Bus Ride To Nowhere

Images go past
And words- both written and sounds
I travel through them
Through both time and space
Insulated by the steel walls and padded seat
My forehead pressed against the coolness
Of the quarter-cracked pane

Speed shifts from minute details that stretch like a Kansas plain
To shutter-speed flashes of half-formed impressions
Painstaking fastness
Or breakneck slow?

The scenery changes- but it's still the same.
Just as the music on the radio with its same 5 chord progressions 
It occurs to me- remakes
Songs and scenes and roads
Time and trips and memories 
They fall in a jolting, yet familiar pattern 

I take a break and stretch 
Regarding the other passengers 
Some stare at their phones
Heads down, focused 
Fingers gliding and lightly tapping over the screen's surface
Others, earbuds in, stare blankly ahead, lost in the sounds of their own world
Some snuggle next to a child, spouse, lover
Others crook their necks, lean back and close their eyes 
Trying to let the monotony lull them to sleep 

I peer out again 
Has the scenery changed?
Yes and no
I feel cramped
My stomach lurches from inaneness
The familiar question coming to mind 
Are we there yet?
Yet that doesn't quite capture it 
The destination no longer seems to matter 
The question is: when can I get off?

The Process

The Process

I try to write

A simple process, one would think, and yet...

Tangles, and torrents, and tidal waves

Rushing, cramming, straining

A subway at rush-hour

Sometimes I wonder if any will make it through

Will come out the other-side unwrinkled

Will manage to keep their vibrancy and light

After being pushed out the canal of thought

Squeezing through, pushing out of the dark

Do they stay the same on their journey?

Or are there bruises, dents, tears;

Imprints of the time within

I feel them sometimes

Pressing, and straining, and clamoring

I try to bring them out, but I lose them

Probably more than I save; I lose

When the survivors reach the end

That isn’t the end- they are weeded out

The weak and mangled are discarded

Tossed as refuse in a back-alley bin

I still hear their disjointed cries

Coming from half-formed mouths

At the end, the weary veterans

Pursuing their mission

Do they speak only for themselves or

Do they speak for their fallen comrades

Are there any left with luster and hope

Any standing whole

The process complete

I sigh, I shudder, and am spent

Nothing more

"Wonder"land

"Wonder"land

If I take in a breath

Hold it

Feel it inside swirling and sinking

Filling and draining me at the same time

And then let go, let it out

The hopes and secret desires

Things left unsaid.

Would they be granted?  Would they be heard?

I decide to try, how hard can it be?

And then... I pause

Wings break, horses run lame (if they show up at all)

There are still dragons, and towers, and frankly

My hair is much too short to be of any use.

I turn away

But the something catches my eye

Candlelight flickering in the glass to my right

The mirror- it calls to me with its siren's song

I'm captivated by its gilt,

Frightened by its darkness

Yet intrigued by a smile

I lean in

Straining to hear the sweet sounds

Peering in and catching glimpses of hundreds of points of light

I'm tipsy and should step back

Catch my breath

Steady myself

But I'm hypnotized, caught in the spell

Oh... the prize

Like the brass ring on a carousel

I stretch out my hand

And tumble

Head over heels

Heels over head

What have I done? 

Hanging just out of reach

"Stars"

The night stretches out

An ebony blanket spread out across the sky

With a cascade of glittering jewels on top

I can almost touch them

The thought of pocketing a couple flits through my mind

A pair, to bridge the distance

From one side to the other

As I sit I contemplate

the shades in the tapestry moving from end to end

and which is the better legend- the design or the shade?

To know where I am, in relation to

someone else, sitting in the night

Wondering if somehow we're enfolded in that same inky cloak

Tucked in as we lie back

Alone together in the solitude of the  dappled darkness 

In the Garden

Reach up and grab the ripe, round fullness

Feel skin, smooth against your fingers

Bring the sweetness to your lips

Take a delectable nibble 

Inside is the moist, tender flesh

Savour it with your mouth

until your hunger is sated

Forbidden fruit is the most exquisite temptation 

Cup of Tea

If I was flawless

Would it be easier?

Easier than to have to deal with the day to day bumps?

The grit.  Seeing beyond the fingerprints and the cracks.

Or harder.

No comparison of the smoothness of your handle

To the fact that my edge is chipped

No salving the wound of the scratch that might be lurking

With the fragments of the gash running across me

I’m not sure.

I can keep on

Buffing, polishing, gluing

I’ll never get there

And maybe I’ll be close enough

And still far enough

That you will set yourself upon me

The Spiders' Waltz

The Spiders' Waltz

A pair of them

Five not eight

Living on 88
Chasing passion and perfection

Tones and time

Crawling up and down

Over and under

Racing, tumbling

Nearly tripping leg over leg

Then still, frozen

but for the slightest tremor

Suddenly, they leap

Landing lightly before they are off again

From corner to corner

Making angles, creating patterns

Weaving intricacies of color from black and white

Now the leaps have become insistent

Aggressive in their pursuit

Determined to extract the cries of their prey

After their conquest

They creep back

Slowly

Quietly

Leg over leg

A final sprawling stretch

Then stillness.

The fading light dancing

In the gossamer strands

Of their creation.