language is not a matter of knowing the words

language is not a matter of knowing
the words to speak, but rather a
comprehension of thoughts left unspoken
for no writ nor vocal manifestation could ever
replace the origin let crawl from
mind through splitting time and chance
in given circumstance.– that which may never find
another route, if not through that subtle genius,
Epiphany, may fall as leaf to be but
nut on ground beneath the tree
unseen, unfound, for who notices
the bearer until the given is believed profound.

this life is but

as a tree
   as a voiced cricket
      as a splattering rain
         as a twist-turbined fan
            as a direction-uncompassed gnat
               as a bulb let slown to sight
                  this life is but a branching plenty
                                      a branching plenty to the still’d & hungry leaves
                                     a breaking call unrepeated in constant
                                      a breaking call unrepeated in constance
                                     a falling raised
                                      a falling raised
                                     a mutterance mumbling incoherently
                                      a mutterance mumbling with incoherence
                                     a changer of path
                                      a changing of path
                                     too fast to comprehend its speed and brevity
                                      too unknown in speed to comprehend its brevity

originally designed with the first ‘a’ only, but both seemed so appropriate.
perhaps better read with ‘as’ repeated twice, once with the first ‘a’ and then with the indented ‘a’.

the muse vs inspiration

a muse is someone/something that cannot disappoint,
merely disinterest.
emotion is not wasted on the muse, merely displaced for a bit.

Nature will never be delegated to status of “muse,” for Nature is a permanent-inspiration. the muse may wax and wane, but it is not the permanent moon, just a moth you notice in the light.

those who inspire: Mom, E, Katie, dad, Grandma, family, Sarah : they are permanent in thought; they are me in some odd linking.

the muse is but a flash, while those who inspire :including Nature: are the light. the muse may linger, but lingering is not comparable in force to motivation.

you may say the muse is but a parasite, a hinderance, an obstacle of inspiration–
i prefer to call the muse “practice.”

Sorry.

Apparently, someone I had let access my FTP decided to send massive amounts of e-mail to AOL users, with a link to a virus, ” Hallmark.scr “. I have removed said user’s access and the virus. I sincerely apologize to anyone who has received unsolicited e-mails from this individual and would request your forgiveness.

In short, sorry I was a fuck-up by letting some child use my server.

pale in envy.

when the voice, or blood,
                      or whatever
                      is clogging throat,
                       boils at room temp
                       to eyes–
                       the sticky ‘lids
                       hiding as
                       ashamed curtains
                       pulled to feet by
                       someone–
                       her–
                       the one keeping me
                       strung,
                       well-tuned,
                        but unfree to enjoy the air–
how
    repulsive
           this sight of a sickened child
           rotting in thought
           from too long an exposure,
                                      inward,
                                  of her.
thought,
           what
                 of
                   our
                       time?
alone, in stare or conference held,
         she is
            she is
            here– in front, beside, behind, around me–
if that
        time,
               that
                     solitairy fixation on
                                              us
                                           could
                                                  extend,
                                                            grab
                                                                  us
                                                                     and
                                                                          stay,
                                                                                 not run, not walk, not
                                                                                                          s
tu
mble
                                                                                                          from
                                                                                                           as so
                                                                                                           prone
                                                                                                          we let it be–
perhaps,
          just
                by chance
                         by longing
                                 we
                                    could bring to
                                                   us an envy drawn
                                                                  from other,
                                                                         an
                                                                            outside onlooker–
                                                                                        me.

from specks in grass

groans.
that is all they are,
side-stepping in hurried wave from one spectrum to the next
on those damned, barren wastelands of rock.
what scroaming beasts, these skippers in roar of rush;
what beckons them to pass as though nothing, they, were to stop?
can they, these slow’n’ slicers of the air, not see what is here,
idle and unafraid to be still?
can they not follow our way, to remain?
such noisy beasts, these crawlers–
why do they drown the ticking symphony of night?
and how they bother to pull the followers from Earth in their frenzy’d flush–
these defiant ones, determined in their motion,
know not the route of friction-less–
how could they, with Sailorswind and Hoppers
so worried of their path, so longing of their kin’s return–
yet, this breeze about them stirs a curiousity,
the killer of the brave,
to hope one should learn what rustle, this, does not show from afar
or be let known to they who are in doubt of journey.