Filling Out

A confluence

of enigma

makes pervasive

paranoia almost

normal.

What?

Why?

What the fuck?

A long hair

and

a no-hair

seem to be the

best of friends.

Prosthetics hang

around my neck

like the crown

jewels.

Fishing

Critter and crickets and

hawks and doves come

forth in a burst of song,

singing here we are

tra la la la la, only

worried about our

biological imperatives--

as is evidenced by our

presence we survive,

and as evidenced thru

our number we re-

produce.

Tra la la la la.

It is cool by the lake--

take that any way

you would like--and I 

am hoping for fish 

to find their way to

cooler waters deep.

And the sky at sunset

has so many shakes of

lavender I wonder how

it could be painted, when

I realize suddenly there

is no way to paint it:

the method doesn't exist yet,

the technique is nonexistent,

and only one artist existing,

could have manufactured it.

That is it's sublimity though,

it is un-reproducable to the

mortal arm of an existence

who has only one creature

capable of marveling.

(Although I think I ought to say for it being one of the only things we do that other animals don't, we do it far too little...I'm up off my high horse now.)

The sky blazes and then cools.

Lavender is replaced with blues

and the cool dark womb of the

evening settles down around us.

The Porch

The porch is a welcome haven

from my storms--

a partial shelter given that it

protects me from

the rain

but not

the wind.

Days can be as full as you can

make them, and I

tend to attempt for maximum

fulfillment at every

moment:

make it 

filled out

like an epically long application

for employment, a

task I have become intimately

acquainted with in 

the last

full days

I've had.

But for now, I guess I'm left

with understanding

that the fuller your days are

the more important

moments 

on the 

porch

become.

Defining My Wandering

Meandering mindspace

means mountains can be

demolished with a right hand chop,

means molehills become

almost insurmountably massive

to the workings of mortal limbage,

means limbage is a word

no matter how much Webster

may or may not agree with you,

means your life my take

an unexpected turn toward the

Koreatown actually located in Korea,

means times and distances

and spaces and neurons and eyes

actually means something cosmically,

means you and I are meant

for something far, far greater 

than we ever could have imagined,

and means more than some

thing we can define.

Thanks Pah-Dree

I just don't know

what I should do:

stay and fight in

some way,

or run and see how 

it goes?

The Language the world

is speaking to me is as

foreign to me as the

language of Ugandan

or Greek or Uzbekistanian

or Cambodian or Brazilian.

Build a canoe,

put it on water,

see where it 

floats on the 

planet and stake

out a place 

for me.

Thanks padre.

Un-Special

On a not-so-special night

a gift was given,

a legacy passed,

and there was

significance in the gesture

beyond mere movement.

Given the gift of history

by an un-man,

by an uninhabited

crustacean home

by one of whome most of 

the things of me are lost.

And it means.

The Things We Said One Night:

The way a rug

Really ties a room

Together,

Sometimes things

Wind up on point;

 

And the way we

Sometimes wind

Up together

Makes me feel

Things are all

Right;

 

I always feel like going,

But tonight I’m staying;

 

Take me to a place

Where all I want to

Do is linger just a

Little bit longer;

 

Standing on the street

Knocking the smell off,

 

Writing the blues.

Night’s comin’ in

Soft,

 

Trumpet sounds

Breaking the night

Of circus freaks.

 

Bring it.

Bring whatever you got.

 

I got rope in my pocket,

We might need it;

 

The night illuminates

A clip holding nothing,

 

She’ll show me a story

In a photo;

 

Helio had a mullet

Like no other

And jazz sat next

To blues in a bar

And said,

 

“Tell me a story.

And make it good…

 

The dirtier the better.”

 

Helio had a mullet

Like no other,

 

Well, that’s a helluva

Way to start a story;

 

“Write that down, Eli!”;

 

It was sanctuary with a cigarette.

They’re tearing cigarettes from

Beer and ripping up us apart;

 

Welcome to our circus;

 

The night is but a pup;

 

Clean air act, huh?

Let’s go smoke about it;

 

I ain’t got no body.

I’m just a jigab,

I got nowhere to go;

 

Now here;

 

History,

His story;

 

Circus;

 

One drinkà;

 

You gotta wanna watch;

 

A lot for a little bit;

 

And I love that the bar is;

 

That isn’t a drink,

It’s an hourglass;

 

Where the fuck is Graceland?;

 

And to think… three hours ago

I didn’t want to break a twenty;

 

And I got four loads of laundry

A sigh and a bunch of scrubbing;

 

And then the pen felt so right on the page

And the wind was moving westward,

 

Calling,

Groaning,

Needing,

 

And then the bottle ran out;

 

I’m gonna bathe in your mistake,

I’m gonna wash in your waste,

Welcome to our circus;

 

Coolest bartender that wears camo;

 

You gonna pay your twenty bucks

Or you think this is free soup kitchen day?;

 

I brought a bottle opener to her gun fight;

 

No one

Knows;

 

Eli?;

 

No, not like that,

Like this: Eli.;

 

Pimpin’ the carnies,

“Hot dogs for free!”;

 

There’s something about walking away

And knowing that when you return,

It’ll be the same as when you left it.

 

What’s this?

 

It’s nothing.

And it’s something.

And it’s everything;

 

My pockets are empty!;

 

Teresa, RN, BSN

Eli Taylor, BA, MA

 

Alphabet soup stock;

 

Who needs ‘em?;

 

“This is for her:”

Welcome to our Circus

 

Face and symbols,

 

Peace Love and Gonzo

Eli;

 

A wandering Ulysses for the modern age,

A Leopold blooming,

A Stephen on a walk:

 

Fly, fly out!

A voice inside

Cries go;

 

I have the stink of days on me;

 

Oozing.