A closet door flies open in the hallway, sudden startling wind, a myriad of wings licking eddies of air. The bare trees are filled with clinging talons. Pictures pasted against a faded primer-grey background.
Screeching...Talking?...many black feet grip hybernating wood, like mama grizz grips her cub. My mind whorls like a fingerprint. I think immediatley of a fleshy bald man standing in profile, slight, rotund.
I skid rattle-and-fang through the concrete prarie in an altered state. Long hours--too much caffeine doesn't help.
Where are they all coming from? What do they want? What are they thinking? Do they bite, or just those that crawl and run?
Fading fast. Turn up the Banshee's wail; keeps me goin--gotta make it. Flip open indigo door, unfold myself and gingerly slide up the stairs. Home! Ahhh, food, sleep, warmth.
Enveloped by black feather of sleep, consciousness liquifies. Trees uproot...turning... a coin flips through the air in slow motion.
Humans have maybe a hundred billion neurons in their brains--who counted them? Where are they all coming from? Who cares?
Tree branches grasp at the heavens like dendrites at the synaptic cleft. A murder of crows in sleeping trees, an endless bunch of electrical signals, flashing as traffic lights.
Author notes
Written January 6th, 2005
What did you think
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I feel so entangled in this - like I want to wire myself up and dangle from the words while sifting through each conduit and following it to its source - I love the phrase murder of crows - it has such a sensational air of sinister appeal
I'd have named this art not prose
how goes the flame . . .
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Thanks James--thanks a bunch.
Edited on Mar 30, 2:18 p.m. because ''. -
I think we all have those questions about the origins of human thought, which by far are the most understandble, because how are we supposed to live if we cannot ask for answers?
Without our ability to think for ourselves we would be merely pieces of meat with brains, loaded up on information that we would not be able to process, as free will is also the opener of doors to other levels of being where we can come together within ourselves and find something of an attachment to the realities of life.
In however we do so it matters only that we try to elighten ourselves to the great mysteries, whether or not we ever scratch the surface of their truth.
A beautifully written and creative piece. It takes me back to when I used to read more often, reminding me of the good old days of having the time to sit down and read a good book. Now in my life it isn't so easy to get that free time, but I try and when I do get a chance to read a poem, I comment to the best of my ability.
Have a wonderful morning and a splendid rest of today.
much love,
James
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Great
This was great a real thriller..I love Alfred Hitchcock..I'm glad through Jaunty Pill I found you and this amazing piece
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Thank you.
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Thanks Sj, and I'm in complete agreement with that idea (the phsicists' idea, I mean)...more or less complete agreement, anyway.
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Wow, that's great (the buzzards I mean--13 no less)...
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CAW!!
Hey 'D
long time no viddy.. The images are so clear here.. i almost think of some kind of buzzard/crow hybrid creature when you mention the middle-aged bald guy.. Free association is fantasitic! I love the contempt for standard order that creates its own interlocking sense. You bring forth the things the mind wanders into while contemplating.. all of the images changing ino one another.. According to certain physicists, Hilbert space is a reality composed in much the same way as random thoughts i.e. out of particular place and time..
all that aside, i think this poem kiks ass!
sj -
Hitchcockian right down to the fleshy bald man in profile .. LOL .. oh, right, that's him! I particularly like mind whorling like a fingerprint -- very cool simily. Of course, the imagery is vivid.
On halloween eve, when I was in New Paltz, walking snort in early evening we noticed a big oak tree (leaves already gone) with, get this, 13 buzzards. LMAO
That was a pretty cool spook. -
Maybe traffic signals, maybe grass flickering in the wind. It's amazing that from such wild wetware we get logic. It's a bit silly that it makes perfect sense. Mysticism. Now that's something we can grasp onto. Because I think it's closer to the truth. But still, almost as far off base. Interesting blend man.
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