life

Projections 

Single file, like in the native's way
to hide numbers and mourn in a slow peace.

The leftover and forward
once again make sign to a favorite son.

They pause and worship a clay idol,
as much contrite as devoted.

Forgive me friend their eyes say,
"I was not there".

Or, forget me friend,
"There was more than I could handle".

The idol responds to the
deep wishes of their heart,

projecting back upon the somber
all that they desire.

They will carry now a piece,
each a piece of the pain

and nurture a wound in proportion
to what their projection's demand.

Flirty bird

I fought this poem the entire way and, as usual, the poem won:

The chirp of the flirty bird curls lightly on the flesh--
and they who hear 
absorb the vibrant end
of the birdy's sonic thread.
Apart from the howl
and hoot,
in a parcel of ample space,
the sweet bird embraces
a rhythmic tufted bop
and binds the living race.

Weight of the prolonged 

Under the weight
of the prolonged
rests the peaceful
disintegration
of a name.

			What is your hope?

It is feeling,
oozing past reality
to where experience
suffers spasmodic fits.

It is the long 
and sullen
attaining 
critical mass.

(The belief that)
with a push from
the other side,
the anguish disperses
and comes relief.

Maybe this is 
where you find
it.
In the remembering.
In the soothing.

To mean,
to suffer --
sister soldiers
of internal discourse.
To verily believe
the unbelievable.

Vibrant stunning attachment(s) 

The quick twitch of the double take
imbeds a moment 
and the solidity of stunning attachment 
causes
eyes to place themselves at the world's
disposal, 
happy to dispense with responsibility.

Take 'em wherever
to places grand and small.
To faces,
legs, hips
and frames
short and tall.

Let loud voices find their homes (but
far from me though).

And let the cities and towns rebound
from so much emotion,
	concussed from so much commotion,
	that they reset the great play.
Starting again in the hopes of a vibrant,
stunning attachment.

The songs, the songs. 

Humans singing odes of joy,
taking ownership of this life.

Where are these persons?
And, where, this life?
The great minds hoping for the great feats.
Not knowing, perhaps, that hoping is willing,
willing but not ascertaining;
bending into shape to conform with desire.

The songs, the songs!  The songs we sing to ourselves.
The great echoes of desire.
Cease these songs for but a spell,
and hear the sounds of life lived.

Stand up and be counted 

Take a look at the world around you
and start to add up the absurdities.
Before long you might find yourself
like the Indian King, the victim of 
an inescapable exponential progression.

Absurdities are not all.  There are 
people and places and individual 
circumstances that combine to form a
hefty dinner dressing.  The feast of
large numbers of which every person
is a part in some manner or other. 

Dissect and diagram your life according
to the irrevocable power of these
numbers and see them as the harbinger 
of the only permanence you will ever
know.  You are a part of them now,
the glowing figs of the existence tree,
and part of them you shall remain.

Beyond birth and life and the countless
tears and breaths, mistakes, 
misunderstandings and triumphs, hearts
captured and minds repelled.  None that
mean nothing, save for the permanence
that comes with being among the 
counted; that results from being among
the being.

Somehow this being is the being of "why,"
so often puzzling and scorned.  The being
of how, where, when, who and what. 

As to why? Because counted you were.  
And how? In the manner of the moment.  
Where? With those counted alike.
When? In your time.
Who? You -- among the rest.

What?  Counted is all.