I write, I read, I watch
I hear, I see, I say…
“This twang of red
and a coda so blue.”

The sad song of
mystery and delight,
The rain trickles;
The strings hum as
the bell chimes
The crescendo, the tenor

Now the strings deepen
more illusion and enigma
all sewn into a song,
no, not a song, a
Composition.

The hallowed teak instrument
walks the artist thru a gateway
of eerie astonishment to
sound not written, and words
not heard, but words spoken
with sound.



And we fall… into paradox.



the aquarium.

Cigarettes before ashes
Flame before smoke
Monkey before man

But…

What…

If –

The ashes made the smoke flame on the mans cigarette, smoked by a monkey?
A world downside up
Less-sense
And                 sense-non

That was incomprehensible & reprehensible!

It was defiable & insatiable!



“Nonsensical!” I scream.

My mind wanders to the black sack that is a white square of wet and dry ink.



“I think this is lesdyxia.” –



GO AWAY red squiggles! I know of what I write; it’s in my site, remember?
We had this talk on a walk, or was it that walk on a talk?
I forget, FORget, forGET!

“What will I write?”
I blame this ink spilling sword of truth, but it would break in a stone.

I crossed the sea of stopped cars,
as I stepped onto the street,
I saw you
a ghost – The ghost of the past,
a past like any other, teeming with moments
of silence, and regretful comments.

You smiled, it was your happy smile,
– Like your Cheshire cat smile.
and that smile I hadn’t seen in a while.
you held open the door, for me or for you,
but I kept walking, the path interrupted and
our serendipity foiled by the devil’s siren
again.

“She thought up I should be with you…
but it’s time to face the truth…
I will never…
be…
with you.” Sang the song playing in my ears.

So I looked back, a lonely street, a sad past,
and you…
were gone.

I have a confession: I miss you and I have since that day,
that you went to Saturn and orbited away,
and I haven’t seen you since that day,
until today,
and I couldn’t say,
a **** word.

But there you were, smiling, holding a door open,
where you really there?
or
was everything in vain
that day on 4th & Main?

This old man
rolled his thumb
in the door
of a beehive
while diddling
his knick
knack
into this shoe as
he sat at heaven’s
gate
knocking with the
spine of a
dying dog
chewing on
a bad bag of
bones.

Mister Kerouac,
that’s all I can fathom as I sit
at my desk weaving my hacky
sack between my fingers.

This old hacky sack has seen
much, it’s a handmade ball of
beans, the leather is worn, the
stitches are torn the logo is faded,
but I never waited to fade it
off my shoeless foot.

It’s like you,
simple
yet
Profound,
is the right word
for what goes on
in your head, in
your hacky sack.

But as I sit here, thinking…
I only know you as a photo
a dismal,
content,
forceful,
thoughtful,
imaginative,
smoking,
cool­
black and white
photo.

Yet your ideas resonate throughout my head…
I think of a flower nodding to a canyon,
I think of a man sitting in a black and white
chair, in a black and white room, wearing a
black and white shirt, smoking a black and white
cigarette, drinking a black and white glass of
scotch, writing with black ink on white paper.

The thoughts and pondering wandering to
the black and white respective pen and paper,
or the click & clack of your black and white
fingers depressing on your black and white
typewriter.

So I can only come to one conclusion,
you’re not just a black and white photo,
doing black and white things
in a black and white world,
you’re an idea. And although
the image is black and white
you’re the color, sparsely
pouring over the world with
the colored ink spatter
from the place in your
hacky sack.