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some_thoughts_recorded_in_the_water_underneath_a_b
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coolsoundingme
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This world has changed.
It’s become different to me.
The same world, true, in physicality, but
a new description.
A new abstract.
A new summary.
I’ve learned to read the simulacra map
and keep a conscious eye on the movements of people.
The colors of flowers.
Their hue is no longer simply purple.
Or red.
Or yellow.
The sunrise tulip opens at dust and reveals
a menagerie of flavors. I can taste the orange peel center.
I can hear its red church bells.
Sugar stigmata.
It’s like being on acid,
but aware of it.
No longer does the lens of my camera capture an image.
It shows the act and gesture.
The film plays a song hummed.
This black and white playground in a full spectrum of color.
Living,
but vivid.
Pictures are not beautiful because of how they’re taken
anymore.
It’s what the picture is of that inspires me.
Conflict arises in my mind when I think of what I saw
before my pupils perceived such ingress.
I feel as an imposter -
a plebian in the world of kings
trying hard not to be found out.
The girls glance past, never knowing what I’m seeing.
Assigning words and sounds to each movement.
Each article of clothing.
Her moonlight silver cover and charcoal yarn tango together.
They lambada.
And her back-against-the-wall slippers,
her Cinderella-with-a-credit-card glass.
Her last chance for happiness with an APR bumper sticker.
A wave rolls through her body. Each
cell twisting and flexing,
It begins to rise in her toes
moving cautiously, but
vigorously
through calves.
Re-energized at the knees with a bend and thrust
“Forward we must march!”
Climbing Iwo Jima hips with fury and prowess.
I can see the beginning of the peak somewhere
deep
within the salt flats
until finally…
Yes!
A crest!
The breakers show. Whitewater revealed
at her tectonic collision.
Crashing, a lion’s roar. A freight train de-railed. The storm surge. Bikini Atoll. Hiroshima.
I grab a hold as the tube turns back on itself and ride to
soft sands ahead.
Lips Eyes Lashes Brows
until pushing up the beach.
That last chance for glory!
Her yarn spreads; a wild match. No rules, just a firecracker spread in the sky.
Gravity kicks in as if it forgot it was there and
the advance slows. Crawls. The evolution of man.
Small to big to small again.
I cling to the edge of some yarn and whip
full arc around until I’m back at her toes.
I can see the bubbles forming.
Just barely popping at the surface.
Here we go!
I’m not serving truth by the ladle
or revolting against “the man.”
I’m not here to open her eyes.
My wish, my fantasy;
to be the vessel to her next dawn.
Less the boatman than the boat across Styx
(not the 80s band, though).
My one gift to give.
The next batch of vision.
The new bubbles.
The Devil’s advocate that forced upon us Renaissance.
To ferry souls across the river
and never leave it myself.
Limbo,
but
with a purpose.
This…
This truly is a good life
and I am thankful for it.
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070705
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... |
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coolsoundingme
|
This world has changed.
It’s become different to me.
The same world, true, in physicality, but
a new description.
A new abstract.
A new summary.
I’ve learned to read the simulacra map
and keep a conscious eye on the movements of people.
The colors of flowers.
Their hue is no longer simply purple.
Or red.
Or yellow.
The sunrise tulip opens at dust and reveals
a menagerie of flavors. I can taste the orange peel center.
I can hear its red church bells.
Sugar stigmata.
It’s like being on acid,
but aware of it.
No longer does the lens of my camera capture an image.
It shows the act and gesture.
The film plays a song hummed.
This black and white playground in a full spectrum of color.
Living,
but vivid.
Pictures are not beautiful because of how they’re taken
anymore.
It’s what the picture is of that inspires me.
Conflict arises in my mind when I think of what I saw
before my pupils perceived such ingress.
I feel as an imposter -
a plebian in the world of kings
trying hard not to be found out.
The girls glance past, never knowing what I’m seeing.
Assigning words and sounds to each movement.
Each article of clothing.
Her moonlight silver cover and charcoal yarn tango together.
They lambada.
And her back-against-the-wall slippers,
her Cinderella-with-a-credit-card glass.
Her last chance for happiness with an APR bumper sticker.
A wave rolls through her body. Each
cell twisting and flexing,
It begins to rise in her toes
moving cautiously, but
vigorously
through calves.
Re-energized at the knees with a bend and thrust
“Forward we must march!”
Climbing Iwo Jima hips with fury and prowess.
I can see the beginning of the peak somewhere
deep
within the salt flats
until finally…
Yes!
A crest!
The breakers show. Whitewater revealed
at her tectonic collision.
Crashing, a lion’s roar. A freight train de-railed. The storm surge. Bikini Atoll. Hiroshima.
I grab a hold as the tube turns back on itself and ride to
soft sands ahead.
Lips Eyes Lashes Brows
until pushing up the beach.
That last chance for glory!
Her yarn spreads; a wild match. No rules, just a firecracker spread in the sky.
Gravity kicks in as if it forgot it was there and
the advance slows. Crawls. The evolution of man.
Small to big to small again.
I cling to the edge of some yarn and whip
full arc around until I’m back at her toes.
I can see the bubbles forming.
Just barely popping at the surface.
Here we go!
I’m not serving truth by the ladle
or revolting against “the man.”
I’m not here to open her eyes.
My wish, my fantasy;
to be the vessel to her next dawn.
Less the boatman than the boat across Styx
(not the 80s band, though).
My one gift to give.
The next batch of vision.
The new bubbles.
The Devil’s advocate that forced upon us Renaissance.
To ferry souls across the river
and never leave it myself.
Limbo,
but
with a purpose.
This…
This truly is a good life
and I am thankful for it.
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070705
|
