On Writing

[Something I wrote a very long time ago and updated....]

They intertwine, these sentences of molten fire,
deeper, secret, carnal desires,
screams, stifled by echoes in an expanding gyre,
I follow dreams, of London, of Yorkshire.

Everything said before, wearily watches a has been,
tattered soul in black typeface,
purveyor of crevices in a dream.
Sell it! Sell it! With a squirt gun and a mace,
Sometimes trite praise settles like a weary sheen.

In the head eddies of lava,
flow through the blood,
crusted uncertainty of a volcano fuel cups of kava,
and eruptions the color of mud,
some settle ash in my brain – m.a.y.a…

Words I don’t understand…
But their power holds and sometimes paroxysms of laughter,
reverberate against a thick tympanum that withstands,
smooth voices like honey, lashing rain, and the loneliness of despair, now and ever after…

Baby Squirrel

Hold the live, squirming thing in cupped hands,
bony vertebrate back flips into a ramrod-straight wand,
or a droopy tail that wraps like a languid snake,
and trembles as you inspect the make,
of this downy prickle of fur,
that someone brought in to work,
along with squirrel formula and stories of hurt,
and entrapment from crevices in rooftops filled with dirt.
This wild forager now used to human touch,
when released, will it amount to much?

Sailing

Sail through Corkscrew slough,
in a trimaran stocked with fizzy brew,
On the glittering business of urban water,
past the sewage treatment plant and urban matter,
beyond the Waterworld set still serving time,
past the Redwood City harbor line.

That quixotic reference to the push and pull of tide,
marks a white line along the marsh grass to one side,
and a beach that may not be one,
built by mud and shells disintegrating in the sun,
and the pelicans that fly high above,
flock here to their private bathtub.

Think of what you don't think about when you drive by here,
the seals, for one, look worse for the wear,
in their flaccid bellies lies the fate of populations,
from their dwindling numbers you talk about fluctuations,
Or not, because the day is too nice,
why talk science when you can traipse,
around that flotilla of sailboats,
in a beer can race for the best float.

Binaural Beats

They say that today more parents worry,
their kids are getting high in a hurry,
this has to do with kids that sit alone,
and listen to music on a headphone,
what they listen to can induce a drug like trance,
and that's too bad because it won't make them prance,
or do anything different with stimulated expression,
because their ears receive two different sounds, this can lead to depression.
How did this story wind its way into NPR?
It stymied my "light rock less talk" plans in my car,
and got me thinking of kids in overachieving school districts,
if all they get to do is fake a high on music - so be it.

Chant

My favorite chant,
is a Kurt Vonnegut rant,
it goes, "Rented a tent, a tent, a tent,
Rented a rented a tent."
A weary soldier haunts and vents,
the senselessness that life invents,
and puts fear and caprice in my brain,
which by day's end is a drain.

Circular Run

A Dr Suess rhyme,
comes to my mind,
why do you like to run, run, run?
I run for fun in the hot hot sun.
Or maybe Dr Suess is not what I'm thinking,
someone said when the cramp comes you should be winking,
or smile your way through the beauty of pain,
go run your heart out in rain or hail.
Or that time when my dad read a book on running,
and found his interest was waning,
he said he didn't know what the fuss was about,
that Haruki Murakami chap only wrote about doubt,
which then makes me doubt that guy with the GPS watch,
it goes beep beep beep every mile that I'm wrought,
he comes back to me to help pace my run,
I doubt I'll ever tell him that I run for fun,
He tells me his life story at mile 8 and a half,
beep beep beep at plot points and heightened tension in the calf,
I think about how historically there have been incidents,
Yukio Mishima was a writer who once made a commitment,
to commit seppuku before he grew old,
and he followed through and left a gaping literary hole,
does that mean then that I need a spectacular reason to run?
I'm running to cure cancer, and I hear a shout, "On yer left, you bums!"
Whatever, you moron, you think you're Lance Armstrong on a bike,
you think you have biceps, you think you want to fight?
But no one says anything and the road is a slow weary wind,
I see that bend near the creek, now I will push, I will grind.

Seaweed

The three-year old treads through water,
for him the seaweed and fish don't matter,
he tastes the salt of the ocean,
feels the Atlantic breeze is an omen,
a harbinger of things he cannot yet articulate,
and emotions he cannot facilitate,
except by a capacity,
to establish the veracity,
of a claim his dad has made,
that mommy needs to stay in the shade,
because she is afraid to wade,
through seaweed that makes her toes curl,
oh, she is such a girl.