Surf’s crash, the chorus… Old men reading books aloud,
Coffee shop Elijah’s, and everyone listens. Kettle drum hearts beating loud.
Arterial opus conducted from tongue to ear,
as the gulls and terns scream their approval. ___________________________________ Tongue to ear, the sounds… Words… Whispers, Emotions, singing choruses of indigo blues smiling… Laughing… Whispers, My secret. ________________________________
My secret? None really, searching for secrets? Always, but then again, knowledge is not a secret. It is a treasure box, to be searched for and opened. To revel in the riches that reside therein. Secrets? Not really Knowledge, yes, knowledge. _____________________________________
Yes knowledge, It has been said that there have been many who have read themselves stupid.
Rather than communing with their intellect, they suckle at the breast of opinion and hearsay.
Knowledge, wisdom, the ability to reason independently from didactic, dungeon dwelling trolls,
waiting for you to cross the bridge of life’s experience and charging you a toll for the privilege…
_______________________________________ Black chalk renderings on a stark white board.
Bone white, skeletal Lines quiver, eel.
Dark eyed mistress, rotten apple on the desk,
teaching tykes mortality bone finger tutor less. _____________________________________
Sky tears October, me with no umbrella, Lacrimae has come. I lay a wreath at the tomb of the fallen leaf