Saturday, September 15, 2012

Staring, Wrote.

The staring of the stranger is what I wrote about a winter morning.
Winter mornings are cold and bitter.  The sea of time stands open.
I am the hash of secrets; the secrets of all secrets.  I am torn between two worlds-
The worlds that drip like unforgotten eyes in the middle of the sea of ghosts.
I don’t remember ghosts.  I remember my mother, like a great ship on the sea.
I remember things shouldn’t come between me and the riddles…me and the rocking
Boat.  A boat is not a smile, I learned in school-I also learned I am nothing but a lamp
Post, a dragon who isn’t remembering anything but herself.  I am not myself.  I am the
Dream within the dream.  Shadows rise out of nothing and the dreaming is warranted.
I sweep the hair out of my eyes and gaze at the stillness around me, in the classroom-
My teacher is sweeping words across a chalkboard, and somewhere far away a child sneezes, in some other classroom like in Jamaica or Spain or Guam and I think to myself
What has become my life and why am I here, the great question, the question of all questions, and the thought of my mother comes into my mind and she is like the stillness of autumn, or like I said before, a ship rising out of the water-and then there are the actors
And they are better than me and there are actors who are taller than me and try to scream obscene words in my ear, above all else, the sound of the cars on the street, and lamps shutting on and off, and my screams ripping through the ear and no one can hear me-
No one will see. 
The staring of strangers exhausts me.  I am bothered by the cold.


The planet is an open mouth.
It yawns and rests-shaking and shivering in the cold.
Your life is not my life.  Your life is a life that is begone,
And not forgotten-your life is written in the pages of the unforeseen,
The computers that do not compute anything but of mice and men.
People are shocked by the sea of faces that span out before us by
Thousands of flowers opening, yawning-you think you know, but you were
One of the first, the first of thousands, of millions that spread before us like
Unforgotten eyes, the eyes of the untold.  I am not who I am.
My mother is a bittersweet taste in the eyes of sight, and the world is like me-
I am trapped in the world that is cold and dark, it is like a cage of nothing.
Where is the old world?  Why are people staring, glaring at me-like the night I can’t see. 
I am shadowy river, I am the dim and the dark and the clouds.  Clouds scurry
Behind me, before me.  My father is not here-he was never here, he was a shadow of himself, a glimmering cloud. 
The dream was something else that glimmers in the dark.  You don’t know that these trees
Are bending,
You don’t know that eyes are staring, like dim forgotten eyes that are breathing and distant as time is distant in this nothingness that I am or what I shall be.  The wind is not my breath; the eyes that will not see.
I am the dark, and the waves are bending…
My mother does not share the same sentiment, and she is lost in the shadow of herself,
Lost as if the tides are lost. 
This is not my life.   

Between the Flame.

Between the sand and sea and sky,
I take the eve and make them dry-
I try to find the past and fame,
And put them out to sea again.
In my heart, and in my eyes,
I make them take me by surprise.
And all the shadows that turn me bare,
Are forgotten for the want and wear-

In the dark, and in the eyes,
My fire shines upon surprise.
From where I am, and where I’ll be,
The night is here and we are free. 

From all the world, and back again,
The leaves turn colors and then they bend-
I don’t know when or where I am,
As I walk this forgotten land-

The trees are bare, the eve is cold,
And in your eyes we are not old,
In this land when we are free,
From where I am, and where I’ll be. 
I’ll sit upon a rock and gaze at sea.