A Bleb in Time

The bleb lurched, a startled shake of realization avoided.
Rotund time slipped a giggled hand over face whose digits touched the floor.
It is tarmac and cheese for lunch again.

Yes, that thought of paving intended to smooth and simplify
Clumps clumsy clinging knots of gravels roll spent neglected
To the sides of the thinning road.

Smooth idyll of back seat play and rolling signs
Streams to a halt fighting to control the wheel
Ripped by the intrusion of dirt, an untravelling rock—a hole.

The wrinkle of every careen duly noted in rows of suddenly attentive eyes
Is it left? Is it right? Is it over the side?
Whatever the turn, your hands are seen transcending the story in reality.

Curriculum Map

Twadling vision rises above a brow.
A wrinkle casts the form.
One scraped toward together
Another held, meld, thought.

Sudden prance patter path feet
Reaming patterns into retrospect.
The intended thoughts for them find random dust broken.

Planned lessons fall under reality
Only an inch glimpse of the known holds.

Day after day the patterns are re-tooled.
Patience.
The sound of thought carving concept drifts on.

Tinkling clatter, a shear surprise,
An adult student returns accidentally.
Roaring trains freeze.

Both overlook into the past
Ah, the common bit remembered from two sides.
It was not a science.
It was not a math.
The child remembered the man and kept the thought.
Growing, the picture remained in the shaving corner fading.
The new man liked moving the picture.
The old man smiled in surprise.

The trains roar on.

Anachron Eight to Three

Twirl
Tug
Twist
Vortex
Nah! Just school.

It is not an air
The thoughts
Practiced and pulled to hold
Water
Time
Attention.

It is class.

Fast crevasse defining understanding
Tentacles crossing comprehension
Sounding the symphony of massed voilas.

It is education.

Seeds leaking home through nights, days, years
Suddenly growing daily food.

It is learning.

The Point is WHAT'S

The last few posts have pointed to the author/reader interface. The one that is occurring in your mind now...or rests calmly on the page. Hmm, well I control what goes onto the page (and I do it with some intent). You "control" what is happening in you mind as you read. I may pick and prod at your mind, but I have no ultimate control over the effect of writing like these poems.

This is one of the things that fascinates me about writing poetry. There is a certain amount of satisfaction in the expression/writing. There is another satisfaction in hearing the effects...no I do not judge your impressions against my intent. The poems become semi-independent objects--word sculptures in the garden attracting gazes...and dogs.

Part Two

Sweet Smell Lingers

What did you see, where?

Projection/Injection

A Red Rose







How many are there?

Descarte Before the Hoarse

Trees
Vertical victims of posts
A barer of commune I que from whispers beside paths.
Now freed by frozen pixels from burden bidden barks,
A phantom poet pirouette.

Syllabic slivers from these flayers of surface hanging now in space
Observations little changed from dust,
Mostly concealing,
Little revealing of surface,
Non-royal outsides blanketed with insight blind binding to the points.

They rise in puppets of manual pullation.
“I think therefore you are…”
Illusion of control from the process of authoring,
Sharing, shattering, shimmering, cymballisims
Before and passed your eyes.

Understanding feints
Meaning swells
The dance entertains.
Who wrote that you or eye?