rainbows

Slips of the dervish and images

These images came from around the internet and struck me as unusual in both their content and locations.

INDUSTRY

I had an emotional bypass,

A valve job on my feelings.

Now I’m pure Teflon II.

Nothing sticks, nothing penetrates.

I have no reaction. Go ahead

Say something beyond description.

A white froth stays on my lips.

I am overcome by drugs generated in my glads.

Tears in my upholstery:

I’d like to give you something

Wonderful. I look for something

And go blind.

When these doors open

I expect love.

No reflection.

No models.

Sores in the heart

That won’t heal.

poem pictures

CLEAN LIVING

Dressed in fetish clothing

And hearing uncomfortably clearly.

I stretch a membrane of understanding

Across my eyes.

I will have no doubt the next time

I see your face.

I will find it easy to recognize the grace

Of misunderstanding you.

It will be like a perfectly sharpened

Knife.

My principles will fracture

Revealing all their petty foundations.

I will shake within the wall of language,

Waiting for a single pause where I might catch

My breath and identify my feeling

For you just this once.

There is no use.

I am smeared upon the words,

Barely able to buckle the straps

Around my body, barely able to attenuate

The vulnerable parts so they will gleam,

Terrifying, romantic in pure discourse.

a new poem and some random images just like I enjoy

HEADDRESSES

I suppose it was broken long before

We got here. There were rubber bands

Holding the wheels to the axles. The whole

Thing tipped and grumbled every time

It tried to do that walk it did.

Everyone still found it very entertaining.

Perhaps the questions it posed

Are unanswerable, like skeletons

Waiting by a windmill for the grass

To reveal the grim beast of the wood.

The forest listens to each leaf, each

Signature of love. It breaks the heart

To see the fields aflame like this,

but oh and oh and oh what

A wondrous view we have of heaven.

The swans. The clouds. The magnificent

Headdresses all comforted and astonished

That they are. We are forced to think

Of our mothers and when they finally

Showed us the great birds and

When we finally touched them

Any idea could be ours. The whole

Thing just clunked along like a good habit.

a manuscript and some photos of the surface of the sun

A MANUSCRIPT

Near the edge of a high cliff called Relan, a particular species of flower occurred, here and here only. Blue and yellow petals, tomatose leaves, a thick, fleshy stem and exhibited a variety of variations and sports that often changed the habit of the plane so significantly that it was, oftentimes unrecognizable to all but the serious botanist and a few magicians who climbed here at various times of the year to gather specific parts of the plant in order to create teas, poultices and mixtures of dried flower parts for secret purposes.

It was held that a tea made from the unusually silvery, slightly florescent petals of this plant could be counted on the generate pre-cognitive dreams in certain subjects. Those who sought this kind of information first observed a regimen of fasting, meditation and other practices in order to increase receptivity to the infusion. This tea is purported to be extremely astringent and yet quite flavorful. It does not keep well and is traditionally consumed within a fortnight of the gathering of these plant parts.

The dreaming generated by imbibing this infusion are often complex in structure but always, despite baroque ornamentation, unveil an action or occurrence that otherwise would have remained hidden from the dreamer for a longer period of time. One would waken knowing something would occur in one’s waking state. the dreaming however was not time or circumstantially specific. One could be assured however that when this event took place it would be recalled as the subject of the dreaming.

This kind of activity was not often made available to those pilgrims who sought these magicians council. The quest prompting such an exploration as this needed first to be determined to be pure inquiry, that is to say, that one could not ‘wish’ to know something for the purpose of causing harm to anyone else.

For example, one could not dream if someone would die on a journey, but one could dream the kinds of lessons one would learn on that journey. This kind of dreaming was valuable in determining the difficulty of a situation. A selfless inquiry would be most readily responded to by the tea although many questions had been posed by great kings and warriors concerning the outcome of future battles. The information gained usually informed them of the kind of weather on that day or a bit of news concerning a loved one that might be received on the same day.

The poultices made from the leaves and fibers of this singular plant were also of an extraordinary nature. At the hands of a master magician they could restore a tree from a cut stump, the memory of an old man, healthy skin to a damaged skin, eyesight to a dead eyeball and courage to a faint heart. Placed up the ears it could create a blessed an unique music to be heard that, in its unraveling healed and brought peace to a troubled mind.

So powerful were these leaves and fibers that horses...

Here the manuscript ends.

TANGO

Outside the air

conditioners breathe

against the weather.

The night

sways its milky light

through these rooms

pleading with time

that the junk of its moment

be preserved in

her dense folds.

We will have none of this.

We have not fallen from grace.

We are inside the fragile

shell of buildings.

We are alone again.

It is as if time

had never made such

another as ourselves.

We are a rare salt

of the heart spilling

each to each.

Here we cannot

hear the street

and its furnaces

of empty space, its

sweltering of forms.

We are moments on

the spine, pure sensation

coursing through the shock

of being chosen by each

to be together.

We hold each other

and listen to the

weave and spin

of the words

of the wave

weave and spin

of the words

weave and spin.

Max Parrish-some great whites-Michael Komack-aion online

THE BIRDS THAT EAT IDEAS

(Ptaki Ktore Jedza Pomysty)

The shearwater stays just above

The tops of waves. The air pushes

Their bodies upward inches from

All the ideas of air and water.

Bodies of fire exclaim.

A ball of shining made of ivory,

Made of wood, made of the beaks

Of ten thousand shearwaters.

A scroll unfurls itself, full of allegations

About who gave what gift to whom,

A sliver mine, a pillow full of love

Being wound around sharpened pins forever.

Surely there is a way to keep

These ideas safe. They glow

Like old friendships slowly

Being dismantled by birds

Birds feeding on the soft music

Of believing in things like songs

And the idea that animals can fly.