evocation

[artolmaeus]

getting past the suffocation, to breath for the sake of my legs to move

when all such stilting is but the hyperbole of emotions more addiction than feeling

as it all gets its source for the privacy of lonliness,

these comfortable chains, that let wishes be more nectar than fulfillment

should I ever drink a honeysuckle, when I avoid them

and would rather drive past in a car and see them all in the rear view

as I make good time to arrive at nowhere,

somehow the unconditioned air, is a better air, when I walk in it

hear birds sing, see people mow grass and watch things stir

see the wind in the leaves of a tree rustle them, and hear the choir of dissonance

somehow sooth in unmetered time, its cadence unknown, most times, unheard

and that heat from a sun free in a blue sky to just nearly burn at midday

should the silence be broken, by words, but words of being

without pretense or standing, without occupation, just as it is

when someone else leaves rooms and windows and doors behind

and stands beyond a house, in a yard, well mowed, taken by the heat

and not escaping the cling of sweat for whatever drives the silent comfort from them

and be where what is is, and there, speaking, some words of the moment

and conditions of just what is, conversation without form or intent

but to break the snow globe of silence, and it is not the subject

but the resonance of breathing, with the sounds I remember, as I shared mine

as sometimes, it is never what is said, really, but that there is a saying

and for a moment, unnecessary conversation, as if to mark the moment

with some connection, and that, is some unpannable gold, from a dry stream

that like a light intermittent rain, leaves too fast, but was still good

because it had happened

and in these walks, maybe a robin red breast, is getting that unlucky worm, later in the day

as when lies are told of being early, or being late, really are just bullshit, the robin wins

and flies off and shits on the rear windshield of a car backing out of a driveway

and a door opens, a dog barks, a dog is chided, for doing its job

and some apology uttered, as, there, she walks out past the threshold

in some mid moment of refractory excellence remains still some unrequieted hunger

and I have a reverie of the cookie, in the lidded cookie jar, in all of its sisters and brothers

I might have taken, as a child, and milk and somehow enjoyed it but in passing

the lidded jar, once empty, still entices exploration, as even crumbs should not go to waste

but, often, I left them, to go stale, and they got thrown away,

for then, those days, I was no longer a child, but maybe some sort of man

with some sort of control, as I watched another man, steal at least half a cookie

and leave undone the other half in his retreat, and, with a simple apology for a dog

somehow, like generic valentine's cards in boxes given in the third grade

there are always questions like "would you be?"

and I have the hardest time, saying yes, when I know the owner of the cookie jar

would be none the wiser, as the cookies themselves hate being where they are

and in most instances I would have to disagree with those awful cookies,

except, maybe, for the times, I find myself, once again walking

and wiping crumbs from the sides of my mouth

alas the blood sugar and the magic, did not miss the milk

and I walk and hear dogs barking, feeling like silk