Through The Day

I wake and dreams vibrate through my awakening.

Drenched from the pool of sleep

Reborn eyes confound the mist.

I lay still - I do not move.

Waiting - until who and where I am can be recalled

and I know not to fret or worry.

The streets hum the soft hush of traffic.

The baseboard heater crackles beneath the gray-lit glass.

The floor moans my steps,

their plea measured by countless weight they've endured.

They tell better stories than walls and never find shame

in their sobbing groan.

I look outside trying to assume her mood

her lingering nights passion.

Her own awakening

soaked by dreams

from that cryptic silent voice.

I step into pure morning breath,

The breath,

a breathing of every Man and Woman,

and a questive breeeze slips through dew-damped grass

lifting rich odors of resuscitated soil,

of dead leaves decaying in coffin rivulets,

of maple saplings feeding from the graveyard ground,

and swells my lungs with mingled birth and fading,

and I know not to fret or worry.

Buildings exhale the stale static wheeze

as the owner flicks on its electric veins.

Cars stutter and shake into croaking speech

or screech at their maladjusted limbs.

Dumptrucks shambled metal belly

devours the curbside waste.

Stoplights police the fates at hand

and flags droop at half-mast surrender from metallic spines.

And then, only for a moment, all becomes

gently still and mute, a painting-

the alleys, the buildings, the sidewalks and the signs

in collective meditation harmonize.

I pause, I absorb, I fuse, I ignite,

And candle-lit, cup the flame.

I see the eyes of heaven in the

rotting crow matted upon the window-sill,

in the maggots feeding its desiccated gash.

I watch in Complete-Abandonded-Wonder-

As the prophets of change effectuate sermons

of existence.

I study the scab upon my very knuckle and there also,

the prophets bled a sermon pumped from the treasured chapel.

I walk aimlessly,

each step conducted by some unseen composer.

Blind in this path of discovery and the thrill is measured

by how much I trust the tempoed stride.

The rising torch of the east dispels the meadow ghosts,

casting the fence shadow long,

cooking the sog-rot railing,

giving rise to vapored haze.

The composer halts my steps as I melt into

reverie and gaze

where not one of the minds cold thought assassins

pierce my sublimity.

This is the Eternal Pause once again.

And I know-

I come upon a highway.

I walk the highway to the crossroads, there,

some mend their boots with rolled-up sleeves,

others plan to lay carpet across

every square inch of shattered bottles, plastic debris, cigarette butts,

And spend a lifetime on their knees.

I watch an old man with a gnarled oak of a face,

our eyes exchange secret jollies

beyond the fragment of words.

I imagine him young, what his hopes were,

had he lived them,

how many funerals had he grown tired of,

And his nearly imperceptible grin assures me

"Young man, I'm only a passerby"

I watch a young girl with firework eyes in a carousel dress

giggle from the same secret jolly.

Her pulse is the velvet flower

dancing through the asphalt crack

in defiance.

The old man stands from the guardrail

and lifts the young girl upon his shoulders

and they saunter barefoot into fields past the crossroads,

inventing stories and names for all they see

and sink into the horizon where the swift wind

inscribes their tale into the stars,

soon to be soothing a newborn nebula.

That same swift wind scoops the sifting dust from the road

and cycles into a swirling galaxy before me.

No larger than my chest does the revolution occur

that questions my story of origin.

My feet continue up the highway along the rumble strip,

hand grazing the guardrail, painting rust

upon my tips.

I kick a crushed can that predicts my steps,

the bordered gravel shoulder permitting its escape.

Appearing and disappearing are such little joys

that rarely prints its minute time in frantic clocks.

Reaching an underpass housing the houseless,

the balcony of many a beaten man,

one starts a fire with a postcard

and portions half his beans for his dogs last meal.

He looks up and considers my presence and looks down to

indifferently stir his beans.

In that short gaze I saw more truth than all my education.

He did not ask for money,

or cigarettes,

or food,

He knew that what he wanted could not be held

and his every breath battles for what he may

never feel again.

A smoked-grey cat follows me out from the underpass at a skittish distance.

It pauses at my every turn

and sits

and cries.

I shrink myself into a squat and hold my palm out.

It does not move

but stands

and cries.

I bow my head to the road and its cries stop.

I look up and its Egyptian stare holds steady

as I then stand

and walk away.

I look back every few steps and it never moves.

Staring as I fade into the bending road.

A skyline city emerges like a cloudy mirage,

a faded form projected by mountainous architect,

the hive of hurry and noise

just silent rectangles among transitory skies

as I approach at the distance where my feet still sound

the scuffed pebbles and the wind plays

from branched chimes.

These sweet earthly notes

like trickled streams below clapping leaves, which,

by the washing of the head flames cools

the maddened coal,

remain in the repose of nature

as I softly enter the city's industrious clamor.

Litter cyclones from the gutter wall rest upon the grassy knoll

of a park manicured in the reflection of paradise.

This blatant dichotomy jars the strangers first impression

as he looks away to the translucent green-leafed ceiling,

to children chasing easy-breezed bubbles,

and walking on soon stumbles over

an outstretched hand.

Grid patterned traffic mechanically rushes by in sweeping motions.

There's a beauty to this order,

a cohesive and agreed upon order,

but being in such order

man will continue to increase the speed and convenience

to this order,

for few are content where they presently stand and with hurry

depart to join with an order.

In the heart of the city,

in the heat of the mid-day sun,

gentle drifts of cooked concrete rise

and flow down dumpster ridden alleys,

slip over a models perfumed wrist,

mingle with pipe exhaust,

blend with the bishops prayer for all to be saved,

and disperses itself into the sky for breath.

Here in this proliferated city,

where characters of every imagined thought and beyond

color the air with dreams or lack thereof,

I lean against an ashtray brick wall and give my gut

ears to that which I gaze upon.

There's a man with edge-gray hair in a fine three piece suit

at a coffee shop bar looking down and seeing........nothing.

He doesn't remember when he stopped seeing.

He doesn't remember when he stopped feeling,

and in that moment

he surrendered to what he had no name for,

a peace shrouded him and gave sparkle to surroundings,

and returning to work

a street corner violinist lulled him to tears

and he soon remembered

and his vision was made new.

There's a man with searchlight eyes,

Analytical. Calculating. Dissecting.

All with whom he contacts,

and boxing their presence into the cube of his intellect

he assigns them a label dictated by his P.H.D.

The searchlight beams steadily forth,

careful to never turn upon his shadow.

There's the corner violinist

capped in a black fedora

resounding melancholic notes of Bach

off marble walls.

Her translucent tip jar stabs the dagger of invalidation,

bleeding her purpose dry

until her eye catches the sight of a weeping man,

glowing from the healing power of song,

and revitalizes the muse of her spirits journey.

There's a young boy leaping over sidewalk cracks,

counting each one Victorious,

in his own world so greatly dissolved as to neither

acknowledge praise or shame.

There's a young lady side glancing the stride of a young man

and on his passing

he pauses and banters with her,

unattached yet magnetically drawn.

His even gaze unnerves her, panics her, smashes her defenses down,

till at last she insults him for breaching her walls.

He smiles knowingly and departs

and she is left to decide whether to rebuild

her fortress or not.

There's a corner store cashier,

his movements like Spanish Moss branches

caressed by a quiet breeze.

His face containing all tragedy and joy

and eyes of timeless peering.

Everything about him radiates the life of a saint

and, though no book will ever be written about him,

he prints truth into the novel of life by merely existing.

There's an old man collapsed on a bus stop bench, buried

under an avalanche of pain, empty

eyes and wrists with ever-present hospital bands.

He senses a tickle at his ankle and, finding a stray puppy

tugging his shoelaces, smiles broadly

stretching his atrophied face.

There's the indiscreet prostitute of gorgeous features,

the secretly worshiped goddess of caged man's primal longing,

the envy and therefore hate of unsatisfied women.

Her conscious - clean.

Her purpose - conscious.

She takes men, pleases them, cradles them, listens to them, loves them.

The men moan, pant, yell, rest, cry, pay, and leave.

This is her life day-in and day-out.

In some ancient time she dwelled in a temple

and her name was reverence on every ones' lips.

There's a young man protesting,

his sign sword-like gripped

puncturing the air with emotional stabs.

There are many like him marching,

in a sea swayed by the hidden shadow storm,

thunder blasts of bass and snare.

I search for the captain and see none

but waves of foaming tips

spouting under the laughing storms gallowed cloak.

There's a police officer in riot gear,

one of many dutifully enclosing the protest,

groomed to stoically respond,

his own feelings submerged into a magma chamber.

A protester spits on his face shield.

He does not react.

The air thickens to sap.

Light bulbs implode.

Another protester trips and falls into the wall of riot police.

A baton strikes the fallen mans head.

Protesters charge.

Volcanoes erupt and ash clouds all vision.

There are two journalists reporting.

One titillated and ambitiously career-minded.

The other morally disturbed by what she sees.

One receives promotion.

The other, suspension.

I move on

my trail extending through the city's nucleus,

sounds of friction fading,

arriving outside the city in some spaced suburb.

In a dim garage

a father is instructing his son the merits of hard work, impatiently

his thick calloused hand grips around the boys and forcefully

tightens the stubborn nut.

The boy does not complain and his mother treads on high heels

around every eggshell.

Across the street a father tills a garden with his son.

Patches of sweat darken their loose fitting shirts

as steel strikes the barren ground,

and soon resting in the cut shadows of a fence, they devour

iced tea and sit in the circulation of natures rhythm.

A young lady gently knocks a front door

with pamphlets in hand.

A young man peeks through blinds,

and finding her attractive,

he researches her online.

Satisfied, he sends her direct messages about

her beautiful eyes.

After investigation she responds in kind

and he then insinuates they should meet

one day in person.

Housing contractors arrive,

a few eyes bleary and bloodshot,

empty beef jerky packages and energy cans

tumble out the truck after them,

as they unload ancient tools covered in caked mud,

and in friendly discourse insult each other barbarically

as the boss tips his hat to an offended passerby.

Two young mothers, pony-tailed jogging side by side,

fluorescent yoga pants defining all that can be defined,

pass the contractors and rest shortly within sight,

laughing wildly with one another,

flipping their hair away from their neck,

and the contractors begin lifting more than can be handled,

and with overreaching volume insult each other in their most crude fashion.

I reach the outskirts of town as twilight

hums the rising drone of crickets.

The sky sailing fleets of darkened clouds

encroach above like bruised flesh

and purge its pregnant wound.

In my continued wonder I bathe in this

showered birth, a welcomed cleanse

as I splash through puddles

and watch plants bow in submitted gratitude.

There is an abandoned and dilapidated barn

with washed out red paint and an elm tree

growing inside up and through the sagging roof.

I enter its musty atmosphere where stereo silence

reveals the story of decay.

Soft shadows wrap around columns of weathered wood.

Against a wall stands a pitchfork with constellations

of cobwebs spread across its spikes.

I lift it just to feel its weight.

Moonlight beams whiten a mound of dry hay

in a corner as I approach and recline

into its yielding form.

Above, the theater of my mind plays with the lunar curtains

floating across the spotlight of night.

I recall the actors of the day and await the Directors notes

of my performance as my eyes close and muscles sink.

Intros of dreams meld with drifting thoughts

as I surrender to its magnetic visions

and enter as I exit to enter again.

Infinite the wheel may turn around the hub of truth

and I, content and clear,

dressed in innocence and cradled,

given away to my nightly tomb, die once more,

to be born once more,

their shaking hands of only warmth

I've always known have been One,

and I know not to fret or worry,

as I become all but not I.