emeralds and rubies

Emeralds and rubies

 

A million, million times to fail and then

to tickle the sleeping dragon’s tail

porcelina of the ocean’s wide, I know

someday you’ll take me with you

wanting though your waning tide and

see me to the other side, but no

I already know this much

no, not tonight

 

but stay a while longer, why not

linger like a lover who fondly spies

unblinking through her emerald eyes, neither judging nor seeking,

sustaining fission. attentions focus, so circumspect

forging a tungsten tide upon your dull and slumbering

infinite shore, come forward and fall back again

into your sleeping ruby-demon core

 

can you feel it in your bones, does the

dragon dance and tickle, does the fire

pierce your skin and slip your veil

a million times before to fail

then in an instant become your emerald depths

shot through and dissected by the knowing

 

porcelina of the ocean’s wide, I know

someday you’ll take me with you

through your waxing tide and

see me to the other side

A million, million times to fail and then

A tickle of the sleeping dragon’s tail

or was it, but for a moment’s slip of the hand

neutrons ignite the air and paint the night-time sky

before everything quietly falls away

almost like it was before

spiral

spiral

spiral

   – george l stein

 

spiral

 

pen touches paper, a spark lites in the darkness, then there is a first point.

no breadth, no depth, no measure of will

still… it is something from which to build

and the dot persists

 

short square feet backed right up against the tracks

defines the squalid solitude that no one chooses,

not to come, to live and to die here. In the turn of time

it chooses them and the rest simply follows on

 

logic and purpose become a study in dysfunction

as soon as the cards are re-shuffled and re-dealt.

There is a turn and a change of position

a point becomes a line and a line becomes a curve that goes round and round again.

 

now the land is bare where scant refuge stood, bare but for the weeds,

a pale, cheap wheat, a pleasing illusion to the eye but barren of sustenance

everything makes sense and no sense in some context

the trick is to find the frame.

 

A seamstress thinks of love and drops her pin

and in turn the thin facade of wholeness is pricked

a lucky stroke, or a tragic ending. Spin and position, perspective.

It depends on where one stands.

 

the journey, the stumble, the light and the loss

all that had come and that was to be

ambitions and expectations dashed and naught

nights of delusion and days of future past

 

when she reassembles the pieces just so

accounts for and adjusts the lights and shadows

she smiles and seeks approval for her efforts

but the simplest of glances betrays her

 

no one knew where the line started or ended

thought that their journey was theirs to steer

but time passed in an instant, one single revolution around a single point

the pen lifts from the paper, for better, for worse. the story is cast

Like seen on tv

Like seen on tv
   – George l stein
‘                                                                                                   ‘
Her foot lifts slowly and steadily from the curb
and glides effortlessly forward towards the street
an arc is established and plotted, stars come into
and leave existence. her red curls spring, shimmer and dance
‘                                                                                                              ‘
everything transpires in frozen time, as if a memory
only as this cold, oppositional, january day will allow
brown suede, black leather, it doesn’t matter
it’s just a subjective preference in the heart of the teller
‘                                                                                                            ‘
cars in motion, cars at rest, drivers
abide the lights and watch the girl
daughter of darwin, a ghost of happenstance
float like a tryst of poetics, jazz, and cruel existentialism
‘                                                                                                                       ‘
the Click-click-Click, those sharpened metal-tipped heels
on cold, innocent concrete, assassins are kinder
the aesthetics of perfection, the space between
adam strives but fails to touch his god
‘                                                                                                                        ‘
the light turns green.  nothing moves. the gun
in the third act, yet to be brandished and fired
the temporal nature, so conditioned to watch
as life turns, pauses, and smiles, then turns and walks briskly away
‘                                                        ‘
Click-click-Click-click-Click-click
‘                                                                                                                       ‘
‘                                                                                                                       ‘