A collection,
Of skewed perceptions,
“I am possible!”
They beckon,
From all directions.
A glass menagerie,
Not in Versailles,
A view of a gallery,
From compound eyes.
Arms extended,
Towards,
The intended goal.
Fading handprints,
Where we thought we should go.
Knees bended,
We descended,
To the other end.
Doubt seeps in
through the tiniest crack,
and contaminates everything.
It shrivels up,
whatever it’s touched-
leaving behind stains,
and an awful smell.
What can rejuvenate
what it has poisoned?
Only trust does that.
Swallow your pride,
say begrudgingly,
“maybe you were right,”
I guess.
But be preemptive,
plug the holes first,
so it can’t percolate.
The brittle blocks,
Seemed alien first,
Until you pulled them from the box,
Rubbed them on and smeared them in.
With some care and consideration,
And some practice and precision,
Whatever you’re working on,
Will look fuzzy and faded in.
The color binds to the blank space,
In whatever shape you’ve traced,
Wherever it’s been placed.
The mark of a good artist,
Is not the figure on the paper,
But the dark marks on their fingertips,
And passion that sometimes tapers,
But never disappears.
Keep fingerpainting,
But keep from scribble-sniveling,
How easy it is to make drivel,
How easy it was to be Picasso,
Or Van Gogh,
Or Michelangelo,
When you were little.
Formulaic conveyance,
Each step of the way,
With programmed patterns,
Robotic arms,
Outfitted with pincers,
And cutting implements.
Each drone,
Making clones,
With their own tasks honed,
Couldn’t do it alone.
Though it lacks the imagination,
And dizzying whimsey,
Of his creations,
Rube Goldberg would be proud,
That his machinations,
Weren’t so far-fetched,
After all.
If I heard you sneeze,
And I forgot bless you,
I hope there’d be no ill-will,
To be found,
Nor curses,
Abound,
Nor evil eyes,
Around.
That way, if there’s an accident,
I need not ask,
Was it me?
Sorry if I let some demons enter you,
They won’t cause much trouble,
If you exorcize the next day.
Sorry if I let your heart stop,
For a second,
But they are resilient things,
So don’t be too worried.
A sudden rise,
In the babbling whitewater,
Runs backwards,
And defies,
The established,
Instability.
Jets spray,
Tourists paddle,
A bear,
Straddles a boulder,
Waiting for trout,
To breach,
Into its open snout,
If it can reach.
The inflatable raft,
Glides over,
The aerated stream,
Rapids,
And drop-offs,
Turning with the bends,
Instead of against them,
Even when they seem to be going,
No place,
It’s not a race,
Just a vacation.
Haven’t you heard?
Hearing, the sensation
requires some good vibration,
to get the eardrums
moving.
Microwave radiation,
in the tiniest doses,
bypasses bones
no barriers broken.
Your brain buzzes
like the Chatty Cathy,
it actually is –
even if you’re at a loss for words.
The electrons in
your audio cortex
are eager to broadcast
for me,
but only get so far.
It’s easy to gossip,
when the whispers
are beamed directly into
your thoughts.
Can we say, then,
that we are of the same mind?
“Hopeless romantic,” really should be considered an oxymoron.
As should “diet soda,”
And “clean coal.”
Yeah, we drive on parkways and park in driveways, but why is being connected to the Internet also isolating?
Why do people scream when they see small animals but not when they see people that they know (which are far more likely to be dangerous)?
If no house is truly air-tight, then aren’t we always outside?
When can I go inside?
Why do we want somewhere to go when we have nowhere to be?
Why isn’t there anything to watch on TV?
If the point of language is to name the unnamed, why is English so full of misnomers?
Why are there silent letters?
Why do I bother?
I’m not the most appealing,
I know.
I don’t grow very tall,
Nor very fast.
I’m not the most beautiful,
Nor the most bountiful,
So I won’t be boastful.
I’m not that sweet,
Nor neat,
It’s all been said.
But I promise one thing:
If you let me plant my roots,
I just might grow on you.
Drum roll please,
Thumb, pointer, middle, ring, pinky-
And repeat,
Repeat,
Repeat.
While you daydream,
Whilst waiting,
Impatiently,
Humming,
Tapping your feet.
“Read a magazine,
Or something,
More distracting–
Or less distracting,
To other people,
Please,
Quit fidgeting,
Stop twitching.”
Flat screen Televisions,
Cover the walls,
Untouched children’s toys,
I’m too old for,
Riddle the floor.
Stuck in the lobby,
Awaiting drills,
Hooks, brushes,
And pumice.
The File Pile 