I only feel the white wall
and the sleep
the not yet universe
where galaxies, lost children
are playing hide and seek
till end of time.
What was there before the spark of creation,
before the spoken word?
A thunderstorm ?
Inspiration comes as inspiration goes…
as with dreams, I remember mostly the bad ideas.
It felt
like an inside out depression,
where all the light trapped in a black hole
was flooding out
for the first time in eons.
They say that joy is
to never want anything to change,
Yet we
we are blessed to never call
behind
home
again.
Home
is the map:
a book where all the empty
space
is shouting,
the author has changed their name,
and the title?
Who could digest an eternity
that has just begun?
Trees fly,
Shadowless,
Leave behind the roots,
The unknown,
End of day.
Heavy yellow stones and one dark-faced monkey,
I’m sitting down, pretending to be funky.
She looks at me, and scans me up and down,
You’re not my type, cos’ you’re from outta town!
I try, explain, that we are all the same,
We laugh, we cry, no matter whence we came.
She says, no, no, you cannot understand,
I’m sorry, yeah, but cannot be your friend.
And so it goes, united by the wall,
We face the light, that down on us does fall,
I contemplate, and cannot comprehend,
How could it speak, so I can understand.
I can never remember a time,
when people were still collecting stamps,
tabulating the symbols,
of letters not yet sent,
never to be sent,
many of them,
duplicates.
In my time,
in my book,
I’m collecting just names,
and their faces,
the post office has moved,
from downtown,
everywhere,
and the faces,
the names,
are still waiting for letters…
Strolling down my collection,
a lone finger sends waves to the crowd,
moving back, moving forth, till it stops,
pointing one name at random,
It’s the first on the list.
Open window,
And send:
Worried face,
A thumbs up,
Then a quick middle finger,
Laugh out loud on the side,
Zipper mouth, dollar eyes,
Throwing up,
Then an eye roll.
Goodbye!
I can never remember the time,
when I sent away my last letter.
The post office has moved,
from downtown,
everywhere.
Silent whisper,
has become our exchange.
With no words,
only signs,
intertwined,
disconnected,
by the beautiful,
grammar … of emotion.
Supposedly it has begun,
The procedure of giving names to colors.
The judges are blindfolded,
And one touches the empty air.
Grrr.rreeee.dddd.
He whispers.
