EternalHunter
05-07-2005, 11:02 PM
My head is raised by invisible fingers--two
--index and middle, I feel their press under my "chin
up and smile smile smile" they say,
but my head is in the paisley clouds
that have converged as if for a tea party
just outside the bars of this sterile window.
"Hey, come back to earth lady." focus focus
"focus is the key", but I am listening
to what the thunder says and it is
telling me of a Himalayan shepherd, some
old story heard long ago but I can't
remember how it ends, or the point...I just
know that I liked it enough at the time to
scribble it's name in my notebook; my notebook,
my notes! I am drowning in a riot of hungry
jaws of books, an orgy of words, the
bindings feasting on torn pages that fly
around the gold colored room. The light
reminds me of an internal sunset (a scene from
one of these hapless novels, masticated into life)
sunset in a palace sinking into a
floor of carefully carved metrical designs,
tiles that glow for a moment and reflect
the ceiling like an ocean glistening with the tears of the sky.
"She's out." the voices echo in my ears,
my hands feel numb and I try to stir,
but I am bolted down and now
I fight harder than before, but only
in my mind because mathematics never made sense,
and I could never explaining the phenomenon of
locomotion or rain like chemistry claims to,
and suddenly the voices
have receded and the thunder is rolling back
into my head to calm the storm in my brain,
"It looks like rain" white sleep that
will not reach into the shadows of thought, offer its
hand through the water to pull out
the drowned victim of circumstance.
Two invisible fingers lift the snag from the drift,
golden hair in a clenched fist.
Two fingers raise the chin ("and smile now..")
"...!" but the thunder drowns out
their exclamations. Tomorrow they will
write down (maybe their guilt) the song of the
song of the Himalayan shepherd and
seal it into the box (duct tape and ribbon)
that finally drew the curtains on imagination.
"Tomorrow is another day" no one hears them say.....
this time..... and through the tingling of muscle
and shudders of shoulder shaking memory they
make their way, single file, ("order, order in the court")
down the bridge, across the river, to the mountains.
One last frontier to conquer, one last bridge to burn.
I know this is really long, congratulations if you got through it all. I would love comments/criticism!
--index and middle, I feel their press under my "chin
up and smile smile smile" they say,
but my head is in the paisley clouds
that have converged as if for a tea party
just outside the bars of this sterile window.
"Hey, come back to earth lady." focus focus
"focus is the key", but I am listening
to what the thunder says and it is
telling me of a Himalayan shepherd, some
old story heard long ago but I can't
remember how it ends, or the point...I just
know that I liked it enough at the time to
scribble it's name in my notebook; my notebook,
my notes! I am drowning in a riot of hungry
jaws of books, an orgy of words, the
bindings feasting on torn pages that fly
around the gold colored room. The light
reminds me of an internal sunset (a scene from
one of these hapless novels, masticated into life)
sunset in a palace sinking into a
floor of carefully carved metrical designs,
tiles that glow for a moment and reflect
the ceiling like an ocean glistening with the tears of the sky.
"She's out." the voices echo in my ears,
my hands feel numb and I try to stir,
but I am bolted down and now
I fight harder than before, but only
in my mind because mathematics never made sense,
and I could never explaining the phenomenon of
locomotion or rain like chemistry claims to,
and suddenly the voices
have receded and the thunder is rolling back
into my head to calm the storm in my brain,
"It looks like rain" white sleep that
will not reach into the shadows of thought, offer its
hand through the water to pull out
the drowned victim of circumstance.
Two invisible fingers lift the snag from the drift,
golden hair in a clenched fist.
Two fingers raise the chin ("and smile now..")
"...!" but the thunder drowns out
their exclamations. Tomorrow they will
write down (maybe their guilt) the song of the
song of the Himalayan shepherd and
seal it into the box (duct tape and ribbon)
that finally drew the curtains on imagination.
"Tomorrow is another day" no one hears them say.....
this time..... and through the tingling of muscle
and shudders of shoulder shaking memory they
make their way, single file, ("order, order in the court")
down the bridge, across the river, to the mountains.
One last frontier to conquer, one last bridge to burn.
I know this is really long, congratulations if you got through it all. I would love comments/criticism!