Some of us are born out of synch with time
, revealing shady shadows
making weird and wet.
Even now the power lines can be seen as
demarcators between sky and Sound
, the lie and the allusion of a false horizon.
As, it is not a two dimensional axial tangle where water meets sky
It enjoins the earthen solid with the heavens and the sea.
Like how I could not see the mountains to my left
, for a solid month. And
, upon, seeing them
, to only mis-take them to be transient clouds of vagrancy.
The crows take their nuts
, chucked down to the Pavement below.
The chickadees take and taste everything fearlessly.
The Stellars’ Jays need lots of attention
, carrying boomboxes slung over their left wing
, blaring The Boys are Back in Town.
The junkos take nothing but simply get caught in condo hallways above parking decks.
, they come with simple ferocity for the taste of sugar water.
And a staccato strikes repeatedly. In time
, I take action.
My left hand flips an ancient
, anchor Roman coin.
(No calling heads or tails
, as there is simply Janus).
, twirling woosh
, palm-slap catch.
My right hand plays with a switchblade knife.
Balanced upon the the knuckles
Balanced upon the underside of the knuckles
, my palm open skyward.
Spinning the web of a mesmorist to lay your tired greyhound mind to rest.
Notice howl the flare of nostril changes the shape of your lungs’ breath.
/and, nobody cares, especially me. But, I can’t help myself/
As I fall back awake from sleep.
/the intolerable lucidity of insomnia/ wrote Jorges Borges (The Circular Ruins).
The Art of Dreaming authored Carlos Castaneda after years of staying up all night.
The Voice of Knowledge wrote the nagual.
Shadowboxers fighting in the sunshine are oft under