Setting toward a distant sun in the gardened evening air, I pull the clouds of pseudillusion across the domain refrain and let the call of the next moment be the way you guide my hand from the bottom of your ever held (if you let go I am gone) eyecepticular facilities leading us both across time, space and the written words you read to me. Within the realm of various sensory input facilitators engaged to my awareness, I maintain cognizant perspective within the periphery of conditionally relegated actualization interpreters heeding the call of the first and foremost thing on my mind: I have a pizza in the freezer. Feasting on the very idea of communicating my evening’s aspectual endeavors gives host to a variety of potential directions to face, but the one we see is in the reflection off the window view setting toward the garden of dreams gone by. Such a lush, green and active vista, with evening’s busy motion as the day transitions down in the edge of sunset touching a quiet pond, where you (yourself as we look through the glass of time) somehow stand in wonder by the light filtered through leafy trees until but a single shaft pillars your silhouette, to hold my keyboard attentions long enough to capture it for the viewing pleasure of your current leisure, herewith.
I write to touch a mind in ways it has not yet been read to, to take this art form of the written word and craft its abilities hithertofore not exercised to familiarity, so that a varied view of the communicated scenery I portray may induce an altered perspective of the act of reading. I take your eyes in mine and lift them to the window reach limit of your own stretch of intent, to focus out at the figure against the edge of comprehensioned evening light and realize that it is your own reflection on the glass between here and there, as seen through wondered eyes from where you stand in the garden of your present moment looking back to when I wrote this. Though they are my eyes to see to write, they are yours to look to read. Reflect upon that.
Taken in from the top, everything else looks down and out, but the best way to get here from there is to wait until you catch up with yourself and see who arrives first. Tie goes to the rumor. I surround my ambitions with a yawn and prepare for the next available moment (after the current one), time travel notwithstanding in the (perpetually evaporating) rain of my every day dreams for a better tomorrow in spite of yesterday’s misfunctions. The crowding transitions keep my hesitation from broaching anything more radical than a mid-morning snack, but I bite off the substance of freedom, chew over the implications of lateral intent, ruminate on a better way of strife, swallow my pride, digest what comes to my attention and generally get a belly full of short-changed inspiration just in time for lunch. Close call. Slow day at the okay corral. Round up your posse and ride like the dust that blows through the sweep of your mountain stone mind, like a rock. Here come the good guys and there goes the neighborhood out the back door, down the alley, into the streets of lost and found angels looking for a better way to share a smile.
Writing as fast as the images and words flow from the fingertips of my digitally active mind to the walls of your never changing mend (substitutions abound) of the way you would like to see what it is that holds your breath between each and every straydream nightcap, I hide under the light wait precipitation of impending eventualities, like a puddle. I offer relief in the form of a cloud, you hold clouds in the arms of your clear blank eye between the motion of reading and the sub-stance found therein, while the weather makes out just find in the loss of something else to lose. All reality is conditional, all perception is subjective.
Another day surrounds itself around my awareness, as if time was a wardrobe I don and wear upon my senses, cloaking me in the realities my conscious moments offer me, covering my life with the functional styles of choice I am presented with, enabling me to display my self worth with all the confidence shown by any emperor newly dressed out in the latest fashion. I shrug into a well worn habit of actioned creativity and dress down the keyboard view to your eyes, touching your voyeured mind with the image of yourself reading these words. Looking good.
I submitted a spontaneously crafted poem to Poetry Magazine just now. I was inspired to do battle on the home front (back, actually) today when I looked out the kitchen window and saw intruders in my yard. Arrogantly disdainful and boldly unfriendly, they stood in territorial claim of what is mine, right and proper (the bank held mortgage ignored for the nonce). I dressed, gathered weapons, went directly out in the hard sweat of the day and pitched vigorous assault upon their claims, vanquishing their incursion and throwing them down like the thorny vine weeds they were. After my well deserved victory shower, I was compounded in inspiration by reading literature I picked up last night at the 8th Annual Printer’s Ball in Chicago. So I wrote a poem about my great conflict and sent it off to the magazine. Stayed tuned right here as they will maybe write back in about six weeks. You may rest upon the edge of your chair while you wait.
A corner was turned today and now we are on the back side of the previous page. On the count of one, two three read these words to yourself as if you were I and I were a figment of your daily journals. Now what do we do? (You first.)
Let your eyes tip toe through the sugar plumed fare weigh and sweeten the view of this passing moment (always fleeting by, never losing sway) as you relax in the comfort of your own destiny, neck and neck with eternity while trying to get a head in among all the other tying leads to the success of your definition of potential. Gathered tight in individual substantiation, one of them is right next to each other over there by itself with the rest, joined in loneliness as a group condition, waiting for the bell to start being quiet so that you can hear yourself think, I think.
Devoid of pre-construed, post-actualized,transloquated, pertinent and readily available reference materials in fixed literary tangent to this very sentence, a prospectile application of original transencryptions, within the pseudo-reality that fomatics employ, is embarked upon in a quest to create a reasonable factsimile to an exact duplication of something totally otherwise in the same way (where only one is directly adjacent to the other) that previous endeavors have set to view, such that you now, herewith conceive to unravel this sentient sentence into a compendium of parameters that seem intensely crafted within communication’s own cohesive structure, word by word, line by line, until the entire seam of intent is discerned to be mined into comprehension, like digging into a panned cake of soapdish opinion asking you to wash closely for what lathers up next, ready and waiting in the queue ambling forward toward attention in the rinsing of your busy mind. It’s not what it says, it’s what it does.
But the poem comes first:
Off the chimney swept edges of poetry,
Aligned with the rooftopped silhouette horizon
Held in the dancing moonlight of late night imagery,
The Last of the Red Hot Camels takes the stage
And tangos his way into your dreams
Above the cities of your eyes…
A spot of color in the Man vs. Nature category, to brighten things up a bit.
In spiritus sanctus obligato munchies on a Monday morning: uber alles pizza. But this refrain is pleasantly refuted, rerouted and reconfigured in the name of surprise gifting and unexpected alternative: brownies are offered and honored (off and on with a magic spelling) right out where you can read about them. The drumming hum of routine is smoothed out a bit, bite by bite, sweetening the outlook for the day and showing that the coast is clear… which is just fine on this downhill ride because there are no brakes to slow us up (just the fast break for the breakfast line you were probably thinking I might offer… which I actually don’t, because I finished off those goodies when I wrote this, years ago) on our race toward tomorrow. (My ride wrote its way here from memories past, just in time to reach your eyes now. Luckily I had some brownies to keep me going.) Chew slowly and carefully.
Like gardening alphabet soup vegetables (spelling out my nourishmental needs), I rake through the spellings of my earth bound tally: hoe. Furrows of great concentration appear on my brow and I write that I suddenly jump to my feet, wave my arms around wildly, yell out, “I’m not going to do this anymore!” look defiantly at those around me, sit back down and sneer into my bowl of lunch (some kind of soup today) and continue writing off to the side, all without actually doing anything at all (except the writing bits), thus giving the vegetables of your head a garden to grown in. Superlative fodder.
I saw the sky with an edge of rock and snow, cutting the horizon between heaven and earth…
Say this: Contrastic perpitude devolves ambient ambivalence in both directions toward the middle. I clutter and quake in steady flux. Substantial eyes drift aground and hold fast to the slow pace. The numbers add up to a disparate loss to gain a different view of intent, all things passing on the whims of rationalization. Look again, see yourself. Fascinating confusion, I’m sure… at least, it works for me. A chair curves above the folding floor, all hands wringing hard and sharp. The end result held forth and dropped like a hint of satisfaction. Initiates start to function as fall back alternatives to comprehension in moot points, letting the entire scheme idle like a rock. Wow… that’s serious finagling. Risk is a committee activity, (with or without someone else,) so let’s all have fun maintaining steady composure in spite of discomfiture! I am pleasantly distracted and let the explanations speak for themselves for the moment, giving my alert numbness a wrest for the better. Intellectual emotion tickles my fancy and places me in a clear fog from which to function. Why create new problems when the ones we already face are so clearly misunderstood?
The environment of change is giving rise to the horizon of perceptions found in our hopes and fears, caught in the various dreams we have not yet felt but still strive to change to meet our thus anticipated needs, showing that what we see is not only in front of us (within this eternal moment,) but keeps peripheral activity floundering to keep up. The eyes have it lost on track. Stayed tuned for the continuing transloquation and put your best foot in its proper mouth.
(Well spoken, even through you were mumbling a bit there at the end)