Trance And Dental Medication

Eye and drill

 

No doubt the prospect of a tooth

Infected by a microbe’s lack of ruth

Conjures scenes of horror and dismay

To convert each healthy hair from black to gray.

 

Would that dentist’s eyes, hard merciless,

Could fascinate, not generate distress.

Those pupils could, in hypnotic power

Soothe me to sleep for torture’s hour.

 

So while I sail 3through golden dreamland seas

My dentist grinds and chips at my disease,

Bores holes and stuffs them with a sturdy filling,

A process consciousness finds less than thrilling.

 

Then, rising with a renewed smile,

I congratulate his skill and clever guile

And still a captive to his guiding will

Spread wide my billfold and overpay his bill

 

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The Conceit

Flower

Beneath all sense and sensation

Where the secret gears revolve,

Where the snap and slap of molecules

Enforce the chains of interaction

Tightly confined by history’s

Ken of missteps to disaster,

Processes proceed to decree

What whims may move to generate

Solidities of what we think as will.

 

This hubris each of us accepts

That we decide how and what and when

Discounts continuity’s mechanics,

Ignores those flicks of memory,

Twitches of perception,

Are chemistry and circumstance.

We luxuriate in self deception

Are unaware

We are a cosmetic flower

Perched within this strange beast’s hair.

 

Midnight Wind At The Carnival

circus tent and moon

The chill air tumbles down from the moon
And splashes through trembling leaves
Tainted by the icebergs of Europa.
Silently, like a frenzied animal,
The nightwind pokes its nose
Into tight corners, stirring debris and dust
To fashion merry whirlwinds
Of candy wrappers, dying balloons
Pigeon feathers, scattered popcorn
And torn fragments of a loser’s tickets
To the lottery. Suddenly, as if
With a whoop of joy,
It seizes sheets of tabloid,
Triumphantly kites them high
Above the peaks of the central tent
And, like children playing follow me,
They troop through the brass forest
Of the carousel. A frozen lion
Puts on a cocked hat, a rearing horse
Gains a paper mask. As if tired of the game,
The remaining sheets collapse in chuckles
On the central machinery.
The wind runs its fingertips along a line of lights
To make them dance in sinusoidal glee.
It shakes the canvas posters of the sideshows
Distorting even further the twisted human portraits
And then skoots off into the big top.
With skill it coordinates
The pendulums of trapezes.
It tosses handfulls of sawdust on the empty seats
Which shine in fascination at its high jinks.
Then, bored with play, it exits to the night
And back up to the stars.

 

The Master And His Palimpsest

 

Duration

Sunrise

The crack of dawn

Through which dreams

Leak away is

The whip sound

Of necessity

Which drives the day.

You cannot flee

Serendipity that roars

To free the creatures

That scurry out of dust,

Out of rust that may disgust

Simplicity, complicity

With necessity. The pulse

Of impulse cannot be denied

Whether the brain, or the gut

Nudge the fudge of indecision

Is of small concern.

The turn of time stirs what occurs

Into fate that must collate

The crash of trash to decorate

The future with the past.

No need to heed what seed

Might sprout of what turns out.

What is is. The fizz of continuity

Blossoms into perpetuity

To shove away another day

Which dies in bloody sunset

With regret or relief.

One day is brief, a minor thief

Of time to forget.

Mariner’s Report

Sailing

I still struggle not to sink
Down to docile death.
The music of the minutes
Fills my spinnaker
For direction and for hope.
The seas ahead look rough,
Yet, I plow on.
Each day’s tack out and back
Makes my course along a plot
That strokes my appetite for mystery.
The El Dorados long have vanished from my charts.
I am satisfied to feel the winds,
Sense the seas, watch the waves
Rock the unattainable horizon,
Gyrate the constellations of the night.

 

Seeing

The Bird of Dawn

The Sun which cedes the day to night does not vanish

But plays peekaboo with the planet

Which spins the universe to display

The cosmos comprised

Of other suns invisible by day.

 

So that which over rides infinity

With local flame

Must shut its eyes

To surprise reality

With a childish game.

 

The bird of day with wings of light

Sweeps off galaxies to reaffirm

Dominance of proximities

That do not spare

Entirety from local glare.