dizzy thoughts
i fall into it every time-
--------------------------------
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!” -Jack Kerouac
--------------------------
dizzy;
about to loose my voice
from
sickness, drugs and chemicals-
i sit
in this theater of my youth
and pretend for a while-
under the light of the full moon;
my- how glorious and like the day it is;
and watch the shadows and clouds
play across the valley.
the evening hues
those deeply blues
are always the ones for me;
the fading embers
the trees remember-
their leaves like spiders
against a web of stars;
a cricket's chorus
the frogs' revue;
and cicada lull-a-byes--
there was a time when i could sit and write like this
when i could spend hours telling you
of the dreams within my heart
or the things which haunt my soul
and i could make those endless words
all seem like
lucid flowing thoughts
which brilliantly illustrated the feelings
and emotions
that i had been
wrestling and delighted with-
be they
frustrating or alternatively
blissful
and the rare instances
when they eclipse one another
and
the world
balances
in those ways.
and either the pendulum of my life has slowed to it's
true standstill
or
woefully
the art of remaining ever valiant and hopeful
has become lost to me
my world
so drained
of the kind of sparks
which once
lit up
raging fires
beneathe me.
is it that i have changed
or has the world just been
solidifying around me?
the longer i walk upon it
the more sure of foot
and cautious to emotion
i become;
i suppose
loosing some of that passion of
youth and naievity
ought to be a fair trade
for the lucid
calm waters
of my thirties--
i can never escape
the hanging sword;
the ticking clock
that notion that i am always
just slipping past
death's searching grip--
((because i could not stop for death;
he kindly stopped for me...))
where do my thoughts go-
where did my keen vision to austerity and its beauty
the inspiration
over breathless
flame and air-
go-
that it is as if
the glasses through which i saw those
burning worlds
have been misplaced
disenchanted;
no ruby-rose
or emerald lens
affix'd to ensure
technicolor delight--
how would i have spoken to you?
how would i have sung my song
when once i had
a heart?
i would have said;
'my love-
the night calls endlessly to me;
her dark corners cloak me in their potentials
and the tendrils of her hair
encircle the throat of my thoughts
to poison my mind
with the sweetest of dreams-
whisper'd all
of
you...'
i would have written of
those simple things about you
which
delight me-
the memory of your smile
of the lingering tingle upon my skin
when your fingertips touch me-
how my heart races
just to be near you--
of the exquisite torture
my longing sometimes enduces
simply hearing the familiar thrum of your voice;
desires
which also
leave me fearful
to step much farther into their very feeling
having been
shut out
from so many
such things
before.
do i truly disdain my carefulness now;
that i come back around to how i once had been
before i knew
what the world was like?
indeed,
i suppose i miss the headlong rush;
the thrill of the unknown
those things which take us 'up-'
and however long we can hang there dreaming
before reality and truth
bring us crashing
down.
it is
after all
about the journey;
is it not?
for that
do i say;
my love-
walk with me a while-
share with me these moments;
until our paths divide
let us count only those times we spend together
in truth and wholeness
and forget the times apart
as if they were only shadows
between the brilliance of
the light you are
and that we make
as we
careen madly
amidst the dance floor
that is our universe;
let us dance awhile
before spinning away again;
and revel-
however brief
together.
--------------------------------
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!” -Jack Kerouac
--------------------------
dizzy;
about to loose my voice
from
sickness, drugs and chemicals-
i sit
in this theater of my youth
and pretend for a while-
under the light of the full moon;
my- how glorious and like the day it is;
and watch the shadows and clouds
play across the valley.
the evening hues
those deeply blues
are always the ones for me;
the fading embers
the trees remember-
their leaves like spiders
against a web of stars;
a cricket's chorus
the frogs' revue;
and cicada lull-a-byes--
there was a time when i could sit and write like this
when i could spend hours telling you
of the dreams within my heart
or the things which haunt my soul
and i could make those endless words
all seem like
lucid flowing thoughts
which brilliantly illustrated the feelings
and emotions
that i had been
wrestling and delighted with-
be they
frustrating or alternatively
blissful
and the rare instances
when they eclipse one another
and
the world
balances
in those ways.
and either the pendulum of my life has slowed to it's
true standstill
or
woefully
the art of remaining ever valiant and hopeful
has become lost to me
my world
so drained
of the kind of sparks
which once
lit up
raging fires
beneathe me.
is it that i have changed
or has the world just been
solidifying around me?
the longer i walk upon it
the more sure of foot
and cautious to emotion
i become;
i suppose
loosing some of that passion of
youth and naievity
ought to be a fair trade
for the lucid
calm waters
of my thirties--
i can never escape
the hanging sword;
the ticking clock
that notion that i am always
just slipping past
death's searching grip--
((because i could not stop for death;
he kindly stopped for me...))
where do my thoughts go-
where did my keen vision to austerity and its beauty
the inspiration
over breathless
flame and air-
go-
that it is as if
the glasses through which i saw those
burning worlds
have been misplaced
disenchanted;
no ruby-rose
or emerald lens
affix'd to ensure
technicolor delight--
how would i have spoken to you?
how would i have sung my song
when once i had
a heart?
i would have said;
'my love-
the night calls endlessly to me;
her dark corners cloak me in their potentials
and the tendrils of her hair
encircle the throat of my thoughts
to poison my mind
with the sweetest of dreams-
whisper'd all
of
you...'
i would have written of
those simple things about you
which
delight me-
the memory of your smile
of the lingering tingle upon my skin
when your fingertips touch me-
how my heart races
just to be near you--
of the exquisite torture
my longing sometimes enduces
simply hearing the familiar thrum of your voice;
desires
which also
leave me fearful
to step much farther into their very feeling
having been
shut out
from so many
such things
before.
do i truly disdain my carefulness now;
that i come back around to how i once had been
before i knew
what the world was like?
indeed,
i suppose i miss the headlong rush;
the thrill of the unknown
those things which take us 'up-'
and however long we can hang there dreaming
before reality and truth
bring us crashing
down.
it is
after all
about the journey;
is it not?
for that
do i say;
my love-
walk with me a while-
share with me these moments;
until our paths divide
let us count only those times we spend together
in truth and wholeness
and forget the times apart
as if they were only shadows
between the brilliance of
the light you are
and that we make
as we
careen madly
amidst the dance floor
that is our universe;
let us dance awhile
before spinning away again;
and revel-
however brief
together.