I agreed to read, thinking
September signals change.
And I imagined seeing it change.
September now, hints of winter,
and of fire season if those latter rains tarry.
Last year they got here during Burning Man,
we saw the wannabes all flee the mud, on TV,
we saw the children of our youth,
roll in it with laughing abandon,
real life,
this year, the rain is just as likely,
so we pay attention to the whole idea,
seasons, on the cosmic scale, now after
the fullness of times is on us, nine billion
others in the etherical medium tying us up,
using us as staves binding broken bones,
fundamental bottom thought, structured
stories said to have inspired our dormers,
and our seven gables,
and our back doors,
and our cellars,
each we must wonder at once, ¿?
are we involved in production, or consumption,
supply side or inside out hungry ghostly chances,
bemusing the beguiled with smile lacking cause,
acausal confrontation with frowning judgmental
adverse reactions to sublime subtlety suggesting,
take and eat, in truth, imagine yourself seeing,
first time, the true beauty of the elephant
reaching past low hung fruits to take
a taste from the high branches.
Shining thing from Eber's legendary written
rules, all translating into knowing how we live
and have our being in times you must imagine
looking back, magi, always were apparent
in the mix of biographies preserved to lead us
let us, all with the will to learn, learn if
we think
we may imagine, using mere words, and tech
so new that you may not reckon how far we are
from yesterday.
when I agreed to read,
because I never read
The Brothers Karamazov,
so I agreed to read, and
I read it, upto the bitten finger,
if you know the story, and a little more,
another chapter or two, awaiting the death
of the elderly sage of Ruskie Orthodoxy,
whose name is fictional, of course,
but he knew he could walk into the woods,
and live free using known grown means
to quell the thirst from mushrooms,
with buckthorn berry wine,
imaginable
in the Cuyamaca boulders and pines.
Here, with me, a display of color harmony,
the ribbonwoods bloom a creamy burst,
and as suddenly, begin to rust, autumnal colors.
Not New England bright, more subtil by far,
desert shades, surrounded in evergreens,
manzanitas and hemlocks and pines and black oaks.
Time, at the level of cosmic clocks, as a thought
passes faster as we expand into our ever after
thought, as we compress to spring after winter,
feeling years as days, morning childhood,
noon survival, evening to cool starry night
of knowing which lies were used to turn me,
on, or around about
which truth alerted me to nonconformity,
be the new thing, the new old form mankind,
be the representative of we, the people in time,
who played the fools who glorify war, for a season,
while we are lacking learning, having never known,
why we never put our minds to final form, grown
courses taken eroding finished soils to feed seas,
paths past nonsense, past purpose proposed
to be supposed by all who follow, thinking
should we agree, geistlich at this distance,
using English with poetic twists allowed by license,
vide licet, showing all with eyes allowed to notice,
viz.
I am native to this planet, I am part of what is changed,
I am a peasant child from the times of industrial efforting,
establishing the profit motive any tree imagines,
blooming, superfluous fruit for any with appetite,
what is right in life is not pain, but persistant will
to wait on next, imagining ever
experienced on earth,
as it must be where prayers are all answered, yes,
most certainly, on earth as in ever, fires included,
functional consumption and transition into next
now,
as you think I imagined magi, and found I did, imagine
that.
When one reader activates the pen, one writer imagines making my day.
