(Owwoni was the name given by the earliest known inhabitants to their territory now known as Yosemite Valley.)
(Photo courtesy of my late Godfather, Marcial Vito. During the late 1940’s and early 1950’s he would set up his own dark room, using about a third of a kitchen and a pantry area– shielded with blankets from ceiling to floor. His wife, my Aunt Joyce, bestowed upon me their collection of 2″ square photos.)
ere the hour of happiness my eyes my thoughts my smile touch her reflection about the maze of our fellow banqueteers— her gentle hands other hands salute from clasp to high fives— her fork sifts carefully over the main course like an archaeologist— dancer for all dancers— fronter songbird and magical frets for the strut-to-everything band— winning ticket for a holiday draw— graceless ball from cannon into the hotel pool— last call timely moments before me— soon only myself no designat’d driver a lonely elevator a lonely corridor an anxious keycard later— my wheel chair i park at the foot of a bed garnish’d with satin sheets a silken g-string and her— my eyes my thoughts my smile please, do not disturb!
if i hadn’t look’d that way— but i did— and there was she— almost an apparition emerging from the subway— so plain with the times— but even her grayness could not cloud the memory of a boy’s first love a lifetime of mystery later— spoke her name my silent tongue as currents of caravans drag’d her thru rush hour turnstiles— slowly too went silent my eyes as she evaporat’d into the glitter lamp of times square— if only i hadn’t look’d that way
poor mouse— bat’d around into a one-sided game of hide-and-seek; damn’d mouse! choking from cheese at miniturds first light poor ant— scouting for crumbs along the pigskinners’ first and ten; damn’d ant! gasping from fogger poor bird— half-flapping in a metal forest beyond the breath of true sky; damn’d bird! lullabying the killer who hears no moranda and so walks o, what matters— I, non-slayer majority, digesting the slain
I watch as Neuth powders an ashen sheet of foundation and blush to her afternoon face while her boyfriend, Apollo, stretches out to catnap upon her nimbus berth— there is the smell of rain in the rainless air— smiling italian spruces join hands and sway side to side to the song of th’ autumn wind— pigeons hurry to scarf up the driveway dregs before sheltering ‘neath the lifeless palms— then the phone calls out— somehow just the tone of its ring tells me your voice for sure is on the other end— for the smell of you my mind reaches out— you, who will soon share with me the sound of raindrops frolicking outside our heavenly hammock— as always, soon is never soon enough
for some— everything adds up to planktonish fillers in a condemn’d mine of resourcelessness; perhaps a shadow of an eclipse from some quasaric frontier merit’d only by time’s empty heart for others— a fascinating jewel compos’d of More Than Everything
an alley cobbling into fixat’d throngs of all tongues– horses and heroes pois’d upon marble cliffs– hallow falls blessing a blue half-moon– feet adorn’d with sandals of tribute from those perhapsing another coming– while today serves a parlor the best gelato pistaccio anywhere
Emptiness step’d into Light remov’d the shadow from her soul hung it over our hearts we watch’d and wept at a half life his whole life we wonder’d why? when we knew why but wish’d we did not he was a palette of smiles who paint’d the world who suffer’d quietly into night and while we fight time to forget we only remember more ‘tis what we really want
’tis Media the blame? her literary and blu ray voice preaching the prodigy of guns and drugs and gangbangers and washbasins of blood? are there not cowards who never stoop? who only absorb her words as performance and never themselves performers? be education her only sin? her blueprints in th’ advancements of crime crocking her student activists into appeasement of their criminal lust? for where was Media when Cain slew Abel? or was she Lioness who slew Zebra?
her lips were like caligraphy: her scent’d message blinding his thoughts, blowing right by him till the sonance of his name snap’d the spell and left him struggling for even a hint of her song her act of concern— an act, indeed! but seeing him this way for that precious twinkle so rattl’d so innocent so silently penitent… so much more a reason for affection
‘tis there— today ‘tis there— after years— the forces of concrete and prayer clashing with coincidence— till shone the holy rock like a pleasant sun— all because the pleas were reply’d— not always to the fullness of the hope— but nonetheless reply’d— that another ear dwelt in some abstract region— a challenge to a newer war— being belief enough versus the unsociable sloth, whose tongue is mostly paper
good ole Cosmos— a wrinkle nary and just enough gray for me to miss Hypatia or, for that matter, Australopithecus or even T-rex— that be a prime pursuit so much without purpose— that to those without a voice is spoken much too much silence— that taking sides— be it as far as flint and steel under a torrential downpour— will have to settle for harmony— only ten generations ago of darwin turtles gave birth to CE (formerly AD)
buss the lips of a secret wind those of a sky in the realm of dreams— to yawn and stretch and smile a breath of powdery glyphs on blue— where sets his sail the campus crow— that eucalyptus islands their banners might unfurl upon the autumn molt of their cosmetic parcels; and document the platoons of academic backpacks treading the concrete tributaries to Geisel— keeper of the scrolls, the rites of fertility of serums both ancient and experimental— for creation for ruination for determining every tomorrow— whilst the crow remains … content with campus flight
time begetting oneself till her who is beyond time’s peak, mariner of the unborn sea? or an ancient soprano without ancestry nor youth nor womb— only the company of stimulus and uncertainty— fleeting notes at the locus of her imaginary conception? or were all today’s constellations the memory of myself— all that embrac’d torso and spirit and dream— might her eye my way not tear at an empty night; with no chance to wonder at what was— were that my thoughts of her fill’d all the hours that were me— a witling for a goddess without an image …with no regrets?
a generation of futures reaching the present— smiles and frowns lashing out about when fresh cobblestones, impossible now to unpave, mark’d the twain ‘neath their hulls; only to be deliberat’d by the constellations they see yesterday but not yet
and this Supernatural of nature shall curtsy to her newest lover: “my handsome servant, though bound, I pray: these manly petals— for now, moisten’d by the rain which sweats from your heart like my own— a famish’d vapor in the cool sky craving to quench the feverish land below, until her children no longer thirst and new freedom given her inflam’d roots. let them dry themselves upon me, and on mine, or just anywhere whenever it is felt; at least seeming a small forever
a face forgotten by daily rehearsals at the bathroom mirror— where age of flesh morning to morning runs like age of stone— until the far tomorrow becomes today— and can only imagine the glass reflection who was once before
rattle! rattle! rattle! rattle! then all was born— the teachers’ irrational ghosts with their everlasting pasts synthesize! synthesize! synthesize! synthesize! later all was always, and the ghosts were born from all rattle! synthesize! synthesize! rattle! all is now— even the ghosts
midiquarks maxiquasars universes big banging inside microtrons histories afore prehistories cosmos begetting cosmos no smallest nor eldest nor beginning nor end nor most advantageous merely mind out of the cumulonimbus hat of a stranger or a friend call’d hope
lightless lamps— slighting whatever season’s kiss while faith’s inner graft gropes along the bole’s elder rings towards time’s horizon a cold campfire? a harden’d heel ne’er to be retrac’d? an earnest eye on some morrow where breaks their sowers’ banners? or be themselves the sowers stone— their preyers
’tis the wondering about the darkness, his unseen innards, his lifeless breath, for never be even empty shadows empty: so know the fancies with blindfolds despairing and flesh tones that fade and perspire in the burning cold to behead the guardian light is to liberate those rabid, undead enigmas famish’d for the blood of leukemic thoughts, for the tender sinew of slain courage
we were Yesterday’s guests— on all fours— ascending the days of Spring and her shade of Jaguar and company— to share Nature’s pipe: with the glyphs of gladiators’ rules— the calculator of Heaven— the battalion of pillars in their allegiance to Rain — the spirits enslav’d by the great pool— all swaddl’d by Land’s mane— and with Today’s bloodkin
slates from foremothers to mothers chalk’d by the fists within their hearts— ignorant of so many lessons, either for love of punchfare or willingness to embrace an obvious outcome and tap that cane to just beyond the fallout— that might prevail someone else’s overcaring courage, that newer blackboards might burn incense for newer counterfists— sadly, hate’s inheritance
her recollection: hors d’oeuvres of reality, entrées of deception, hypothetical puddings her sinew and senses— a mountain of light over flesh an infinibyte black box with heart.com and soul.exe and emotion.bat and precise obedience so precise, never we’ll notice that she’ll never really give a damn
a turn of hopscotch o’er flowery falls of honeysuckle— powdery weightless terpsichoreal wings tiptoeing to the music of th’ april sun of some quite charming backyard to taste, where every current of gust leads offroad; and when with that course of life’s meal satisfy’d, a mural of redwood o’er she sails for all time to be gone— where her home she is
unbound’d leagues thyself to seek to wonder who the morrow be ’tis where beholds a breacher’s blow the symphony within thy heart where sinew both in pulp and soul swells forth renew’d; and smiles race from thy inner countenance to leave their prints on fortune’s weather’d strand the brine to breathe till knocks thy door some virgin reef? some yesterdream? some light— if but a firesnake’s eye— on motives spawn’d o’er seas of night? there wilt thou find the dolphinkin
how alights th’ outlander! eyes as wary as fresh daisies in a drab’s bouquet— ken not about her but a modest glow? heels capering thru fathomless furrows; shoulders recounting where saltwater crests once bloom’d— swashing swashing to the rhapsody within thine own bosom? flutter flutter across her smiling lifeline— a scent of lips warm resistless overwhelming locking her suitor with a cosmic brand forg’d by some shipwreck’d star; or with the tentacles of a grey-hair’d river lost to the thirst of many suns; or perhaps with the labyrinth where giants guess the way; a waft of yarn for every blink of the day, for every trifling gape of rumination o, fair of fancies! where even eternity is press’d for time
if the season of stars and that of suns can arm in arm down time’s corridor if their campfires in faint crawl can mirror winks if hemlocks, disabl’d to tread, can yearn thru the compost and wind, and be fulfill’d in fire’s absence then why do we, so appris’d of them, ponder to afford or not a hand in bloom, an orb’s regard, a welcome? how drunk are we enslaving wisdom, in order to pit celebrity against the self!