Inanity: Found

There are times when even I must wonder about my own self and the security of my sanity in a world that to me seems best described as more wonderful imagined in the boundless confines of my cerebellum than in the infinite variety of reality.  To wit:

A week or so ago I was on one of my morning runs when I saw a bit of poster with the words “FOUND!” and a picture of handsome chap of a dog with a telephone number prominently listed below it.  Now you dear reader, I will presume, may already have digested this chunk of information and come forth with in no haste but to a rock solid and irreconcilably logical conclusion that I will shortly reveal I sailed right past.  I thought then at that moment how excited the child must have been to have finally had their best furry friend back that they then proceeded to replace all their LOST! posters with FOUND! posters.  And more so, they even left a telephone number so citizens such as myself might call them up to congratulate them and tell them how grand it is indeed to have found what was once lost.  And dear reader, and you are ever so dear are you not since you are indeed reading my blog, do not fret as I did not call said child, but if I had I would have shared with them my excitement for their reunion even while I thought to learn them a bit about how others might perceive them as off their rocker in sharing in such a public and indiscriminate a manner and even though I find such actions completely defensible in a manner reserved for universal logics and other such truths.  In a word, I would have called them up because they are, to me, a child after my own heart.

Forward to two days back when I saw a similar poster along GreenLake.  But this time I turned to my friend and mentioned that it was the second such poster I had seen.  And of course, in the intervening days since my first encounter I still felt oddly compelled to call them to congratulate them even though I felt admittedly awkward to do so.  More over, my only additional thought from the first encounter was that these posters were not for me but for all those other dog lovers who they feared would continue to fret about a wayward pet and wished to inform them that they could now rest assured that all was well.  Alas my friend, who it seems is a more mature and worldly person than I, informed me that such posters were put up by people who had found a lost pet and not by an owner who had been since been reunited with a lost pet.  Not till then had I seen into the mirror and realized there was another side, a juxtaposition of sorts of two roles.  To my mind it is such a subtle thing.  Both are finders.  One is celebrating the reunion.  One is trying to evince a reunion by leaving their phone number.   Sublimely deviated really are they not?

It is on days like this when my world seems so different than everyone else’s.  And the next thing I know people will tell their sky is really blue and clouds truly white, not the pin-striped skies and polka-dot clouds that I see.  In some ways I might learn to acquiesce myself of this view of the world but only as long as stop signs continue to taste like hot cinnamon firebomb candy balls.

Weeble Wobble

Me and my foe foo row ramma.  I dish and you dash and I know I got to go hoe and come on to do all that.  I have no idea.  No clue.  Notta respectability, neither nor all there or even some that.  But still I here while you but there.  And you ever so wanna correct me.  Because you got that standard stick and schtick and a sense that says there must be a sensibility to this sentence, a sentience to this my sentiment.  Might that I entertain?  And might more that you over contextualize this and this and then all more that?  You think you know me, do you?  You think you have the cliff and that ever so brash cleft to find in your own shadow my mingled mo’ matta?  You do not know me. And you sure as hell do not know him, any more than I know that whore of a bastard on 2nd street selling the smell of sunday streets slick with salaried succubus sweaty on her own way to salvaged service.  These are just words.  And still here you are, you who jingle and then jangle like Dylan and his bo’ dangle, a rhymeless tune to a hairless tongue.  I ain’t no nothing and I ain’t more than not these words.  You never will find me here anymore than in there, in your mind and its blind eye that from syntax thinks it snaps shut on semantics and so knows my synapses.  I wanna help you, really I do.  But you ain’t going to understand this, is ya?



In Between Thirteens

Today there is just this day remaining: one last day amongst thirteen thousand five hundred thirteen.  Thirteens, these book ends.   What tomes are writ there once?  What are to be writ here hence?

And I will go to bed at noon.”

— Fool, William Shakespeare, King Lear, Act III

This once statement, even affirmation of a seeming known.  Then what was once morphed into question, questing hope.  Now it is not anymore of Now; only that it was and will not be.  Or not yet, at least.

I see a child.  He smiles.  He laughs.  He takes my hand.  I kneel.  He knows me for he knows himself.  My cheek he caresses.  He stills the moments between the inhales and exhales.  We turn to the sound of Moon whispering, trees tickling, winds sighing.  I was born thirteen thousand five hundred thirteen days ago.  There yet remains a task needing my attending, if only I could remember its in-betweens.

Are you sure

That we are awake

It seems to me

That yet we sleep, we dream”

— Demetrius, William Shakespeare, Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act IV


I, Wind

Up along the Cedar Tree I whirl

Clouds are my eyes

You are Sun heating me high

I cannot be anything but moved

Even in the cold darkness of slumber

You come eventually rising up over my horizon

And my song whispers up along your branches

Unheard through the vacuum of space

Going North Looking for East

There is no gastank to look for this time as I pull out of Everett under the curtain of June rains
Pointed backwards toward the long shadow of memories of you as my companion
Running north into water-colored mountains, painted in muted finality across my then and now horizons

Even now as your Sun wakes mines winds down, descending tired toward Twilight and deep night slumbering

Once we journeyed here to renew your entry back into my country
only a mirror and a chance glance reflecting back to me a reality that since has never been refracted

This bus that now goes North
Shadows longing long on time slipping by one white stripe at a time
I flying from this here now to somewhere then unhurriedly

What if for a moment time folded in on itself?
And my now saw us then taking this same road?
I on this bus, we in your car with the latch to the gastank not yet found
What might I say from this now?  What do I know that I did not know then?

Nothing has changed, at least nothing that ever really matters.

I knew then what I know now
– believed then what I believe now
– understood then what I understand now
– loved then as I love now
And I smile now as I smiled then
As this bus goes North to find you East