orgami's Diaryland Diary

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chains of elaborate link

under the porch
the well scripted
brick housing
Like Kubricks
"Overlook"

our view of the Glue
Plant and rail cars
and shiny tanker trucks
growling up Wickstead
the ONR line with its
old telegraph poles
and empty shinning
insulators on the wooden
arms gleaming come dust
Alight Alike like diamonds
sharp against the turning
brass and sulphur yellow
of fall...They spin in
the winds these leaves
talking as they fall...
the snow and rains
removing these last..

The few old lamposts
put up in ninety two

when I lived here two
before the ending time
before the beginning time

a visitor now
a different version
of me
the dark twin away
for now curbed
afraid of knowledge
the good twin is
gaining

no more distortions
no more stage stealing
(except for today)

like a Blake character
full of fire and smoke
rising from the floor

a phoenix from the
labyrinth
from the lair

smoking in my black Britches
leather jacket
with its designer pockets
smelling of me...of old
cologne and sweat and
nicotine...(drakkar and
versace) tinged with plaster
dust from the moulding room
my pockets handy..If I hang
it in the hallway downstairs
I will forget it..

the snaking laneway down to
Wickstead full of light and
shadow pockets

the rain hisses slow like
chains...thoughts in digital
sequence..telegraph of dreams
ghost songs shiny on the leaves
and parking paint..the enamel
of the sleeping cars

the cigarette between my fingertips
and the warm bite of inrush
How I loathe the addiction again
but how I am dropping weight with
walking...back to the old me from
eighty eight...thirty four thirty
four pants and under two hundred
pounds....this harsh face means
business with its cheekbones and
long nose..the sloped brow and weak
chin....

watching the rain and the few lights
from the witness windows..the quiet
hood...the late blossoming flowers
from our garden we built together
in its little box planter brilliant
purple and white blooms...like sunrise
and the first snow against the dark forest of weeds...the creek crawling always in its bed...dropping in its song beneath the rail bed crossing and crushed stone ballast..a grey granite mix....

smoking and letting it swirl..the poison distilling like the new ideals....William Blake and Margaux Tasslo...authors who spoke their mind...

this new music...when did I think I must
listen to convention always...
why must my gait be like all others..
every movement guarded for years..
lest they see Im different..

the meds taking their work
like a hex
a needed one..a needed medicine
like a focal beam

the meditation watching bees
on the flowers during day to
dusk and now the rains
falling small and minute
delicate...taking their time

a forever rain
like the forever snows
this spring

watching new years on the
trails I kept open by will
by foot with Lillie the dog
the windy night and chinese
lanters were lifting off tthe
lake hanging in the air like
the airport aircraft coming
in...only there is no flight
path from that angle

in the morning there was
a balloon in the tall grasses
and I put it on the fence

remnants like a sail are still
there....the brilliant star
like venus climbing against
the dark clouds

weathered like feathers

and we walk our patrol
about the hood and down
our trail

sleeping now
and I awake
to go back up
and smoke another
cigarette and
watch more rain
sitting in the dark
pocket like a tiger
in the jungle

8:36 p.m. - 2013-10-23

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