Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Things Lose Their Meaning

The forgotten moon
Bent blowing with delight
Takes its own laughter seriously
Hoarse instant weatherless and remote
A face of groan and gloom the harsh voice of recognition asks:
“what is it?”
Mark it down to fine shadows and serious expectation
The blue eye
The inner door
The violence of ignorance
Now hairless, eyeless
Hooked and lost from the sea
Withering in some cold sun
Too late at last shining forth a short
Glowing hopelessness
Too late an impatient hat
Too late he gets a grip
Too late he asks the question:
“what is it?”
Bangbang limply late
Made for evening dinner
The leaders swindle unwashed winners
In their own reflections.
The pages come to hand and a sad jig
Is danced every time
The sport of scepters the queen of cups
The breaking smile of unwashed teeth
Now laying on of hands
In just a moment the coast is clear
Just like a morning conscience.

The tissue of struggle, the hurry of hurt
Cringing, barefoot, a comedy of fault
The hurricane of waiting flings
Around special meanings.
And it ruins us for happiness.
A collision ensues
The rustling air collapses
All time ends
Racing through so much accumulation
In banged rooms with crackling doors
As we float through this
Sorry anno domini
Time begone
Gently through smaller spaces
Sliding past receiving hands
A lark rises and exits without comment
Casting kite-like shadows
Across doorsteps and doorless country
Blind empty noise
Squatting fixed in a white place
I steal a dance with a swift
Then walk to a shadow
And ask
Where is my echo?


Ivan Aguirre said...

Mike !! always love looking at your drawings. Love the way your little Monster paintings came out, all bunched up together In one wall. Nothing but sweet candy to the eyes, In a really good way.


Mike Tracy said...

so nice of you to comment! Candy is good-
Thank you.