The Leftover Bell

Hearing is a home for the sound to travel into your ear and sit down

have some tea and tell you of its travels.

"Have you ever guessed," he said, while eating a tap of fruitcake, "what it's like to travel through the air in a wave, after being made when a bow strikes a violin string?"

"Why no," I retort, "I have no idea."

"Well, it's quite like a magic carpet ride, soaring over the air, and then into your ear."

"That's fascinating," I said.

Me and the sound have tea all day, talking like this, until he has to go.

I clean up the dishes and the saucers, sweep up the crumbs and even check under the rug.

I look out the window at the sun, through the curtain of my eyes

and there's this dull ringing.

I see my friend has left a small bell.

Ringgggg ringgggg it rings in my ear all the time now,

a reminder of him telling me stories

of his travels across the air.

My brain asks about this.

"Who was he?" it inquires.

My brain is always trying to know everything.

"Oh no one," I shrug. 

My heart says, "I think he goes by tinniiiiiitus."

"Shhhh...," I say.

Image source: here

Cartographer of Dreams

I am drawing on the sea,

a cartographer of dreams

flowing in my lines

following your coasts

hidden islands

and inlets

mountain ranges

and unchartered lands

I am wild with desire

for your jungles

although upon entering

I may be eaten by a tiger

or lost indefinitely

despite my understandings

of latitude and longitude.

I am drawing on the sea,

a cartographer of dreams

ink touching the ocean

leaving a mark

dark as 

an Egyptian tomb

and shadowed Roman ruins

where the strong marble statue 

stands

for a

very

long

time

once the paint chips off

its plain eyes are open wide 

to infinity

or are they permanently closed

indefinitely stoned and

dreaming of you

Image source: here

True Love

On a Valentine's Day, I went to a small cafe and sat in the window seat 

and ordered coffee. The waiter was good looking, and I kept ordering more.

I got such a bad caffeine headache I was sick for days.

When Time is Soaking Wet

Time does not stop.

The Universe is spinning too.

The Flat Earth theory makes sense only if the world is in a bathtub.

We all know water seeks its own level

The question is, does time?

Water is racing toward the darkness

going down the well of a black hole

the Buddhist is meditating on

the emptiness 

meanwhile the Christian is full

of himself.

The Scientist is having tea

and looking at the numbers

spilling some on the counter

where it forms a bubble

I was talking in a car, to my coworkers

and I thought I came up with a good retort, I said,

"If the flat earthers think that the round earth can't be proven,

then they should have the same burden of proof placed on them,

ask them to prove the world is flat."

Yet it didn't receive the fanfare I felt it deserved,

this Zorro sword swipe of logic.

Alas.

Perhaps I will paint my name on the stars

with a sparkler on the beach.

Tragedy LLC

The biggest thing I own is my own tragedy

it's the thing with the most value 

the things that will keep others away

said the late 90s dirty-haired grunge sulker

a hyperbole yet there's truth to this

we see people who own tragedies as a way

of adding value to themselves, as we all know tragedies

have weight

if no one owns the tragedies then they cannot be undone

they cannot be fixed

and justice cannot be served

so we must not hold on to these tragedies

we must give them up

the tragedies of other people

can be held in our hearts

but they are not our own

but their value can still be measured

in weight

for they show how strong 

our hearts are

Actors on the Stage

Painstaking Pullman Porters on the rails reaching for my luggage

Rampages and riots quiet on the San Fransisco boats

Donkeys and cookie monsters draining the golden coins

out of the bucket

The train itself is the one

that writes the script.

Speech

Any word that is snarled...is dangerous. 

Breaking the Silence

I sang when I was young, songs, in the stairwell.

It was an old building from the 1920s, the first skyscraper in Chicago and a women's college, when college for women was not that common.

A nun insisted on a modern design. There was a marble staircase inside, and towering statues flanking the front doors.

I usually went in through the side, and took the elevator to the 8th floor.

From there, I walked up to the 9th.

It was an abandoned floor.

It used to be dormitories, maybe for the nuns, or the students, in ages past, and there were small rooms. The rooms had a sink in the corner, and this bright, chipping paint which was a shade of deep lemon.

I explored a little bit and then settled in at the top of the staircase, and took out my guitar.

I sang there because I could hear my voice echo.

No one ever bothered me, or questioned me. 

I never spoke to a soul, I just went there.

On the 9th floor near where I'd sing was a greenhouse. It was kept up only partially, as some of the plants were cared for and some of them were dead or dying. I could tell some other human was up on the 9th floor at least some of the time, but for the most part it was just me. 

Years later, about 25 to be exact, I am living in the same town as that building, but it might as well be a million miles. Like a wrinkle in time, where physical distance doesn't matter, it's all about mental distance. I moved on from those songs I sang, almost like I had amnesia, the mental distance was a light year. But somehow, the comet circles back. I am hearing the songs, and my voice, again now years later, on a recording made on a cassette tape.

Hearing those songs was like having soup again from the old country, some distant memory. But it wasn't like everything came flooding back.

No, it was like hearing myself for the first time. If I was going to sing them, I'd have to study these songs.

I walked the hallway with headphones on, listening.

I live on the second story of my building, and almost always take the stairs, but today, for some reason, as I passed the elevator, I pulled open the door and stepped inside.

It's a small elevator, with a collapsing gate of overlapping diamond shapes, with a buzzer and a "ker-klunk" when it starts in motion. The building was built in 1934 according to some research I did, so it's an old elevator design and an old elevator shaft. 

Before I set it in motion I just stood in the elevator for a moment.

It was there, quiet like I hadn't heard in years.

In that small white tomb, I felt myself remember. With headphones on I played the songs, I sang along, I went down to one knee. In that split second it was a religion. I felt at peace, anonymous, yet completely myself.

I looked around and wondered why the space felt sacred. It was the only place, I realized, in the whole building, where there was no camera. Just space, just time, just silence, broken only by song, one song from years past in the headphones, and one song spilling out of my mouth right now as I sang along. 

And the echo.

Oh, the echo.

Spoonman and the Shovel

 I am deep, man.

Deep in a hole?

No deep like sophisticated, intellectual, heavy if you will.

What if I won't?

Won't what?

Buy in.

Buy into what I am not selling anything.

Well, not with money, but you want to buy my belief.

Your belief?

Yes if you're so smart you should get what I am saying, you want to have my money and my time, that's one thing, but my actual beliefs, well that's more expensive.

I thought it wasn't for sale.

So you ARE paying attention.

Of course I am, I told you I was deep (takes a drag and adjusts his hat), look over there.

I am not looking, I am keeping my eyes on you, man.

Well OK then, you think I am suspicious.

No, I know you are suspicious--and I know you want me to believe what you believe

What's so wrong with that?

I don't want to be like a lemming, just going with the group, I want to think for myself

Of course, and the only way to do that is to independently reach the conclusion that thinking like everyone else is the way to go.

No man. You say you're deep?

Yeah!

Well, you're so deep you just dug yourself into a hole. So deep that all you see is nothing. 

I see plenty!

All you see is the dirt around you, when you're that deep. No, I don't want deep, I want light. I want bright. I need a shining light, and sometimes that light shows you things you don't want to see (adjusts hat).

Like 40 watts bright?

Ha, no like 80 watts.

I can appreciate that.

So now you believe me?

No, I do agree with you though.

What's the difference between agreement and belief?

Plenty...Get a shovel.

Oh, I'll get a spoon! It's not that complicated.

Nadine and the Boat

"The world is coming to an end, Nadine, and I don't know what to do.

The fish are swimming in plastic rings and the Kardashians are showing off their shoe closet

and we are going to have to choose between excess and exceptional frugality

in order to save the planet,

and I don't think we can."

Sincerely, 

A boat on the ocean

Editor's note - this line about the Kardashian showing her shoe closet vs. saving the oceans, was influenced by a piece by Bill Maher.

Daily

The power of committing to one thing, on a daily basis is the basis of all steady progress. Christianity says daily bread, a Buddhist might do a daily meditation, an addict might do a daily shot. The businessman the daily deal. The daily dose of sugar, of clean air, of fresh water are the deep desires of those that live with bitter life, dirty air full of smoke and the foul smells of trash, and grubby water that only animals should drink. To be surrounded in pollution is one thing, despair is quite another. The social media ocean many of us swim in, take off our clothes and bathe in, for hours on end, is no high crime other than superficiality. The results are invisible: they don't show up like fat on the sides from eating cookies. The indulgence only results in blank stares, triggered attitudes and confusion. Shall I spend my days reading five minutes of Shakespeare instead? Today or not today.

Accents

The rhythm kid is what you need

Naw I'm happy being the underdog

The underdog doesn't need to dance

he just needs to come up strong

No begging

The spin-off kid is what you need

Naw I'm happy standing still

gravity is the biggest thrill I'll ever need

I'm always amazed how my face hurts

when I smack the ground

BAM!

BAM!

Get off your high-horse, girl

You are no cowboy

No Indian with an arrow

No Khan horseman

No rodeo barrel-runner

in those figure eights

Oh, I do declare I need a soap box once in awhile

But I ain't here to shine your shoes

Very well then dear, have some tea and we'll forget the whole thing

Ain't that easy, it's not even that easy for the Pope,

and you know that.

Ode to Men in Prison

We are here to imagine a world where our wrists don't hurt

a world where hard work is done by those who profit

and the backs of laborers aren't the cheeseboard for the big wigs to scrape their fat off of.

You may howl at me, scoffing at my unsystematic use of oppression yet

in the jail of your treachery you are the real criminal--

the man in cell block #9, he's a saint compared to you.

Jazz

I like to be surrounded

by men in shiny shoes tapping straight time

f holes with the curved lines.

I like jazz where it sounds like they're murdering a piano

I hop the bus to hear the bass beat

each minute second hour that strange power when the drum set crackles like

a kitchen sink

everything falls from the cupboards at once

in a senseless toy store trapped in amber

to admire like a treasure from a jewelry box.

Saxophone growling like rocks

the "calloused hands" of the band.

The bass player up and down the neck

the story is in his hands.

They call her Ladybird for the thrills and the trills

but I like it when her voice invokes suspense into the air,

and suddenly, in my heart, there's a lion, hiding in the brush,

about to strike.

Enough

I do not need more caffeine.

I put in my time with the stiff rim of the cup.

I watered my plants with it, I filled my fish tank.

I thought I could not get enough, Cup after cup.

A beautiful habit with high stakes. My body an adrenaline filled shell and my mind an inkwell for the migraine pen.

Now in the silence, life is new again.

Time for tea, water and checking the direction of the trade winds.

I spoke to a pirate.

He spoke of distant lands with steady hands and told me tales of jumping beans.