He is paralysed

and speaks a new language now:


Zjazzezjizj vizi.

More and more, we speak picture
language with digital icons of Home
Heart (in the colour of the moment)
Envelope, Clock, Arrow and Bin

but icons of paint and blood travel
with us in their world of gold leaf
as portraits of the life
we like to live

thoughtful and attentive
like a ***** bird
showing its feathers

and not camouflaging itself
in the attire of its neighbours
colleagues or pictograms

blame is like a posion
no one wants to carry its weight
so they pass it onto you
as you're considered
a pushover
in their language

So I was just a bit manic
And I think I scared her away
Let me wait awhile
Live to text another day

Tecumseh in Ohio
And the Rock Hall of Fame
Carolina Inn
She hollers out my name

Ludwig Wittgenstein
Philosophy as language game
Vienna waits for you
Judi, not Jesse James

Georgia on my mind
Basketball to play
Cocoa Tigers delight her
I still hit the Tre

                Fey

He sits in your downstream
and, despite a list of jobs
sitting in his back pocket,
he sits and as you talk at him
in his second or maybe third language
he shouts back his still focus
on your dignity rather than your tears
while the weight of his hand on your shoulder
and the intensity of his eyes on your face
ensures he doesn't miss one sob.

close
like next to me
emotionally touching
I love you
close
like a door
slammed on an argument
a last word
finishing a relationship
ending a meeting
how funny the English language
so much room for misinterpretation
so much scope for joy
or crashing
disappointment

watch them dance.
see the way the blood trails behind?
vivid footprints, declarations of madness,
a history lain in red paint and black ink
a story, seeping from an open palm
to pool with indifference across the college-ruled stage.
watch them dance.
the impacts, do you feel them?
those collisions of thought and language
wherein reason is sought through brutal force,
berating the ears as they skate and
sprint across the plastic tiled minefield
of truth and bludgeoned metaphor.
watch them dance.

Writing from the heart

is tricky, spontaneous --


words can be faulty.

Maybe we were once stranded here
on the slopes of these mountains
between the white peaks and the low land

We certainly came up with words
to tell that story
and we went into the world

with that answer to the question
Where do we come from?
From the belly of the boat

as the image of our Mother
Earth, who is born where she is
in the lap of heaven

above the Holy Mountains
which kiss eternity
on the border of our existence

We move on and give names
to the world we discover
Time and space embrace us