -enth degree:
A caring not what they decree,
Not caring what they think of me.
The unconventional disarming,
Often charming -
What is normal?
Living life like all the rest,
I guess accepting colorlessness.

Planets are eccentric
And the sun’s just doing fine.
It shines on planetary quirks,              
Sustains the quirk so that it works.  
So,
We too can be a sun;
No planet going round,
No moon, but one
Unusual, bright son-of-a gun                            
Who does his ‘thing’ because it is
The only thing that makes things run,
The only thing that makes life fun

The misfit may not be a genius,
May be middling or bizarre.
Having said that, I give honor
To the one who does his thing
Since he sees through
The illusion, the delusion, the chimère .            
Eccentricity Isn’t Craziness…9.3.2015 The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; revised/ 9.30.2018 Arlene Nover Corwin