Thursday, October 24, 2013

A Candelabra of Tail Lights

If a picture's worth a thousand words, then one poetic image is a chapter in a saga.

Imagery filters the distortion and static of modern life.In as much, you sometimes

need to exercise the other circuitry within you beyond the mechanical/numerical

wiring of charts and graphs.It prevents you from easily falling for deceit.Upon

using the other circuitry, you discover that there's a universe within each one of us.

It's one of those discoveries that will change your life.

Stationed discretely,

beneath the midnight crossroads of the stars.

Standing vigilant,

precisely in the middle of the night.

Here is where winds converge.

In the periphery, swaying twigs snap.

Soft geodesic spheres in the moonlight

take flight off of a dozen dandelion stems,

while brittle tree leaves scurry past an open field,

only to get caught in the long swooping stems of blackberry brambles.

These leaves,

now dried parchment,

no longer tell the story of autumn.

Meanwhile, the remaining dust of vacated anticipation

intersperses within a patch of crash landed may apple leaves

which remain attached to their dilapidated stems

in the dried puddle of moonlight.

To the east,

a half moon slowly sinks into a silhouette of tree branches,

all the while carrying within its crescent a slate black moon.

Meanwhile, at the bottom of the hill, on a road near the woods,

ghosts of fog bounce off a procession of auto headlights.

Overhead, a long winged jet passes

slowly rising out of sight

slowly becoming gone.


A newly arrived wind,

one having traveled through several time zones of emotions,

secretly etches lines on the face of an unlocated phantom

who stands concealing its thoughts,

while slowly bleeding into the night.

While streams of neon-tinted blood reach my feet,

memories begin to burn into the form of photographic negatives

transposed upon the planks of a 1960s wood burning set.

Each of the recessed memories is like a stilled reel frame

that once melted upon a fiberglass movie screen

during school hours, when the projector was stopped,

while its light bulb remained lit.

I do not want to forget loss

like a liar who stages his own amnesia

and then changes his identity within a pea & shell game

of relabeled file folders.

I cannot give tacit approval for damage left in disrepair,

by walking blindfolded past a world of cold ruins.

Nor must I block the traffic of emotions

which take an off-ramp to an intersection of uncertainty,

in preference to following a candelabra of tail lights

along a securely marked highway

traced with red felt-tip ink upon a glove compartment's road map.


I reach out into the air

and touch the raised dots and dashes of a familiar destiny,

mounted along the sill of a spacious sky.

Peace illuminates at my finger tips.

The streams of my interior instantly dilate and flow

toward the direction of infinity the same way in which they do

at the unexpected voices of unseen cardinals

heard in the middle of a snowscape on a blinding afternoon.

As I step,

the distant murmurs of assassination crinkle and crumble.

The curses of the envious dry on their branches

and fall to the ground like the bolted iron emblems of tyrants

that crash into gravity at the end of an allied invasion.

Watch dogs sit and wag their tails,

having scratched the barbed wire from their collars.

I inhale the echo of a forest's past leaves,

while getting touched with an impulse

by one of nighttime's unseen winds

that blows through blond wheaten grasses,

en route to the nearest town,

inviting me among the trees

whose branch tops of heated maroon

outline the November horizon by day

and exude the coming winter's touch by night.

As I make my approach, the instinct within the depth of night

suddenly falls into my hands, ready to flow at will

into the hands of a distant forest or nearby town.

Join the stars and immerse yourself

into that which is objectively wonderful,

and speak the snow which replaces the summertime bats

that flew around street lights in the middle of the night.

You are now free to transform into the objective of your love

within the deepest blue tint cast between a red hill top tower light

and the compass that the paperboy left behind at the outskirts of infinity,

the night his mother died.
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