Poems of October 28
some days
i don't even remember how to lie-- to spin a credible tale keeping the gaze steady the mouth straight the story elaborate the tone conversational the attitude trustworthy, detailed yet plausible the pulse muted twitches and tics in control. it has been so long i don't remember the exhilarating rush of creating a new reality to stand on my authority of knowing right from wrong truth from fiction and ignoring the distinction.
mapping the brain
::::::::the legend:::::::: bs: the billions of synapses mob: the medulla oblongata id: the id rbr: the reptilian brain ht: the hypothalamus scar: the place where I banged my head into amnesia when I was ten bump: of interest only to phrenologists ti: the terra incognita slf: the real me sml: the public me drm: the me I would like to be
Stephanie
I watch the ant walk nonchalantly along the front edge of the window sill a feat of derring-do a show-off moment demonstrating its prowess its defiance of gravity its acceptance of danger. It is a small ant so tiny I can't make out its three body segments or its legs, even if I squint. I guess the ant must have a name, something in Latin, long and unpronounceable, unimportant, and likely a more prosaic, familiar name around the hill, like Stephanie, who has now decided to end the acrobatic spectacle and climbed onto the horizontal part of the sill, maintaining the same steady pace and direction as before. I wonder what Steph thinks as she walks steadily toward her destination, if she is aware of her surroundings, of herself, her purpose, her destiny, if she is aware she's being watched, aware of the great distance she has travelled (relative to her size), of the marvelous things she can do. I could play God, reach out and end her life, but that seems so cruel. Stephanie makes me wonder about mu own life, how much I have wandered appearing to have a direction but directionless, without a goal, or if I abandon the journey, or take a wrong path or change course long before he destination has bee reached. Stephanie has reached the corner of he window frame, and changes course once again, quickly disappearing behind the darker background. I wish her godspeed.
understanding John Cage
all noise has potential to be music. Sounds overlapping mixing together— the doppelgänger of the plane passing overhead percussive pecans landing on the roof a branch banging n the wind against a wall the drone of the a/c. The large trucks hauling dirt back and forth back and forth back and forth from the sewer rebuilding project a block away add an intermittent rhythm even clumps of sound from lawn equipment walkers’ voices, bird chirps and caws all noise, fragments of sounds annoyances until captured, mixed together in my head, a personal symphony, a mystery of life.