Rooftop View

 

Emily Dickinson did not reside here, where leaves kiss shadows and eaves whisper about summer to the remains of grit that gets washed away in the rain of cloud convictions. Yeats never told her about the window that looks back at the reflected trees. So why is it that they seem to be waving at the camera in a poetic frenzy of twisting line breaks, like an uneven stanza, a stratification of emotional confusion ?

 

Here are Pareidolia Parasols

for high wire walkers

&

roof repair workers

in the bright sun,

as rays of certainty hurl down upon their heads,

with the verity of gravity’s grasp.

Unwanted facts, quickly approaching –

from the shouting horizon –

brings on vertigo in existential deniers .

 

Too much emotional distortion

rises in the air,

as the refractive index

causes truth to bend

when it enters and exists in opinionated thoughts –

unsteadily seated on peaks & gable corners,

angry convictions shout

at laughter running across the green lawns.

 

Planet of The Texturians : Lines of Communication

The Planet of the Texturians  opens the lines of communication. They worship the Word and the Line, but few can find their way to their intricate interpretations of perception and constructed realities. 

Pages & Maps: Archival  Reports

Soft Phonemes flash by-

making hard Morphemes tremble,

a gentle rain falls –

thoughts pool up clear reflections,

ripples expand directions.

 

A Cartography of Thoughts from other spheres can be used to find a type of meaning in uncertainty.  There are shorelines that touch Memory; this is where Time translates Experience into foreign tongues. Hyper-Temporal drift  creates parallel identities. Which One is the I ?

A DADAIST POEM – DIRECT COMMUNICATION

 

Are smiles damaged – was transfusion ?

And then,….. before stool house,

lightning hounds cry.

 

Sleeps too, my doctor frozen,

they think wool stones with known woods,

A Jacobian opinion –

 

farmhouse horse, nose village,

tool twine tools –

ashes sorts One Sleep –

evening,…. eyes broken,

modify, respectable I am;

A Transformation Theatre……

 

 

Between,….. often these wings,

then get sand off;

Go two up, Fate Green –

some soften his years,

as a starry vegetable woods.

 

{ Sadly this  intercept was beyond their orbit, now arises the uncertainty of simile vectors on the waves of a sudden discourse. Perhaps the tachyon ships will arrive at a point of singularity,… if their metaphor propulsion engines are intact.}

 

In the garage don’t stand,

Only Silence before Behaviour Lakes.

 

Snow miles out-numbered stiff vagabond;

Go knee woods of bells;

Calls shaken torn bands perfectly –

it watched it in a thesis of her darkest skin.

 

Sins are stopping by the scales;

Assume full-soul-song;

Toe just is so.

Consider the View

 

Blue skies

Smiling at me,

Nothing but blue skies

Do I see.

Bluebirds

Singing a song.

Nothing but bluebirds

All day long.

Never saw the sun shining so bright.

Never saw things going so right.

Noticing the days hurrying by,

When you’re in love, my how they fly……

“Blue Skies” composed by Irving Berlin in 1926.

 

Blue Days,

All of them gone,

Nothing but Blue Skies from now on.

 

June is a tricky month of memories for me. Father’s Day, my father’s birthday, and my parent’s wedding anniversary( June 21)  all clustered together.  My father, Paul Kanski, passed away in 1992, at the age of 76.  He and mom loved to dance – they grew up in the age of the great dance bands, when jitterbug was king & foxtrot ruled the floorboards of the dance halls. Blue Skies was one of his favourite tunes. Sometimes, late at night I could hear mom singing it to him in their bedroom.   Even now in my 60s I miss them – Time is a con artist, handing you gifts with one hand, while picking your pocket with the other. 

over me, music –

blue skies above carry clouds

dancing – silent steps.

 

 

 

 

Somewhere in The Middle of Something

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet

When far away an interrupted cry

Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;

And further still at an unearthly height,

One luminary clock against the sky

 

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.

I have been one acquainted with the night.

Robert Frost  Acquainted with the Night

 

 

Red Letters: Memories of You

Waking skies

At Sunrise,

Ev’ry sunset too,

Seems to be

Bringing me

Memories of you.

Here and there,

Ev’rywhere,

Scenes that we once knew,

And they all

Just recall

Memories of you.

How I wish I could forget

Those happy yester-years

That have left a rosary of tears.

 

Memories of You (1930)

lyricist-poet Andy Razaf

composer Eubie Blake