language is not a matter of knowingthe words to speak, but rather acomprehension of thoughts left unspokenfor no writ nor vocal manifestation could everreplace the origin let crawl frommind through splitting time and chancein given circumstance.– that which may never findanother route, if not through that subtle genius,Epiphany, may fall as leaf to be butnut [...]
Archives for October 2005
a ghost-O'd outline waves its way
a ghost-O’d outline waves its waydown screen of window,silently backing to the shadow-deepend woods.
this life is but
as a tree as a voiced cricket as a splattering rain as a twist-turbined fan as a direction-uncompassed gnat as a bulb let slown to sight this life is but a branching plenty a branching plenty to the still’d & hungry leaves a breaking call unrepeated in constant a breaking call unrepeated in constance a falling raised a falling raised a mutterance mumbling incoherently a mutterance mumbling with incoherence a changer of path a changing of path too fast to comprehend its speed and brevity too unknown in speed to comprehend its brevity
originally designed with the first ‘a’ only, but both seemed so appropriate.perhaps better read with ‘as’ repeated twice, once with the first ‘a’ and then with the indented ‘a’.
the muse vs inspiration
a muse is someone/something that cannot disappoint,merely disinterest.emotion is not wasted on the muse, merely displaced for a bit.
Nature will never be delegated to status of “muse,” for Nature is a permanent-inspiration. the muse may wax and wane, but it is not the permanent moon, just a moth you notice in the light.
those who inspire: [...]
Sorry.
Apparently, someone I had let access my FTP decided to send massive amounts of e-mail to AOL users, with a link to a virus, ” Hallmark.scr “. I have removed said user’s access and the virus. I sincerely apologize to anyone who has received unsolicited e-mails from this individual and would request your [...]
pale in envy.
when the voice, or blood, or whatever is clogging throat, boils at room temp to eyes– the sticky ’lids hiding as ashamed curtains pulled to feet by someone– her– the one keeping me strung, well-tuned, but unfree to enjoy the air–how repulsive this sight of a sickened child rotting in thought from too long an exposure, inward, of her.thought, what of our time?alone, in stare or conference held, she is she is here– in front, beside, behind, around me–if that time, that solitairy fixation on us could extend, grab us and stay, not run, not walk, not stu
mble from as so prone we let it be–perhaps, just by chance by longing we could bring to us an envy drawn from other, an outside onlooker– me.
from specks in grass
groans.that is all they are,side-stepping in hurried wave from one spectrum to the nexton those damned, barren wastelands of rock.what scroaming beasts, these skippers in roar of rush;what beckons them to pass as though nothing, they, were to stop?can they, these slow’n’ slicers of the air, not see what is here,idle and unafraid to be [...]
