“In your text’s mirror, Your mirror’s text.” -C.G.
“We are nothing but images of images. Reality, including ourselves, is nothing but a thin and fragile veil, beyond which … there is nothing.”
Italian physicist Carlo Rovelli
Thank you for being here.
A rose is a rose.
A nose is a nose.
A crow is a bird.
A turd is a turd.
Thank you for being here.
That house over there.
There’s something behind it.
It hints of things we cannot see.
Nevertheless, it is there.
The house behind a house.
Thank you for being here.
“In the forest a hunter meets an art show.”
René Magritte
Thank you for being here.
Let me take you down
’Cause I’m going to Strawberry Fields
Nothing is real
And nothing to get hung about
Strawberry Fields forever
Thank you for being here.
Thank you for having me.
This one’s easy
Torn in pieces
then put back together
like it never happened;
but it did.
You know it did.
You were there.
You knew.
God tells his people where to put the bleachers
while The Gambler eyes the odds
while a siren whistle screams
while a painter paints the sky
while Abram rocks his son.
People got problems.
Problems got people.
Problem people.
People problems.
I might be a problem person.
I might be a people problem.
That’s okay.
It’s okay.
Bleachers filling up as
The Gambler lays his money down.
Christians and lions
and hunchbacks
and starlets
ride The Beast,
hoping to catch a break.
Place yer bets, folks.
It’s the mother/father of all bombs,
right here on Highway 61.
Covenant be damned.
And Jesus wept.
HEY! JESUS! YA WIN SOME… YA LOSE SOME!
The dream again.
Night.
I look up and behold!
Oh starry night!
Weathered faces lined in pain
are soothed beneath the artist’s loving hand.
“Your pants are wrinkled.
Friends will think I’m a bad wife.”
Hey! You’re not so bad!
Don’t pout
Rhyme!
When there’s nothing left to say,
rhyme!
When the heavens withhold the rain,
rhyme!
When your nightmares turn to day,
rhyme!
When there’s nothing left to say…
stop!
I have a theory that humans are walking trees whose roots cradle the soul. Just a theory.
Carlson wants me on his show but Tucker is such a phony I turned him flat.
…a slow building anguish, ending with a simple mantra… but is it enough to stem our last paragraph from entraping us so?
So the leaves… the leaves are you, all of you, and sometimes you can see, or hear, or smell and know some things are going on next to you high up in the tree of your soul.
