Tuesday, December 14, 2010

try this with a noodle beat made with reason :P

diction unleashed
verbs and nouns in friction
slivering snakelike in a pit we call story
or poem - gunalcheesh
aquiline gaze is the writer’s
eyes on paper or screen
unbent in our no-adverb conviction
fighting block affliction
finding fiction in patterns of breadcrumbs
or coffee grounds
defying depiction
words and letters our minds’ addiction
and our souls’ benediction
sans restriction
[note to self here: lose words ending in –iction]

desk, notebook, desktop – the tabernacle
eightyseven percent of productivity end in debacle
synecdoche sounds so much better than what it stands for
or hendiadyoin, Feuer und Flamme, fire and flame
how’s that for a baby name
or a metaphor

as the wind blows open doors and gusts kick up dust
and loose leaves
the writer’s gaze rests on the breaking spruce
over a ‘72 VW’s rust-
ed ’49 Ford hood
looking up, i wonder if the bat hibernates in the eaves
or in the cedar bat-house under the driftwood

tiny grains of snow whip against the window
play etudes on the keys of taut panes
some sound like they’re mad, bickering,
rendering panegyric trains
of thought as
snow twisters twirl maelstroms on the road and morph into a frigid wave
blanketing lingering spirits in the air
settling down again, road repaved.

Tracks brushed over by violent strokes
car tires, foot prints, porcupine soles,
dog paws and crow’s claws,
mice, hermines and voles
all could have been here fulfilling their nourishment needs
or congregate under the shed in a concerted effort
to save the cooling planet or warming earth when athwart
crystalline atoms jiggle into solid water tumbleweeds

gales lash through crevices between the logs
maintain a glacial ambience inside despite the woodstove fire
how can my mind see and feel in this frosty environ
ment?  no answer from my two dogs.
the contestants of sound:
spry spruce crackling
sprightly snow grains spraying
can i find the level of musicality in this?

only when i close my eyes and focus on the sound of wind through bare trees
a howl, a wail, at times a scream,
a yowl coming from the gully moving upward
like a million ethereal celli and flutes entwined
oh how i wish wind could imitate oboe
or fluegelhorn
maybe it does in celtic lands
where rain drops pearls like a harp rays sine waves
when plucked by gentle, knowing hands

we will brave the storm
let the wind clear the mind
and then sit down again
pen on paper
concatenate  letters to words to sentences to episodes to narrative
words are
words are worlds are whirlwinds are galaxies of words
whir and stir Wernicke’s area
until unleashed diction flows through our fingers
who entomb
and re-lead
one way or another
for someone else
to read