Monday, April 30, 2007

temporary world

temporary world: peace practice

freedom exists only in action

H. Arendt

donnnn’t hurrrry

liiinnnnggger

winch your heartbeat

slowly up your windpipe

feel your heartbeat flutter in your larynx

feel your hartebate electric on your tonnngue

feel your heartbeat tremmmble in your lilips

releeese your heartbeat

in your kiiiiiisssssssss

feel the beloved’s heartbeat

quiiiivver thru your lips

feel the beloveloved’s heartbeat

inflaaate the capilllaaaries in your paaalate

innnhale the beloved’s heartbeat

let the beloved’s heartbeat

expppaaaand your lungs

feel the beloved’s heartbeat

stirrrr yr blood

start over (repeat as required)

peace is a practice takes eons to perfect

heartbeat esophagus

heartbeat larynx

hartebate tongue

tremmmble lilips

let every kiiiisssss multiply

and each cure the peace deficit

let copycat kkkkkkkiiissers mmmmmmmake the headlines

st. ink

No comments:

cohen

cohen
the sweetest little song

st.ink

st.ink
his heart this big

Hornby Island by Goh Poh Seng (for Billy Little, who shared loved spots and fond friends)

Here on the headland by Downe's Point we case dreams to rise synchronous with eagles and gulls, all make-believe, egocentric, near to fanatical, else aim true to roam deep with Leviathan in the ocean's mind, free from perplexities and profundities such as bind the scheduled self Here is the arbutus grove whose trunks and branches tighten like nerves, twisted witnesses, victims of shapely winds which blow in always unseen, sweet from the south or coming cold from the north, from every direction the prevailing force of nature Wish I could emulate the arbutus slough off my thin skin as easily as these natives trees their bark from abrasion, disdain or design, unveiling the bare beauty of strong, hard wood beneath Over on Fossil Bay the rot of herring roe strewn amongst broken clam shells, dead crabs on dirty grey sand, exposed bedrock, thickened the morning air, but gave no cause for bereavement: these millions of botched birthings! And none also for the Salish, no open lamentation for a race almost obliterated without trace from their native habitat save a few totems, some evidences of middens, a score of petroglyphs of their guardian spirits carved a thousand years ago on smooth flat rock by the shore, of killer whales, Leviathans again, to guide their hunts, the destiny of their tribe. Having retraced them gently with finger tips, they now guide mine.

Halo by Patrick Herron (for Billy Little)

half of love plus half of half is halo and I don't believe in angels, no.