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The Story…!

Who will tell your story?

Is it you?

Is it the friends around you?

Will it be your children?

Will be your enemies?

Or your acquaintances?

Will it be some bytes caught in the net,

Trawling the bottom of the mind?I

Will it be through word?

Paint?

Notes?

Will it be a taste,

that crosses your tongue?

Will it be a tree you plant,

that grows to become a forest,

through roots and fungus?

Will it be some news anchor doing a minute remark?

Will it a slab of marble with your name etched in?

Will it be your bones,

dug up thousands of years later?

Will it matter?
How will I tell my story?

X

1996, Season with the Huntress

Season With the Huntress pt 1

PART I

“Let us build a friendship” She stated.
“Nothing more.
“We will never have any memory of dying.”
Then she slithered away into the wanting parking lot,
nestled within the city’s gut.

A generous light,
splinters its way through the foliage of the buildings
and blesses the multi-colored flowers,
scattered impulsively about the cracks,
amongst the broken bottles, crumbled cellophane wrappers,
and crushed aluminum cans.
However, the earth remains silent,
as I pick a flower from her sanctified lips.
I touch her and she quivers.

My hunger seems so blatant.
my stomache makes such obvious sounds,
the texture of my words, such obvious Enunciations.
When she exited the room,
closing the door behind her, I could not help but watch
with the yearning to partake of the Tree of life.

I can say. I have suffered things in the Street,
spread myself, and turned over whole lives,
changing skins, names, beliefs and license plates;
regardless, it was I, who walked this way.
No one else forced me into the ashes.
It was something I had to do;
something I needed to find.
I must face the consequences for doing such.

I can say I lost my heart, piece by piece,
giving too much to loves
residing within the dark crevices of the cities’ walls.
Or was it not enough?
Regardless,
the want to pick ‘em up and glue ‘em back together,
is not here.
I have gotten used to that harsher terrain
where no one wants to love.
By giving no answers,
One can say “I didn’t understand.”
Yet where does that get us?
A little farther from the Great Mystery?
A little farther from love?

I could say that I walked those streets,
without seeing, without feeling, without longing,
but I would be lying,
for, I am of man.
I watched every time she walked.
I could feel those firm potter’s hands
grip my neck
her fingers press light steady circular patterns
and knead themselves down my spine
and farther . . .
It’s strange, perverse
it’s as if, it is something my body craves, needs
I cannot deny it.

Ask me where I have been, and I will tell you;
however, ask me where I am going,
I could impart nothing.
I only know of the thorn’s language,
and the taste of Red Chilean wine in a flat bottom bottle.
Regardless,
the tracks I have left behind will be hard to follow.
My heels leave barely a trace imprinted in the concrete,
they will disappear with the walking of the wind;
as the day’s newspaper circulates the night air.
You will not be able to find me.
You will not know me by my tracks,
but only by the skins and tears I have shed.

2019, New Poems: workings and beginnings., notes, thoughts

the center of the hurricane

In life
things whirl about you.
the very ground we walk and stand upon
spins;
and, the earth in itself
orbits the sun.
and all that spins.
within
the universe.

As a child,
I’d spin
and spin and spin
and spin
and frail about
crashing into things
and in that strange state of vertigo,
I was the center of a hurricane.
I was standing still
and everything else was spinning.

every wheel has a center
unmoving
the center of our galaxy is the sun.
Where is the center of the universe?
Is that where we will find god?