broadcast prayer

tv flicker

how you snicker

at my fears and flaws

and dark-eyed fenestrations.

radio static

so automatic

are my sticks and stones

and city-boy stipulations

but you see me through the night

with transmittal of sound and light

informing me everything might be right

or at least not every day will be the same

a drip and a drop

of your calm electricity

between the the tock of today

and the tick of midnight

unstuck in time

let's get abducted

together in their ship

through stars and skies

tell them epic lies

about who we are

and how we met.

they're from another world

without earth or air

no birds to sing

romantic things

while they gently

probe us from above.

only to find out what is love.

a retraction

didn't think i could be

yet i am

not sure why i should be

but why ask

what was it that drew me

now it's gone

something you said threw me

so i'm done

pretty things

a streak of silver

shimmer shimmer

caught my eyestrings

as

you turned your head

and made them taut.

a blade of thought

sliver sliver

cut my moodswings

while

i closed my mouth

and made a note.

my days afloat

sighing sighing

such pretty things

since

you showed me yours

and show me mine.

unsung lullaby

sleep fine

still time

city streets are dark and quiet

sleep sound

soft and round

shut your brown eyes tight and try it

you'll never make it there by running

i think you know that well by now

put down your thoughts and slip away

perhaps someday i'll show you how

don't look down

somewhere on the ground

somewhere down below

the twig and seed witnessed

my heart quite out of control

My Own Highwayside View

Somehow my life feels familiar. Like a smell or a tune. In that tip-of-the-tongue sort of way when you feel something in your gut and a concept feels so pure for that instant -- suspended -- leaving only sensation and meaning without language.

Like I've returned to square one, to start anew. And lately I've been organizing a lot of possessions from the past, after finding that leafing through papers and sifting through boxes to be eliminated or recategorized after years of rearrangement by relocation/dislocation is helping me to refresh my memory and gear up for big momentum ahead. Strange to be one's own curator as the really important things consistently avoid the donation pile at every purging.

Some blame this recognition of place on a crossed wire from a past life. How many lives past have I lived? And how many in this life alone? I will first try to unravel my present situation before dusting through archives.

Perhaps life feels short because we segment our own time into phases and eras. It's definitely a means of coping and necessary for sanity. But happiness and satisfaction can originate from finding the lengths of thread running through -- these days, this task seems more urgent.