Laughing Leaves
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Thursday, August 14, 2008
resting upon the mossy parapet in a world woven
with my waistcoat full of gypsy trinkets
I wander for shelter
the asians host me
in a harlem barbershop basement
with no sunshine on their skin
only in their veins
like illuminated ghosts
that had just sprung from the dirty bricks
carpets of peanut shells shot gun shells
and japanese bomb shells that sell their explosions
to any creature with clean hands and deep pockets
with no change of clothes in that dirty,
blinking red-light, barely slumber inducing,
dance floor, I saw a shadow of Dante
where skeletal bodies flung themselves
to throb and drown in pink paradise tenements
of other kings and queens of the pocket watch
the junk that was main lined
through their white gone red sheets
gone into the alley way dumpster
out onto the curb where a young girl hosts
a bloody cardboard box with no vacancy
only a tired feline mother with four newborns
she is selling off their hearts for bread money
under the clairvoyant's awning
I find you with your egyptian ring
telling me of the future
through the broken television set
once the sun has left the sky
on the feet of traveling salesmen
we explore with our accordion
and wigs
we stay young and shake our tambourines
in the absence of hours and minutes
like the sun-dial culture at night
we lay aluminum foil over the roof top
where we will dance on the reflected stars
and tangle our bodies together in this true cosmic night gown
the morning will be in brooklyn
where a child reads the newspaper
and does the same voice for the priests and the president
into a phone booth where a judge is masturbating for freedom
as the operator sounds like she is reciting scripture
what secrets lie like a sphinx
in the slumber of the vagrant
on the L train rocking around at 9 am
is it the secret of the divine forest where man has fucked the trees
and raped the soil as the screams of the then laughing leaves
echoes in the eons of the earth
where he forced her to give birth to the slums and then to the alleys
and then cut machinery out of her womb?
The leaves are changing
and herds of people are flocking--
chain smoking motorcyclists
stock minds of august
elevator repairmen
registered nurses
army reservist
college freshmen
literature professors
quiet sisters
mothers of twins
practical jokers
weekend magicians
old chess players who think every checkmate will be their last
so they are always hoping for a stalemate
to beat the riddle of time
I stand deprived in a moth eaten jacket
outside a theatre with empty street rain
and a brick wall in front of me
I reach out my arm
and watch a hand shadow creep up out of the grass
and eventually come up to hold my dirty fingertips
swing, i swing
i dance holding the night, i dance
i waltz with the sounds of accordions
plink plunk of piano keys
the elegance of the swaying melody
the bats swoop over the prelude to my exile
like ballerinas over volcano voices of the abandoned
son gentil
le son de la nuit
violin strings sing the stars into movement
the meteor shower picks up speed
my lonesome fingers conduct them
my legs kicking major and minor notes around the parque roof top
to the seventh ending on the ninth
palbearing attic columns creak a symphony
the coffins are like baritones
in the depths of the earth they give their sound
while in the woods and in the wind
leaves are the seating to the forestage
lovers would never make it to dress rehearsal
fire rippling through the night sky
bruising the darkness for a brief moment in time
horns escort the moon from behind the cloud of baby's breath
or the sigh of a desolate young girl in december
tempo pressed against the shooting matter of the cosmos
fear and doubt are the names of the rocks beneath me
the ones who roll under my toes making me lose a step
my ankle cracks and it releases memories
the cosmic conductor
the nightsman's orchestre
the string section of the nearby galaxy drones on que of a glance
as a forlorn super nova chorus gives my bones a shake
standing firm above the sleeping city of Marsala
i raise my hands calmly and the universe pauses
with wild ghost sheets we run along sharp fences
eye holes for sight and sock holes from wear
time is heavy in our ears like water
topsy turvey, intoxicated with forces unseen
our heads bobbing in and out of windows
our legs sprawling along city heights, unbound
the morning dew on our knees
we sleep with all of paris
and remember
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Imagine if you were the man under the earth who had the job of sewing petals to the flowers and has to connect strings to them from under the earth just so every morning people can wake up from their dreams of illuminated seahorse's, floating in a lightbulbs, and see their precious flowers open in front of their eyes. You must also choose the colors for the sunset every night, depending on your mood, you could make it as beautiful or ugly (as hard as that is) as you want, all the while swirling the clouds any way you want. You also get the job of thunder. Now, even though you are second rate compared to the gal who does lightning, you still enjoy the thrill of the shaking boom, now and then. It makes all the cups on the ends of the strings jingle and jump around. Even though you would find it beautiful, and would be happy everytime you heard laughter through the strings, and hear music, and a babies first words, you would be alone. The most lonely place on the planet, is the one that isn't known about.
Current music: Page France
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