"The Sky is a Landfill", the posthumous album and song title by Jeff Buckley. What could this possibly mean?
This sky as cornucopia, wings and fingers spread wide to take what is free perhaps. But with that certainty the wind will bring unpleasant aromas to challenge you: Your conceptions, your hidden symbols, your psyche and ego jarred from its usual serene perch.
They say that knowledge is power and ignorance is bliss. These clichés are certainties revisited by everyone at some stage; some moreso than others, some unwanting to know, to delve into the refuse, the bitterness, the other face to discovery and the ecstasy this can bring.
Questions and quests. Answers you probably don't want to hear but will anyway. The cruelties of life a mirage to some, full-frontal assault for many. I ponder my existence daily, meditate upon the seemingly inconsequential, only to find out later the immensity one small action can do to influence others in a chain reaction. Cause and effect, action and consequence, karma if you subscribe to this theory. What of it, you say? Why not, and it's obvious, I reply to you.
Poverty. Old institutions stripped and redefined. Endless wars one after the other. Subversion of beliefs and principles to a more ideal end for governments, monarchies and industrial imperialists. The people in the middle and lower stratas of society having to deal with the workings of the few. We are many. Ground down. Silenced. Ignored. Dispersed.
This diaspora to lands of opportunity continue unabated. Dreams of a better life consume even the most placid of citizens. Another chance, a new life, new soil to work and landscape to suit one's desires.
What of it? Is this revolution or a compromise? I say both and neither: Half-full, half-empty, an invisible vessel.
i'm doing what i haven't, what i've meant to do: a hug,
a kiss, a poem, a stray hair flicked away from your face.
sunday laughter, talk of trails and waterfalls out west,
of meeting up again tuesday, perhaps to gemma's on saturday.
i miss this life of uncertainty. i miss warm breaths
and someone asking me what my tattoo means, and when i got it:
right after the comet in the sky that hung around for days;
the name escapes us both, the name, it doesn't matter.
so many people last weekend, so many gracious people.
my eyes always scanned the vicinity for you, polite hands
grasping mine, telling me the latest and greatest sights.
i ignored the jabber, how rude of me.
songs of aching change: this bed is cold, i think of you.
i could girdle this earth
with my potential
but i waste it all
on the sound of tambourines
ringing at vespers, me on my knees
searching for browner eyes,
for statues to
and open their palms
to the sky. ...Created 2008-07-21 11:23:05
you breathe seven
as if it were a quiet drink,
smoky-eyed, distilled tonic.
you regard me in sepia.
it's all spent ink, you say:
between numbers, you
spin silk, weave shadows.
a milky lozenge.
between this road, there's
no mecca, no jerusalem
in mirrored stone.
this night speaks velvet to me: slightly morose, slightly inconsequential, yet touched with the divine. why? i look up every time, hoping to catch comets between my teeth, elusive sweets, allusive therapy. i yawn, sprinkle pages with tannined fruit, hold journals to the fire to soak up every fickle memory.
this is an episode i can't afford to miss, character studies of nuance and altered flicks of wrist: comedy, tragedy, a playwright's fancies given room to destroy and create anew. a silver pedigree, gilt-framed, a guilty shiver. breathe. ...Created 2008-06-21 02:20:23