"no suicides permitted here, and no smoking in the parlor;"

     "no suicides permitted here, and no smoking in the parlor;"


Nothing can travel faster than light.
Except shadows.
Except the perimeter of a comfort zone
in a vacuum transition.

Stories of your life

Spoilers for "Stories of Your Life and Others".




      Stories of your life


Being passed a book over a wall, reaching tall overhead,
a book of firmaments she fell into, or so I dreamed.

Through a city soaked by a punctured reservoir,
the adept of musica universalis travels to the tower.
Crushed with the news that there is no beyond,
she feels cloistered and unreal, and a tower grows in her heart,
a curse of many tongues, that she might never understand.

She drowns herself in the study, and surprised,
she recognizes the shape of words bubbling in her mind,
the rhythms of inner space, the logic of the contrapuntal forms
unfolding into the middle like a snail without a limit.
At her appointment to guide the pupils at the tower,
she can now perceive how their lives intertwine,
and how to tweak their trajectories to maximize
healing, growth, and the happy twinkle in their eyes.

With the insight, she deciphers the divine scheme,
and the angels arrive. She marvels at their octopus-like skill
to dance the eight movements of a symphony, one against two,
one against three, two against three, each pair playing off the other,
a ritual of relation, a form of the ultimate form.
They come for help, and they will have help from us,
they will have been saved. And she is serene, she does not regret
the pained back, and she will choose this day, as she had.

As she learns the angels' langauge, she analyzes life's circle,
the square of the triangle. The Canaanite letters guide muscles,
and the epicycles unroll like budding roses. She choreographs
the movements of the cooking automata, to let the tired folk
rest that bit more at night, with a gratifying nourishment.
She programs toys for little children, teaches kids the letters
as they mold the clay, and the sculptures play music.

The light scatters through the clouds of an abrupt storm.
A kind heart, a joyful ride, a quiet visitation of fallen angels,
a hand grabs one by the edge of a window, the floating in the air,
and she does not ask to give back, but to make your own decision.

not a poem

    not a poem


I write to you because of your blonde, long hair.
I write to you because we never talked.
But I don't write to part the blue sea.
I write to you so I don't guess stories that are yours to tell.
To meet you in the liminal space, at the skin of thought.
To let you step as a novice beside me.

[an offering]

            ***

Relax into the hillside panorama coveted by mist
with the courage of a pine tree, plunge into stillness,
ground the toes with quiet precision,
till the foot is grown over with muscle and moss,
get carried away by the mountain stream
with the lightness of gliding autumn leaves,
inhabit the doe leaping into the stage's legs,
fill the breast with another life, an offering.




---

With some help from D. and M.

riding the elephant

      riding the elephant


The man touched the trunk of the elephant and thought it was a rubber snake.
The man touched the leg of the elephant and thought it was a pillar.
The man thought of the bark that the elephant could eat,
of the roots. Of the crossing of the Alps.
Of the space elephants, cargo starships.
Of the false dawn that wakes you up for a shift.
The man thought of the brain of the elephant,
more transistors than cells in a human,
more dreams than from Scheherezade,
among them, a gentle game.
It's the man's move.
An option, touch the cold descent of his second orbit of Neptune.
An option, celebrate by inviting the woman for a drink in a French cafeteria.
An option, build more units to prop up the economy.
There is time enough
to plant willow trees
and soak in the rain.





---
With help from DSJ.

Earlier attempts for "to plant willow trees": "to plant the seeds", "to sow the tree seeds".

Seven of Nine

            Seven of Nine


Nine ducklings
Seventh the ugly duckling

The swan
forever attracting

of clarity

      of clarity

Run, run for the splashing train,

but pick the threads of tonality.

Settle in the denim sound,

rocky marks of a bridge pass by.

Spoon a vegan yogurt of berries,

scoop with the wrist the bottom notes.

Trains and raining.

Oh the reverie.

The sun-battered soil

wrung by the vines,

the practiced strength of the unseen,

like the lungs in a flute,

or the switching of hands in a melody,

the texture of the chords, the sapphire of grapes,

played not for the tasting.

The chime and the clearing in the sky

ask to tap one's way out through the crowd.

On the count of three, alight.

On the count of eight, slide through the puddle's smile.

Die Lichtung greets her fellow students.

The lecture starts. The topic is reharmonization.

Psycholinguistics of music.

Conceptualizing strategies for learning.

Cognitive and affective development.

Sociological intervention.

A dance studio decorated with unfolded fans.

Put on tap shoes over worn-through tights.

Write with percussive virtuosity

an invitation to attentive pupils,

clap in syncopation,

a Broadway polka

and a slide across.

Shower, streets and stairs.

Beetroots, beans and broccoli

or cauliflower.

Feeding the heart, sharing in the night.

---

Written October 3rd - 6th, small update 9th.

ideal glass

      ideal glass


in an aikido class
the sensei's rolls slow down
he becomes a white stone in the river

in an undersea movie
a torso of salt water
where is it going?
like a magnifying glass
exploring the room

the river moves in unison

silhouette

silhuette



            *

He who peels the curtain, confronts the light
on bare skin, he who transitions at each step
through the dark page, there to encompass him,
he who leads the way with courage
one grasp at a time,
he who lays his inner eye
on the quivering prize.

He who has outgrown his mother tongue
speaks of tomorrow,
poses a gap we face to answer.



            *

She walks funny in high heels,
both a bun and a bow,
she wears a short winter coat dress,
pins a purse under her elbow,
and she is so proud to be adult
it's adorable.

The shadows lengthen by the power line poles,
she walks home and pays no heed
to the welcoming of the feline creature,
her thoughts drawn to the drawing class
and the dreams that beckon
under her elbow.

gift-wrapped

      gift-wrapped


Worlds on hold in a gmail folder
Which way will this one tip the balance
A few words in a draft
none in another
A book on the shelf that wasn't to be there
balancing in isolation
How to fall into a world that is falling

the meadow of seasons (by GPT-2)

Prompt:


The sun-drenched days
sing securely unattached
fiorituras of white and violet,
the timbres for the bees.
The bokeh of the meadow
invites unreservedly
to join its standing overture.
At an orchard's fence
the velvety beeswax scent
paints the swaying grass.
Under the grass curtain
in the warbling of the wildflowers,
words scurry for closure.

---
"the warbling of the wildflowers" phrase by GPT-2



      the meadow of seasons


Toward me the meadow's delicate song
is whispered,
a spidered little dewdrop in the blue.


The vase bursts from the ground
and the bees lift it
for a darting flight.
With the insects,
not fluttering like bats,
they dance on the bulb
of the cherry.
They laugh
in the summer shadow
and in the winter snarl
like a mule in the yard.


The grazing hill
blooms amidst dahlias in a tango of heat.
Yet nestled there among the dahlias,
back on the meadow, amongst the ivy and myrtle
and the pale, sunshine,
the songs come easy, the shade is gracious.


Sail away! bethink you.
The porch of our garden
bristles on the gales
of autumn.


The geranium-bark vine
shepherd to the meadow's center
in its perennial shifting
caterpillar walk.
The golden eagle glides
In slow circle above the neck
Of the reed before us.
Beyond him the future quietness
can still continue to perfect and quiet
in the infinite richness
of the eternally undulating transcend.

---

by GPT-2, https://talktotransformer.com/

? shore sick

      shore sick


There she blows in the monotonous wave.
A longing guides the beach weather to fall
onto drizzly dunes backed by a shy horizon.
The gadabout meandering scrubby tufts of grass
as she floats afar a bathe a bathe --

? Disguise

      Disguise


To appreciate the perfection
of the extreme points of the envelope,
of a reversible transfer of the equilibrium,
of an unrolling brachistochrone.
The tangent language of the proprioceptive.
To hide under the ideal
of the homomorphism across spaces.

The ideal attracts: the strength supporting
the reliable geodesic. To be that someone
is a joy of following the unique smile,
the unique slide, the extended palm,
the establishing presence, the felt sense of now.
Being overwhelmed, overwhelming the accidental river
of spikes and gnarled boughs with that stirring joy,
and so flows smoothly the heart.

Don the disguise of flesh, wear it so eloquently
it becomes a song, a monument -- the pentatope.
Flow with the embeddings and diffeomorphisms
until you discover yourself the disguise
gone with the river.

[lone galaxy]

      ***


The expanding universe
and the unwinding time.

The people of a trillion years hence
in the lone galaxy
will study the infinite layers,
uncover the pottery of stone and metal
and ancient carbon fibers.

The people of a trillion years hence
will rediscover
the fractal multiverse.

They will discover
that most universes are young
that statistically
their life is just a poem
and the possibilities are endless.

The old woman's eye
recognizes a sparkle
in a battered girl --
the friend of the dragons she knows yet not.

In the old man's furrowed face
a glimpse of a gifted boy's magic
and the long process of boring through
his shadow's bitter disenchantment.

These will echo in the simulations,
in the stories as deep as life.

? visit to a grocery

   visit to a grocery


We strolled through a grocery.
In a warmly lit aisle, brown bread
crouched on a lower shelf.
In another, cottage cheese
interrogated by the cold.
In the clearing of the fruit stand
a kid on a photo safari.
Shopping trolleys backing up,
circumventing at the cereals.
We broke some bread, for the cheese,
and for the picture.

[closed circulation]

      ***


Do you know how when your legs are hungry for extension,
how you go for the stretch that consumes you
and sets you at ease as you breathe slowly.
It is that with my eyes resting on a friend
and my words pouring, a closed circulation
of nourishing angels, a city within a city,
a library herd running among us, those who enter
through the rainbow's third order. There your passing shadow
ripples into a hello, consumed by waves.

work in progress

      work in progress


Tap two tears by the riverbed,
unabating muscle.
Frame the waters like mountain lakes
as clear as the limbs.
Inbreathe a tightrope of the sky,
the laughing goddess.
Hold firm the moment
and another, and another.

---

Improved thanks to DSJ.

? The Beauty and me

      The Beauty and me


The monster has a soft
spot beside you.
The monster, little angel,
in the heaven of your knitting,
the clumsy, patchy hair
with an ominous twitch
the monster mellows out
at your knees.

[a wooden bench]

      ***


Sharp shadows cut deep smiles in the glow
of those nesting on a wooden bench,
a lathe-shaped wooden leg
like a pirate ballerina's
props the lush scarves and potted greens.
Each a coffee and a cigarette,
a medicine man and a fado singer,
and the sun that has welled up for days.

[go all the way] (by GPT-2)

     ***


At nighttime light your things in a dark place,
like the light of a dead coal;
fly as a bird is moved by the sky,
once a breeze stops its blowing;
sacrifice your life to a dove, the wretch
where your hurtings were born, to a tailed cloud,
each stuttering blossom;
overcome the conundrum of life,
refuse those who sell it, empty yourself into it.
Shine like the light of a candle,
strong as a mustang's heart, come to it,
like a mule stumbles alone at night.

--- by GPT-2 1558M

The eye of the storm

      The eye of the storm


There it goes quiet, my mind,
composed, tight-lipped,
perched on folded knees,
keeping to itself
the teacup of storm.