Posts by Dusty

THE BOX CALLED “STOP”

WE are Men and Machines.
WE know how to Start, but never learned the STOPPING.

The STOPPING Mechanism.
The Little Black Box.

The Box called STOP.

STOP the Box.

BOX the Stop.

Jingle Bells
We go as Plaid Men;
Riding in Twisted Cargo
Smoking Cigars on a Green Fern Embargo.
We rise for the Sun & Decay in the Dawn
our Faces are Strawberries; our Fingers are Gone

We go as Plaid Men, we rise up as Nuns
we cave in as Children, Lovers, Cinnamon Buns
There is nothing to Stop us, We’re never in Heat;
We shave our sweet faces and swallow Burnt Meat
Our sisters before us have Salvaged the Road,
The Innocent meet Strangers, the Silver buys Gold.
The Dawn of Intention, heals the midnight Decay;
We go as Plaid Men
as Housewives we stay.

Jingle Bells
Sing our Moments’ Repent
The Serpent sinks in Leather
The Kitchen Water is Spent
The Dollar is Sideways,
A coin in the Lock
The Only Key we could Turn
was the Face of the Clock

We go as Plaid Men
Twisted in Corks
we sing our songs sideways
and eat Knives & Forks
The song that we Knew
is the one we Forgot
as the Ancient of Mariners
Drowns at the bottom of the Pot

Big Soul in Small Shoes

Difficult Dust
I am a Single Poem
Prone to Rust
I am a Rotting and Fragrant Fruit
On your Tree of Souls
A clean and fluffy Laundry Item
on the Great Clothesline of the Sky
Washed once, Washed twice
Hung out to Dry
An Ace of Hearts, a Throw of the Dice
A river of Intent – a Jacuzzi of Ice
I’m all over the Map, looking for Home
Head in the Stars, worn to the Bone
I’m not going Far
A throw of the Stone
Difficult Dust
Single Poem
Prone to Rust
On the way Home.

Feathers and the Line of Dawn

Some nights are meant for walking at the water’s edge.

This was one.  Unremarkable night in an unremarkable summer.  The tame ocean’s quiet lapping at the ancient rocks.  Night is a chrysalis, womb of comfort and constraint, tight apron of a possessive mother.  Across the bay, the city lights – the screams and grunts of the young and drunken, the  party scene: the masquerading seasons of man.

On this side of the bay, where the wave and soft, reflected light lap against the shore: an amazing sight. A line of geese, going on and on into the distance: all sitting within a foot of the shore – either on the rocks or in the water.  And all these birds, as if obeying some silent schedule, were involved in the preparation for sleep.

Some were preening their feathers; others were snoozing already – heads tucked in under wings or buried in their own feathers.  Young geese were stationed directly behind their parents on the shore, heads tucked into feathers, obeying the timeless ritual that had been passed down energetically, genetically, effortlessly.  And obeyed without question, without rebellion or protest.

The young birds fell into line with the tradition of geese, without a hitch.  The effortlessness of their sleep.  Some of their elders stood in shallow water, head tucked under wing – asleep it seemed, yet acutely aware of every sound and movement in their periphery.  I sat on a bench and drank in the dusk.  The inky sky.  The watery lights of weary skyscrapers downtown, the quiet lapping of waves, whispers of passing lovers hand-in-hand, and the quiet, orderly, reassuring line of sleeping geese.  This sleeping line had a sweetness, resolve and dignity to it that cannot be described.  It was for my eyes only.  Others passed by – they saw it not.

And the screaming of the party-goers across the bay continued.  I was there with them: I was their father, their mother, the ground that caught them as they fell, the momentary decay of lightning and fireworks, as they celebrated – perhaps – their graduation into the adult world.  A world of screaming, grunting, joking, quiet farting, and falling in the night.  These are humans, we are humans; we – the crown of creation, we who inherit or disinherit the earth.  We who control and command the elements.  We who send a man to the moon and hold a scalpel over the unborn son.  We who know that all we know is pretense and we spend our lives on camoflauge, upholstery and makeup.

And the geese sleep peacefully in a line, with no born leader and no agenda for the dawn.

They live on, and we are long-gone.

Sleep in peace.

The Indelible Orange of You

Indelible Moonscapes
Places we travel; things we know

the Insatiable Juice of the Orange of You.
parading in all of its Fine Contempt

Contempt for things worldly
contempt for the unbending Finger of Time
contempt for the abrasiveness of Modern Man

We seek the softness of things that Fly
Things that Know their Home, their Righteous Country
their Place of Birth.

We seek the Meal that Satisfies
the Unquenched Caverns in the Labyrinth of Heartland
the Taste of the Delicate & Informed
Lessons of love.

The Wheel that Turns
the Time that Goes
the Tiny Hand
that paints the spiral Heavens
of the inner Canvas
that grows
and grows
and grows.