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Why are radishes of my mind-whispers glistening black like wet streets?
Why are radishes of my mind-whispers glistening black like wet streets? Where are the graces of broken sparrow wings beating on anvils, whitening in the acrid sunshine? These are the ladies propped on the edges of balcony questions! The matted hair of a Sunday afternoon is half a slant away from the concrete slump test of wonder and anticipation. The starlings are verbose, as they taunt the suspended animation of mountains and their tree tumours. All I need now is a trigonometric function to locate my last sigh and remember the misplaced yawns (in-between?) but then life really is all about triangulations and lost puppies.
At least for this white tent of skin man. Yes! Yes! Inner Self! (Notes that he has digressed like gold curtains from the point of his non-thoughts and probably should italicise the nattering fragments of his third half)
It is easy to see how misunderstood burning flowers are in even the tamest wild zephyrs. Much harder to comprehend their willingness to become the very essence of air herself. Are we not all that way inclined?
I often wonder how much better off honeybees would be if they realized just how sticky their little feet are or how moonlight-ish their eyes of whys have become.
But unlike honeybees, badgers or the organ grinder’s monkey for that matter, the finest moment of taking off is paid for in full by those who seemed least likely to achieve it when they were conceived. Commonly but not always done by artists who are able to bat out a full day’s play at the Village Green or sip bat ears from tall crystal chalices of chance.
Destiny is sometimes the drooling idiot who somehow closes a sale of lemonade on a snowy day. Or was the real fool the fall guy who paid the exorbitant premium for it? There is a fork in the road of perspectives here but the moment of true Zen descends like a flashflood when you (or me or he or she and a mayfly) realize that no matter which road you may decide to take, a tiny and often colossally infinitesimal part of The Self will still carry on down the path that you never chose.
It is (just like a man and his writing)...
the successful impossible meeting of parallels.
I'm lost for words here
speechless, actually, at your ability to fearlessly textualize thoughts and ponderings so many of us (if I may say us) have shuffled around in our minds, indecisive as to where one might store them - keep them out of the way - never even contemplating that they could/should be shared with and possibly understood by others. Thank you.
t.