Lufting and gently rolling
Gravity pressing us softly towards the floor with a pitch
The airship slipped through an evening of light
The Pilot keeping us out of the ditch
So sparkly was the world below at night
Languidly we sailed
Around the Eiffel Tower
It must have only been forty minutes or an hour
The Chrysler Building in our view
In the darkened window
That's when I saw you
A set of pearls in the skin around your neck
Aquiline figure in an emerald dress with open back
I thought how lovely, a bouquet
To see you in that way
Another gentle blimpy roll
Out of the crystal popped black olives
And pickled onions on a roll
Burst of Laughter filled the cabin air
Champagne glasses slopping everywhere
Like children in a school yard
We were prepared
Chasing marbles here and there
Enchanted air full of song
In slow motion I watched
All in the party moving along
London stretched before us and below
In fine regalia
With St. Paul's Cathedral in tow
At least for today
How wonderful to be rich and gay
So easy to fall in love
Have your heart and soul all full of knots
Here today tomorrow to fade away
To be sure love is a forget-me-not
And if I was asked
By a friend
Was it worth it in the end
I'd say hoorah, hoorah, hoorah!!!
Let's do it again
Sound of fish jumping in the river
Glassy puckering sound
Sound of the water's surface being broken
A tear in a cellophane skin
Water droplets chasing each other in an arc
Through sun drenched air
Outward as a parrot feathers curl falling on the river's unbroken surface
In a line of tracery
Fish jumping careless of the hour of day
The tree's castanets
Cicadas clicking in unison
A dead give away of the time of year
And it's heat
All the world's exotic bird song rides the vocal chord of the bush
Eucalyptus opens the senses
Opens memories doors and weirs
River running with invisible current
Time floats in a menthol globe
As an opiate stills the brain
Stills thought, the wild monkey inside
Reflection loses it's intellectual dress
Her shear lace falling about her feet
Nakedness prevails in delight
And in the bath of freedom and light
Awareness becomes a platinum beam of molecules in space
A satin stream moving through the universe
The absence of caring for time
So life giving
So remarkably without current
The idea of working
Of working life falls away
No care no desire to work at something
Only to slip into making, the play of childhood
To let go, give up, cast off
Boat breaks the calm
Drones out the cicadas beat
Parts the tireless stillness of air and heat
Only now the sound of parrots arriving again on an eddy of bird call
Same duck swims by the jetty shallow wake behind it
A veiled image of our passage, energy trailing always outward
Careless, the day burns away slowly with the peace of a hand rolled cigarette
How many times are there to return before returning ends again
In the night passage of death or the return to forever
Lost or found
I love paper.
I don't know why I just accept it and I have collected so many kinds.
Not the paper that comes as junk in the weekend news, not the paper with the
legal dialect reducing the dense history of a life to anonymous sterile points, not
the paper of bills amounts owing who determines how much.
Not anonymous and bone bleached.
No I collect real paper, paper made as a work of art.
Produced through time, rich with the hand in it, carefully chosen and worked.
Paper with soft disappearing edges, indefiniteness that relaxes into space,
is kind and forgiving to the artist, says, "start on me any where you like-no
Over the years with no deliberations on my part this paper has collected
into the corner store of my life.
So many kinds of paper I have stored and rolled in my only post war closet, rolled up on their sides under the bed stacked on more dust balled sheets.
Paper from Italy.......peasant hardy stippled as the fields and rocks houses are made of.
A composers consideration in its fabric.
Japanese paper........immaterial, floating, still, the character present but masked.
A landscape in essence, form, in incomparable whiteness, sinew and fibre
without the 'I' ness of whom or what it is.
Floating clouds above my board that I dip my hands into to draw over.
English paper.......all refined, proper, self conscious, morally correct in its water mark.
A tamed shrew created through a precise, laborious and pedantic process.
Nothing immediate or unleashed or irrepressible or coarse.
But the English is hardy, pervasive remnant from an industrial psychology.
I have little of it and only from curiosity.
I let go my stoic, anal, and self conscious root.
Spanish has heat all coiled up in it, explosiveness of spirit, roughness as abandoned sex in a Mediterranean room with thin curtains across the window parting occasionally from the breeze, the hillside and olive groves and vineyards sprawled out in the mid day sun, moistness on the walls, dampness in the sheets, soft moist legs wrapping and moaning about the body.
Spanish is really free.
Lusty with red sand and salt.
So, now I begin to work tirelessly with my paper.
Sweet softness emptiness uncorked and spilt across luminous surfaces, life to live itself out, some bull speared angry, twig broken, soft lack of past years horny and rubbing itself into reality over clean sheets.
Universe of beginning and ending drawn into white surface.
Through all time a precious carpet to ride over history's mirage.
Our senses, my senses, fall into an opiate state with its simplicity, purity,
Open, open, open.
Open sesame and give me your sweet smelling sex.
Paper rich in poverty, full of milk, lifeless and alive, a sensual hermaphrodite politically correct in its naked state, field and ground, unisex to all our desires.
Image of our original state, invention out of spirit and nature laden, capable
of divinity and illiteracy.
Out, out, out it comes, the torso in lead, colour of pain joy lust.
They were everywhere this weekend, on the sidewalk, on the
restaurant table when I sat down, on the curb edge, in the middle of
the ped-xing in the intersection.
Most people defer from being seen picking them up - a slightly
common or poor thing to be seen doing - picking something up off a
city street surface where the debris, gum, butts of the day end up.
Socially not the most attractive thing to do.
Most see that coppery disk, sometimes silver, and struggle against all
their bone twisting compulsions to bend down and pick it up.
They would be noticed.
Never had a problem myself.
Every time I do it's finding a golden hoarse shoe up your ass.
That's what we all know, that's what we recognize when we see them
We know they have come off someone else's armour. Someone else
who has ended up here for one reason or another.
Watching other people I can't say I have been present and seen
many others stumble across one and pick it up for all to see.
An embarrassing tense moment.
Struck by glitter and it's cry as a crow - those apparent collectors of
Never found them travelling in Europe or the Middle East, only
occasionally in the States.
Maybe people are more careful with their money, although not in
"Yuk" you hear the lady behind you sneer to her bouffant friend, "did
you see that he picked it up off the street, you never know where it's
been". I got a good idea lady and it's worth a Golden Horseshoe up
my ass and I can use all of those I can get right now.
I am amazed at radical change
It comes so quickly
Demands to be let go of in the same manner
There is no surety for decision
How circumstantial we are and all we cling to that reflects ourselves
What we seem to need to build around us
Love, money, health.....all circumstantial the only truth being that it blooms and perishes sometimes like flowers quickly, occasionally.....in rare karma, longer like trees
Intuition, just when we think we have found groundedness in it we question it. Are we sure that's what it is?
In love we need to know that what comes to us will last forever we forget our own death
All beings really a reflection of ourselves
Life requires faith. There is no middle ground and in this is all our panic and fear and vulnerability
Nothing saves us. Really.....there isn't anything to be saved from
It is a beautiful morning. The City hums with a smile on it's face I project
It is bearable. The sun is warm
Morning seems to have so much possibility in it. The trees are fresh. It is almost the end of July
Summer is late and now on its way out. I can wear only a shirt.
Venice, Milan, Verona, Florence, Athens, Cairo, Jerusalem, the Gulf Islands are in and out of my head
It is an easy moment
Most moments not clutched are easy
Like love it is the holding and grasping that stiffens living into a hard brittle thing
Lost sounding in the depth
Of blue midnight
Leviathan calling across the liquid space
A great cry of pining into the galaxy
Searching in the grey and the black
Searching for a returning call
That could be met
Lost to all others
Leviathan lost to the self inside
Slow ageless movement
In a tireless deep
No boundary in which to find quarter
No boundary to fold into
Loneliness larger than space
Loneliness in an emptiness so large
Time ceases to exist
A great cry to heaven from a black depth
Where there is no life
Greyness without a crack to slide through
Leviathan grown so large
So slow, so gentle, so soft
Softened by the lack
Sounding so as to be heard
And not foresaken
Swimming through deaths infinite cloak
Leviathan crying out to be found
Crying to hear a call back
For perpetual night to be broken