Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Today death is like a huge white stone
hanging from a string from nowhere over me
like a sorcerer's long stare from the doorway
of tomorrow that never comes
I was living in a funhouse closet in the clouds
like strange empty buildings walking
on the hills with eyes of windows
looking out over the sea of golden zeros
I have lived in this old sunken mirror
on the bottom of the ocean for eternity
the cries of the haunted roller coaster
remind me of the creaking sounds of the drunken boat
in my head, as I read the words in the poem by that name
I'm living in a cave like room that hears the fog horns

of forgetfulness
as the moans of the junkies in the other room drown it out
but they are just ghosts of my floundering memories
fading in and out as I remember not to place the book I'm reading
face down, so the covers bend back at the seam, I put a playing
card in the novel and close the cover with slow contemplation
I know not if I am reading something I wrote in another life time
I know that it seems if I have been reading this written night for ages
turning the pages, one by one, as the bare watt lights grow dimmer
and the sore sun seems to be burning a hole in the unfathomable sky
through the long darkness that I endure the interminable darkness
with that red hot cherry floating on a layer of cosmic dust and horizons
no matter how long I nod out to the needle stuck on the turntable groove
playing Billie Holiday's hooker enchantress voice over and over...ain't
nobodies business, but my own...ain't nobodies business...but my own
and the low groans of the fading dreamers in the big stuffed chairs
that nobody can hear but the black cat sitting on the stack of words

fearless mind meander
this hit me with honesty:

"I know not if I am reading something I wrote in another life time
I know that it seems if I have been reading this written night for ages"

judih, those kind of lines come when I don't think about them

almost like I am thinking about where I'm going with the poem
as a kind of pause, to get my momentum. Not so much the images
above and below, but the pause in the middle, where I take
a breath, and let pause do the writing.

or maybe like the end of the poem, the paws do it.
I'm curious, by what you mean by honest. I always want to be honest.

i mean direct connection from the word to my being - nothing interfering

That was a very direct response, was it not? Direct connections might be something like falling in love. I would think that people tend to take for granted how they connect to the world.Direct connection to the being, is what poetry and art aim at. Sometimes the indirect approach hits its target too. Since there is interference all around us, it almost seems as if it permeates our being. It's difficult to tell when the direct connection actually makes its magic work. It is a little like taking poison to cure what ails us, just the right dose and you feel euphoric. When you read a poem for the first time, that poison might hit its mark. When you read it a second time, you might feel a little disoriented. This effect follows on the initial directness.This might happen right away, or it might take a life time.

energy is offered. it has a unique route to whoever is out there in the receiving line
you never know if it reaches a live receptor
or if it does, when the receptor accepts with full open synapses arms

a word a sentence even a skill shared
sometimes take years to make impact

no matter how offered
energy cannot be destroyed

fascinating to consider

Stream that mind..... These mind thought....images....tapped out....hit you heavier and heavier as the clock ticks....just so much time left???......ultimate ?'s in the act of living ............to write is to be alive, this is supremely honest piece from the depths of mind, a joy to read.