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January 31, 2009 | | Comments 0

Sometimes We Can Be Uncovered By Sleeplessness

January 31, 2009

Sometimes we can be uncovered by
sleeplessness, motions and likenesses
of turmoil requesting gentle reprieves,
not expensive, simply making the
connections, bringing the day past
into a focus that’s blurred just enough
so the heart can recognize it as everyone’s
yesterday, and not its unbearable wish to
roll snowmen on the sun.

Dear Fairy of Black Iron Plumbing
and Silver Soldering: no, I am not locked
up in myself; I flow around ‘this’, all this
flows around me, there is flowing…
Even stagnant water evaporates.

Way down deep in my guts are all sorts
of other people’s quotes, things that I
smirked about, thought-provokes who,
weaponless at first, soon delivered armies
of forgers, iron ore mining battalions and
Experts of Opinions, whose office walls
showed no signs of anything, excepting a
grid of perfectly ready nails for hanging…

I am sitting on my right foot because it’s
getting cold; a young, friendly dog’s head
safely beneath an elephant’s trunk, both
asleep in the perfect afternoon sunshine…

Somewhere tigers stop thinking about
where to go and do something about it;
dust lifts up, creating your cousins,
The Frayed Dwellers of All Ashes,
Soot and Mustinesses; after all,
someone waters stored furniture.

These ‘people’s quotes’, vats for those
quick cast plaster masks to be won and
wounded around my skull tightly, then
absorbed, like the powder left behind
and mixing with our fingerprint oil, from
having tried to catch a monarch butterfly’s
fluttering painted yellow-black lightning…

A child holding out to me, standing
soundly balanced on an invisible desert
podium, amongst a three dimensional
addendum of sand, stuff as old as the
solar system’s habit of trimming the
stems of its blossoms so to fantasize
itself a protagonist of those progenitors,
the great uncle clan of beings who keep
roots drawing upwards and going outwards
at the same time: yes, I just thought of it,
thank you, some roots do simply cease
their tapping, though not the radiance,
hail to that, yes?

This child statued in the sand, a wonder
of growth, paused in the moment of my
thinking I could live that insideness forever,
that snugness who wipes down a newly
brushed wild horse while thinking ‘that will
be enough combing’ to get a free ride home
to Eternity…

This child reaches out to me,
to show me, to propose a part of
its journey, not something personal, no,
we’re beyond that, standing inside
a grain of sand, while there’s no need
to touch or taste the walls, to prove that
we’re actually in the Inn, the view is
enough, the crystalline striations and
the most beautiful view of a camel’s
cornea that I’ve seen since day before
yesterday…

This child says, ‘Choose which one;
they’re very old mister.’ And it’s that
word ‘mister’ that plunges me deeper
into the reflection, that he’s me looking
at my strangely self-collecting collection
of forget-me-nots

(I almost capitalized that hyphenated
wordtrain; flowers are mirror images
held towards a fairy looking at itself:
we see the flower from the backside,
into the invisible, while it’s not necessarily
peering at us…

Consequential meetings have no
responsibility to marry one another;
well, not in the real world of Time
passing itself off into a room made of
highly polished white marble, whose
floor is amassed with spinning copper
pennies…)

Yes, it’s the magic, prior to these bodies
we’ve apple-snake-skinned into, that’s
covering me right now and the child, yes,
he’s pleading that I buy one of the two of
the same statue, baked at home ‘day before
yesterday’ in his parents wood stove…

He points to a smaller figure way off in
the distance (There’s no time or real reason
to walk that far to verify the Family-tree; the
chirping inside the nest is enough proof that
egg shells are somewhere.) and says,
‘That’s my sister.’

This adds to the ‘my expectation-fee’…

Yes, of course, I am being honest with the
feelings that are dropping off, from way up
high, into the frozen moon risings embedded
behind my ten toenails…

When I hand him the dollar bill,
it suddenly looks like something
very different; it’s a magic carpet;
the portrait indicates the steering
column and numerals how far its
tank will take you (Depending on
the ‘body mass’ of the fairy).

I have the warm figurine in my hand,
and yes, it is very old, I mean, the clay
itself; all ceramic pots are the same age,
it’s the creation time that really get’s
people gluing the past together to stabilize
the sensation of what Future really means
to mortality’s offerings to Perfection…

Yes, those beauty-filled restorations,
breathing in between glue and
hair-fraction-missing-widths, reaching
out to one another to claim the fame they
kissed 3000 years ago: and straight through
the panting of an archeological laborer’s
laborious day, the shovel decides on its own
to not look and breaks into a perfectly
preserved embrace, the oldest pot ever
‘found’ in pieces…

He’ll keep this a secret: as for the
micro-metallic twilight shimmering
left behind on the twin sides who bit
into the shovel’s nosy nose, that too
will go unnoticed; no different really,
than the taste left after kissing your
lover’s lips, that oddly familiar sensation
that something really good just happened
for the first-last time.

I can hear the butterfly breathing,
watching the dew drop: and I can
feel the anticipation that it will not
drop, or slide, or go away in a gust
of wind, I see the butterfly talking
to a caterpillar, giving it flight lessons
for no practical reason, other than to
offer it some inspiration to continue
inching along, to continue nearly any
kind of movement, excepting for
when the hens are off their eggs…

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