sunny morning into night

Enter:

Him, the lone surveyor,
His hands tightly clasping
an object of no significant
value.

Him:

Why do my hands
wrap so around this,
as though, through holding
this, I may somehow grasp
and grab and have and melt into
its stillness, its calm? I cannot.
This object, this, in hands,
I know not its worth, outside
the monetary (momentary) gain from which
I have given another, and,
yet, I know its worth will, in me,
as I now hold this, steady,
with no means but letting go–
Perhaps, if I allow it to, it will
fall, or perhaps it will stay,
if I am falling.

Enter:

They, the jester’s mimic, aping
in their motion, holding nothing,
that the air about them stills
without a movement, but their feet,
closely wrapped and tight, as their
body’s garments cling and appear to be.

They:

What is this? What is your foolish
bout with words, with those you speak
but know not their weight?

Him:

You know not either, you.

They:

True, though I know you.

Him:

And? Many know me; many hold my
thoughts within their own.

They:

Yes. Maybe. No. You are to them
as they to you, and you
know them not, as well you do.

Him:

What do you want with me–
What do you want that you
have not allowed me, yet, to
keep?

They:

Nothing, though something, yes.
Maybe. No.

Him:

You do not confuse me with your
wordings, sir.

They:

And you alone.

Him:

Aye. I alone.

They:

Why? What holds you, any’, from
finding or ‘llowing for they you know
exist to find or ‘llow you to?

Him:

I lay upon this same carpet, day and night,
knowing they exist, and, yet, I feel they
would, without my knowing, just as well.

They:

Eh. You know nothing, then.

Him:

She will find me, or allow me be
within her company, in some fashion, in
some way I know not– some way I
‘fuse to ‘magine, as I fear, yes, fear,
my mind may ruin such happenings.

They:

Yes. Maybe. No. You fear you will not be
as the imagined, the dreamlike, you, or
they may not be, too. Such rubbish. Life is
real, as is reality.

Him:

Your reality is you.

They:

Nonsense. My reality, now, is you, as much
reality is me, and, this, the thing
you hold, but know not the, its, worth or weight.

Him:

You say so much, and mean so little, and
I fear, yes, fear, again, my time with you
is to an end.

They:

To an end you know not yet.

Exeunt:

Him, having lowered the object
to His side, along His thigh.

They:

Ah. Sweet night; sour day. So ripe the moon, in
no plucked a way, and so terribly rotten
the sun in still, a stay.

Exeunt:

They, with neck, bent, forward,
arms to front of belly,
drawn.

Enter:

She, hands about Her face,
in quick gestures to an unseen
horror, played though laughable.

She:

Such a brutish man! What a sort to
be out this moment, with no cage from
which to keep him, closed!

Enter:

Closely following She, Her
friend, a feathered fellow of
more stature than the tongued.

She:

Oh, there you are! Where did you go for that
time I saw you not? Always flying, you, to
where, you never let me know. Oh, but that
is yours, this place you go, where you, alone,
may be.

Hers:

Certainly.

Enter:

Far from view, Him, with little but His
eyes to see Her; staying, though in rush.

She:

And what a speech! So little’s said, and more
I know than if not so! Ah, but where would I be
by you? To say the world, mine, would be
if not your little speeches, and your beak,
so long, but rarely full of not. Oh, I saw this
most lively of two today, sifting in
their seats a vision of their company
through years I, in age, know not.
So comforting, they, with no need but
worry for one, other. How brutal, time, when
no means of knowing its extent lies near,
in hand or eye, as though to
go through days were but the shifting
of the Satellite and Sun, and not the
sifting of such memories, such thoughts,
and places, and ‘speriences, been!

Him (with no length of voice):

Who..? Wh?–Who is she, this helden
creature, whose voice knows not the fade of
distance? Who is she, this being, still, with
air around her, so rapidly wrapping itself,
as though she be its beginning, nigh its ending?

She:

Oh, why don’t you fly to her; you know she’s there,
somewhere amongst your views, your visions, eyes, if
only then, and may’ not now? Do you like your following
of me? Is my life so seen by you as worth a need
of entourage, a likeness of some queen?

Hers:

Princess.

She:

Oh, you’ve learned my points! I cannot fault you
for your staying, though you will leave, or I,
and you will find they you seek so clearly,
if through me.

Exeunt:

Him, His eyes beneath His ‘brows,
widening to full roundness of a
happy thought.

She:

Who was that man? Why stand so far,
yet hold your eyes squarely ‘pon me? So
creepy, yet I feel a need of knowing who they
be.

Hers:

Aye.

She:

Yes. Maybe they were here as I, in view of
what a line, so far, horizon, may give if brought
a bit more close to eye.

Hers:

Aye.

She:

You crazy thing. The weather’s growing warm;
I fear we may be stuck if not undoing of these
heavy, old clothes. Let’s go home, yes?

Hers:

Aye.

Exeunt:

She and hers, Her eye, turning, slowly
thinking, taking in the spot from
which He left so soon before.

The sun reaches noon, with no sign of falling.

Enter:

Him, His hands exploring freely the
depths in pockets of pants, shaking
shoulders in a show of wrestled thoughts.

Him:

Why these thoughts? Why would I, in some
way I know not, believe in what I’ve never known,
merely guessed or shown in falsehood, in want? Is this
a similarity of that? Is this but want?
No. I need her. I need she, this speaker, she.
How her words, on they she saw, sifting, make
so right the world, as, she said,
hers. She, Princess, queen of they, and how
her words, her– ah, I recall them not, though
know their memory, and she be so right,
worldly in her lengthened speech,
brought on breeze, hers, to me– and, yet,
I feel as thief, taking these, her memory,
and placing them within some wordings,
unaccustomed to her freedom, speech.

Enter:

They, with loose shirt on,
and pants so, too.

They:

Ah, and there you are. What way did you come
this time? I did not see you from our route,
though you may have scooted by without my noticing.

They hold out their hand, waiting for drops of
rain, though no clouds are present.

They:

Amazing; no rain today, and yet you seem
so happy, as you always do when leaky
clouds wind by.

Him:

You and your patterns. Leave mine alone,
and I will not give you your
s.

They:

Hah! Mine? And what is mine? I have but
one, though many more may be seen.

Him:

You are a talker, though I never tire of
your words.

They:

I would hope not. You say them, too, and
what use would be in what you use if
what you use were grown tired of?

Him:

Yes. Yes; I would say you were right.

They:

But?

Him:

Nothing. You are right, and I am but
tiring of the hour.

They:

Ah, and, here, you know it well.

Him:

Aye. So quiet here, though not, as thoughts grow loud.

They:

Hah! And what do you hear?

Him:

Do you see the clouds?

They:

Yes. Maybe. No. The sky is clear.

Him:

When not; do you?

They:

Yes. Maybe. When I look.

Him:

And beyond the clouds?

They:

Yes, even without their presence.

Him:

Aye.

They:

And?

Him:

When the air is still or slight, I see the
clouds in full might of turning worlds,
and hold my head to sky, to stars, if
not they there, then wait, for are not
they when they are and not?

They:

And?

Him:

I see this, a vision, though its method
rests in eyes of sight, not mind, alone: A spread,
a flying, wing’d one, with only dust about its
flappings, too quickened for to move, but, still,
this… butterfly, a dragonfly less-tail, wing’d, wanders
above the dust, with no friction, only reflection, a single
way to eye; though, spread, I fear others see
this, too.

They:

I do not.

Him:

Aye. And you will, now I’ve shown you where.

They:

Yes. Maybe. No. You see me, and yet I
do not.

Him:

But a single mirror and that problem is fixed for full.

They:

So flat a mirror, image, gleamed of all that matters– move’,
yes, and light, but nothing more. So flat.

Him:

Such a ‘mage, though, and still a way of sight.

They:

Yes. But you didn’t mean a view of sight alone.

Him:

Aye. I alone may see the view as more, the Butterfly
as more than movement, there, though what do I know
of more? Such vision, steal of eye, and more. So
stilled, as in thought, though there, holding
sky in capture, longing for a way of gift of giving
to a devoted one, who may hold such close a bundle,
far from grasp of mortals, they who ruin such things as
things and not as hands, as God’s, but fall’n and raised
in view to be as humbling, holding so tight a cross of
soldered steel and touch of light; the heaviest
of seen, though not of sight.

They:

You know

Exeunt:

They, a glimpse of smile, held on walk from Him.

Him:

So light this air, a wonder the birds fly. And what of
this one, here, in quick dive to sit beside me now?

Enter:

Hers, followed by calls from far, though, slowly,
from angles, growing closer.

Him:

You! And what of you? So free to fly, with no means
but wing, and so jealous those bellow you seem! What
of you, then?

Hers:

Aye.

Him:

Aye. You are wise not to talk to me– you would seem to soon fall
in trap of quicksanding conversation.

Hers:

Up.

Him:

Aye. Yes, “up.” Do you mean, “shut,” or, “look”? ..Neither?

Enter:

Her, with arms towards hers, though dropping
loosely, to side, when within reach.

She:

There! I’ve thought you found another!

Hers:

Aye.

She:

You wise, wing’d one! What mean you for scaring me? Have
I not been truly faithful in my servitude, oh king? Or
were you merely venturing to where you felt a comfort,
breeze? ..Did the winds lead you here?

Hers:

Aye.

She:

You will be the death or life of me; I have not ‘cided yet.

Hers spreads wings, flying in sudden spirit and on the arm of Him.

She:

And who’s this you’ve found to ‘place me? Have you
been in secret with them? Such games I knew you did not
play!

Hers:

Aye.

She:

Well, then, since remaining tight-beaked is he, perhaps
you will tell me of his follies in your sight?

He stares, much more in loss than gain of
words or fair tidings.

She:

Well! You both seem near the same, yet one have lips and mouth
yet to speak, while other a vocabulary much less than those,
words, but preceding these. Oh, and so another reason for the
sun to stay and bake my skin, so not in need of such naturalities.

Him (having found breath for words in thought and swallowings):

He merely flew upon this, your perch of proximity, slightly ‘fore
you stood there, too; and I knew not his reason, nor
his comings from, though now, I gather, you, from calls so
made to find you here; and he made way from far, and
I feel he, from there, now found restings here. But, for a
reason I know not, he took from here to this, my arm,
and now I’ve found myself and him in sharp, tight hold,
and I fear, if broken, my, not his, blood may spill.

She:

Nonsense. What use have you to bleed for him? He has not given to you
but perch, a means of being still, and I, much less you, may
bleed, though not physically, if he does not leave, or break hold, of you.

Him:

He is yours; call him, lure him as you will.

She:

Here. Come. I’ve got treats in a dish in our home, if
you do come, or, if not, none.

Hers spreads wings, stretching ‘fore he rests, still
on His arm.

She:

Well. This is not good, and I know not another way.

Him:

Perhaps he has tired of the flight, and pulls himself in
slacked acceptance of his place.

She:

You may be right.

She walks toward Him, standing beside Him, with Her
arm stretched to match His own.

She:

Here, lazy, I’ve come to you.

Hers turns to Her, placing first foot on Hers, then, from Him,
other.

Him:

Aye. There you are. Are you happy? Your friend has returned,
and you are no longer looking, calling, finding him.

Hers:

Aye.

She:

Yes. I was so frantic; I believed he had left, but, here, he is, and
with me now, and I with him. I saw this couple on my callings
here, who looked to me, both so calmly, with a smile, and, for a second,
more, I shared their face, their laugh of mine-made, and knew,
somehow, I’d find him, here, or somewhere, here. They were so
cute, they, these two, with heads, so bowed by no need of being high;
both turned, in perfect unison, a unity united by an unseen,
though heavy, weight of age, and I, though I knew not their
names or fate, felt as though I knew them for far longer than
myself, and hold them, still, though they move, within my
thoughts. So peaceful, they, these two.

Him:

Aw, and such a sight as they would be so great a memory.

She:

Much more a model be.

Him:

You, in set of Sun, seem as though a life in light is lived,
held as though a Sun in you is made, with eyes and smile,
and, excuse my speech, you seem as happiness, if beyond,
and you are, the misery of having lost your friend, this, he.

She:

And you are excused,
though I do not know why you would
ask or need to be.

Him:

I… You see the lightest lights in Heaven’s veil; those they
call, “stars,” though I see them more as unfall’n hail?

She:

I see them, yes?

Him:

There,

He raises arm, with slight-deep stabs of hers, to high,
finger straight with line of eye.

Before the bend of dome is bent back to? Beneath the shadow,
though appearing ‘bove?

She:

I…

She moves closer to Him, behind Him, hers to His other side,
so She may line with His eye.

She:

I do. Yes.

He gives a breath, before latching to a breeze

He:

There, those points, these, hold such weight in mind,
this Butterfly, a stitch in time, as being quiet visitor of
night, spread toward crossing sky, with but build of
eye to know its ‘sistence, though I feel it’s free, inverse
of hold, as spread of me, and, from this, I find a way
of moving, though motionless.

She:

Your place is so far, and yet, with you, near; and, though you’ve
shown me where, I feel it’s here.

He returns to breeze, and holds Her hand, free, with wing’d one
silent, spreading, resting; and She smiles in the cool of night as
whispers wind their way around Them.

The above work is protected under Australian Copyright Law and International Copyright Treaties, as well as a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.

edited, on 8/22/06, from the original.

The Traveler

Your hands, more clubs, blunted, held out as to reach close only for need of nourishment; Your eyes, open, all of you within them, wanting only a moment’s passing ‘to the next; Your nose, visible, covered slightly with an aura, held for need of where to be; Your lines, arms, thick-pelted with the food, the warmth, you’ve not forgotten was given in sacrifice; Your hood, closed on skin of neck, of ears, lying to keep down the hair you’ve grown; You swallow. Another night’s distance and these legs, friends in rain, may hold but as scene long-sought in memory. You take in breath, holding not but a second ‘fore you lose that stench of flesh, half yours, half theirs, your wamrth of limbs. You widen lips, yet, closed, keep them, wanting scrunch of cheeks in vision, welcoming to the eye’, lonely in their passings of the nose. A branch, low, hangs for you to lower yourself, accepting & rejoicing, silently, with appreciation, the scraping of its naked hands upon your scalp, your thin-coated view, unseen by eyes. You lower hood to shoulders, hoping, soon, another may grant such comfort of company; the only friend a walker has being the shake of hand, of leaves by head, knees, limbs-up, or breaths hard-breathed; so welcoming, the sound the slide of seed upon the mind, much less the covering.

Sky.

You wake, slightly prior to your stumbling ’bout, with water needed by your sleep-dried mind, and your hands, beside your thighs, hang as do weakened vines from branches, trunk’, along the trees.

and they take all i can give you now,

but i’ll be around longer than the words can be spoken, and, somehow, i’ll know whether you’re right, and you’ll know whether i’m right, and we’ll go our separate ways enough to meet at the end of the world, never turning around, but comin back just the same.

What you should have no knowledge of

What you should have no knowledge of is how simple life and living are. Yeah, they are the same thing, but there are more, too. To say one is the other may seem ludicrous, but living is death is life is birth is hope is salvation is comprehension is universality is peace is struggle is suffering is famine is death is living is life. And what stands out among all of those syllables and ceremonies? Is you crazy? Comparisons are mediocre. I need definitives.

Gravity:

Gravity:

The bottle tipped over– Gravity won.
The bottle stood still– The bottle defied gravity.
The bottle tilted a bit– Gravity struggled.

Gravity is bullshit. What goes up must come down, unless what goes up does not come down. Motion leads to motion, unless motion is stopped. You know, the laws or theories of this realm of thinking, Science, are so abhorrently wrong, that one may see such things as a religion– you must, before you understand, believe. But, all religions are bullshit. They’re as a cackle of birds: one speaks, another speaks, so assumptions are made that all seek to speak, whether they do or not. If one does not, then they are seen as, “abnormal,” or a new species (that comparison is wrong– I believe in the science of collecting information, whether on species, areas, or beliefs and occurrences, but the science of creating what are seen as , “constants,” are to be kept within the realm and era from which they are observed, and not to be spread amongst different eras or situations, as how a baby would splatter its food over the kitchenware/table, just because it’s easy and fun to do). I know what I’m experiencing, and I draw assumptions and ideas from this constant experience, piecing together a thought with another, and planting a knowledge, whether wrong or right, about what is. I do see things I know are wrong, such as throwing trash on the park ground, or taking a loaf of bread without paying for the loaf, but those effect me in a manner that is not hatred for the doers, or sadness for having done so, but as a means to remember what action was taken, and to perform another if said action is not to my personal liking, or to partake in the freedom of being actionless, however bland or bold such a move may be. This is a rambling; I’m not going back to gravity, as I believe gravity to be a fast way of thinking of the rotation of the Earth in a level, mentally, that may even itself along the shortcuts and diagrams drawn before, without having an experience or a seed planted to see and feel such occurrences in a manner that would be without words, but, rather, with a fluidity of thought, much like the spider, hanging from their web, though their web may eventually be run through or drenched or shook away, but that’s why the spider’s method is within the spider, and not of a single use.

I once believed the world was round.

I once believed the world was round. Now, I see the world is bending, perfectly aligned so you may not see everything at once, a sort of triangular spiral; though, I might not be entirely sure of the positioning– are we near the opening end, the closing end, or between both, or is there no real end, but, instead, a straight-lengthed maze, hedged about with fine-clipped shapes, but, somewhere, the clippings– the excesses– have to be accounted for.. Nothing is so much a question as an answered statement, waiting to be neatly placed within the realm of comprehension’s ? ! structure.

I read a story today; more a headline, really:

I read a story today; more a headline, really:
Wild Bees And The Flowers They Pollinate Disappearing Together.
While a study in Britain, the word may spread
toward the cities, the streets, the neighbor’s
Of the colonies, toward the parks, where the last
wild flowers spring to be bladed by
the last of the green grass let roam free, alone
with the nutrients of a soiled Earth, baked
by the Sun, more-less the hands of a chef;
so tolerant, they, these petallers, fal’n on
grass, on ground, free from such worries as
pestilence and pesticides, be it by
bite or might of spite for the na’tral; the
hold of the ship brought cries of mutiny,
the unseen immigrants, left to end where they are;
But all brings match of Bee from Park, Tag,
a game of Care, of Worry-Not, but I do.