Listening with the I's

A Z of city blocks away from the other nexus that draws strange carnates

I saw you shoveling

Black on white

Balaclava'd, scarved, hooded

Hidden in plain site

I was following the safety line

Anchored in the yesterdays collected and dropped like seeds

from the mountain to the tower

But you

You interrupted the assumptions and currents

Charged with my safe and unchallenged arrival

At the stale-idea exchange

With a glance that wouldn't register until Otis delivered me through the corporate womb:

The snow arced its delivery and landing

Stretched back to the shovel and naked hands

Misted out, ridiculing space's conventions

Becoming a 70's icon

Flew into a gray cotton morning

Thick gathering over a lonely looking sky

Revealing the miracle

for all willing to listen

with their I's

Living Meditation

I have no idea
But wonder how long this can last
Just answered myself
...and started the engine again

I have no idea
*And* wonder how long this can last
Just answered myself
...and started the engine again

There is no idea
Wonder at this
Answer myself?
started the engine again

no idea
wonder
myself
started the engine again

no idea
no myself
wonder
engine in neutral

Wonder
engine stalled

I am

Terror-Firma

Grizzled cheek in hand
Eyes caught between a gaze and fixation
Analysis floating just above fear's cold fingers
I see you.

One became two by four
Lumbered bread of relationship
Building material that could be held
*and* checked for faults

Wood cannot build itself
So I step back

I can stack and add
But the cutting is beyond me.

Still, I try

With the grain;
Against the vein

My sap hot and dripping
Congealing into flumes and parapets
That naked feet crush
and are cut by

Blood and sap and sawdust
Hardened resined mosaic that I pick up
And fashion into a broach for the three of you

Wondering if it will light up with your heart;
Or ice over with rejection
or, worst of wall-
Sit unchanged

I sit cross legged and try to connect

with terror-firma.

Non local

Reeks in here, and whatever magic I once associated with the coin operated bandito seems destined to a short shelf-life.

Until I make the call.

Micro-macro trickle down economics here, chitlins - moose head silver slivers the box and starts a mechanical supply and demand chain reaction from deep within. Metal to metal to electric signal to the switching station to point B and now as I hear her answer

I see four ladders stretching out from each side of the phone booth, right-angling up and converging like a great french braid; exploding in fanning filaments and

she's sending signals back now, signals *within* the signals; emotion through the electrical and

the filaments are awake and searching, spiralling upwards, sensing her movement

which is coming from letters now, ascii ghosts dancing the periphery between the physical and the sensed

And outward, looking down, it is a web now; filaments and letters entangled in an impossible wireframework; two lovers connected and the filaments are lit and there is ecstasy and mystery not bound by space or time but by

the click of a receiver and a port sealing itself from the world.

tee-ha!