Today I could talk straight through until I die and not tell you half my thoughts, history and fellow travelers. None great but I was there and lived it all. So much, all the time. Little things, big feelings–I am an Indian mound full of artifacts, a wrapped present on Christmas morning, full of surprises, not all good. These atypical thoughts will leave me, but here they are for you to see, caught on my flypaper.
Moon casts her shadows
A plop sounds in the old creek
Night birds croon their songs
And I sleep…
Night regurgitates day in images that ride their REM waves, waves that slap the hard beach repetitively, incessantly, omnipresent in the fog of sleep and in the spaces between the incidental, accidental thoughts that drift by during timeouts in the day. Like now.
Endless road ahead
Moonlight summons old spirits
The Earth a cocoon
If you ride a trolley long enough you’ll come to the end of the line. You can then remember the sights and stops, the riders that come and go. Maybe trouble on the line, cross words or banter, perchance the frozen grim look of out-of-sorts folks. Perhaps that little girl with lollipop all over her face. But search the faces–all of them–whose do you want to see?
trolley’s fare is much too high
clickety clack lack
So here it is: The master of the uninverse either has a devious sense or humor or gets terribly bored at times. For instance, He planned and plotted that one little bunch of His creatures live out of sight, underground, for fourteen years (sic). Then apparently a clarion call sounds and they all creep upwards to see the light of day, and sing (though it sounds like a buzz to some). Someone has actually written a musical score for their buzz-song. They will mate and insert their eggs into tree bark and then the nymphs (I kid you not) will begin their long dark night of the soul. (That is, if a bird doesn’t eat them first). They are members of the Magicicada genus.
the great ball of twine unrolls
who is to question