Taking notes of the sides of the window

[Juan Castrocafe]

I

out there, in the green grassed open, hand holding the string

to the crimson tailed kite under a blue windy sky

and in the placid loss of being, only the viewer

home of pinto beans, corn bread, chow chow

and cold glasses of milk,



come hold my hand and let us run wildly into

the unknown warmness of being, as if a flower

might be the greatest mountain to discover,

if you are the observant viewer..

leave the weepers and the mourners where they are

pat their heads, but do not waste your smile

for whatever is lost, is now

and they say they cannot read your thoughts

but they can interpret your movements

oh that I would dance swiftly, in the balance of a wildness

that holds no guarantee, for there are none to hold

there are none absolute, that we count on the

wind to always go our way...

the wheels keep turning, and yet another dog chases

another blue car, I forgot to count it

perhaps the road is keeping score

and somehow the conductor just cannot

tap out the measure in four and four

and call it five, but with five

I hold the rose of my intention

to belong where somehow I could part the water

and call it love, and make it hold the kite

up in the sky of my hope



she was more lovely than I remember

cause when I remember, it was sweeter

than I perceived, for there is nothing

like facing life at the first turns

when all the choices have the priveledge

of a generous gimme



let me grab the river and as I hold it,

let me bend the tides to wash me back

not to then, but as now, for when the wind

is nothing more than movement,

then let that be me...for they won't know my heart

but they will know my dance,

and in watching the steps....perhaps in the end

they make the shape of some heart

greater than I assumed, that I assumed no more

moments on the telephone waiting

waiting for the answer that will never come

until I jump, out that window,

the flaxen haired boy wild eyed at the prospect

of Columbus sailing to some known point

to bring the Conquistadors to pillage

the more unknowing Indians

without silk, with gold and maybe more to

offer in the unknown

than the presently placed door

for how it opens and closes

was always premade and known

let down your hair, that I may climb that window



sitting on the porch of yet another sunset,

with the sunrise in my heart....

never slow down that the fire could catch up

or burn out...

to never be a lake backing up

in its holdings...

come now, and hop on the red bike,

swifter than before

for when rolling down the hill

it is always better to choose the manner

in which you roll



and I crayoned blue the grass with the girl with staff

and sheep, and they still said it must be green

but the sheep aren't mine, but the grass

on the paper is....

hand holding the string, wind blowing wildly

and somehow, if I could be a lover like this

and kiss with the intensity of the sun

it would not be enough,

it would be close....perhaps

in the longest view,

more precious

than I assumed



II

then they told me of the dirty people

it was how their faults caused their stink

but I never believed it, because I was shown soap

not that soap alone kept it down, but maybe

it was a beginning

and then when the forest was burning down

I saw out the corner of my eye

the clear hand holding the half burnt match

and I remember there are many styles of matches

so many are hard to tell

how they burn, until that fire shows itself

and perhaps Mr. Bubbles was a blessing

by birth or chance, that I might find

timidity, from big eyed anger

from the smell others judge by,

never held the label gun,

perhaps it was set to kill

not stun,

and Captain Kirk might not approve

of taking out all the earthlings so randomly

by naming and placing them

based on what is seen

not known...

she danced, and I wanted something

still want something that is not defined

by the answsers or the ordinary

and all the people walking in and out of doors

in the pre-made world,

when concrete never turns green or flowers

I watch the match holders gather

in their eyes

I do not know the tragedy

or the hue, of forests dying

because no one ever knew a tree

or moved the clouds,

back to the grass

and like some opiate in the

warmness of being

no addiction caused harm

or bad smells

or dirt....

because soap could still be special

but maybe only to me....

loud words, dynamic hand movements

and nothing gets done

but everything falls down

and nothing gets up...

wheels spin and the rats

aren't moved

she was beautiful

for what slightly glimmered

in the shadow of her immensity

was something sweet

or what I would hope to be

before the knife set in

and turned on the nerve

right to the bone

and killed the feeling

like some birthright brought on

by ignorance....

and books don't tell you anything

books don't make a diamond ring

and people cannot learn how to sing

by reading words that come

through opening

and closing

doors.......

and if there is something more

and if there is something else

possibly

it might be like nothing,

nothing else,

that mattered,

until now

when maybe strings fall where they may

and Ikarus is realized

not for the tragedy

but more

the attempt.

III

fly

boy who can dream

fly

with whatever wings you can fasten

to arms that can or can't flap them

break your heart, crush your soul

but beat against that wall relentlessly

if it will ever break down

so red the wolf I crayoned on the next page

with blue grass, for he would eat the sheep

and the sheep would bleed and drip

off his teeth, if he caught one

when the girl with the staff was not looking

but I didn't want to be either

maybe the road runner,

and most coyotes are far more bright than that

and browner than the wolf

because they are humble

that they have to be careful

for smaller size

and also tooth....

would you blame them for their hunger

would you call them murderers

if they ate hamburgers instead,

is that somehow,

more civil of a thing to do

ketchup is red

because coloring is added,

the truth of what we take in

is all in the manner of processing

like the ways doors open and close

we chose neither it appears

but have a choice to buy the same thing

and wonder where the price

could be measured in something

in other than green papered faced

men staring coldly in hand

that this is the mark of value

in making sure the grass

and the money

is green

enhanced or made otherwise

orange gatorade has the same

amount of sugar as does

the yellow

but if yellow is the color of piss

does that make the sun

unclean

if you crayon it orange

will people fear a supernova

if all the people are gray

does paper make it so

and we did not draw the lines either

but we were told to keep it in there

maybe to hold it all in

like some dying lake

smothering fish and wreaking

of death....

I have to follow the rules

sometimes, I cannot

I did not agree with the making of them

but they are there

and not as to be a rebel

for some rules

are not broken by rebellion

but because they kill

children

hoping that flight is possible

in rain or shine

and will not accept the consequences

of having only macaroni and cheese

as an option

to fulfill hunger

not caused by food

then that too and my cheese

are yellow by design

or machination

rather than by just

being...

would I drink the red wine

of the sheeps dissolution

crushed by the feet

of happy wolves,

only sobriety can be appreciated

from deep anbriation

and stone cold reality

blend agreeable

only by first being

stone cold fucked up

you watch weddings

and happy couples showered with rice

or what have you now

when you know a divorce rate greater than half

halves two back to one

more bitterly

ten children run inside

and look out the window

silently waiting for the phone to ring

with the answer

that they can be

loved.

[anirbas]

Excellent melding of chance poeming, surrealism and free verse!
Has a sonorous quality and sound to it...Reading it to myself, in my head,
it sounded like Moses reading it, from the mountain...LOL...But, I heard it,
in my head, in the voice of Charlton Heston...hahahahahaha...But, I did...
Great to see you ginning and spinning poeming and wandering the halls, stranger.

[DavidMc]

Amazing write John in your own inimitable style, with a personal archive full of great images that burn the retina

It's always a great pleasure to find your posts here.

David

[Juan Castrocafe]

thank you..both youse guys

[anirbas]

You're very welcome, amigo!