breaching the third wall

talking to yourself is seen by some people as a form of madness. i dont see it that way at all. if you dont talk to someone else you will never learn a thing about them. and the same is true of yourself. you need to know the real person and we are verbal animals so talking to yourself is the one sure path to clear understanding. after all you are the best manifestation of your life.

my dance card
every single dance
includes me

statues made of matchsticks

you dont need to tear down a statue to destroy it. whoever the subject of the bronze and stone collection they become irrelevant myths in the crush of history. “Who is that guy on the horse mommy”. “That is the guy who lost the war dear.”

the brass plate
doesnt tell the whole story
war memorial

the familiar becomes foreign

the time it takes to trust is most often measured in years. we circle each others lives. measure the other persons responses. after building a friendship the worst thing that can happen is for it to abruptly end. that person has seen you from both afar and up close. your weak points so completely exposed. so when a relationship fails you have very little warning and no understanding of what is next.

the quiet way
reflections change shapes
in the breeze

leaning on your velvet door

the whole hippie thing was short lived thankfully but we deserve a small amount of credit for ‘things’ that would have happened anyway. at least that is what this old hippie thinks.

spinning
my plastic globe
the moon at the window    motionless

transcending the metaphysical

not sure how to put this  so i will do it  there is hole where the dark matter lives in my being  who is it  what is it  no idea  when i find out i wont tell a soul

 
my hand
waves in front of my eyes
to special music

Experimental Haibun that most likely will not be published!

stoner in the kitchen

In my teens, and with the usual heavy dose of low self-esteem, I find myself in the kitchen of a beautiful blonde girl in my class. I am helping her mother with the dishes. She is German, and her Mom is a strong boned and beautiful woman who can cook up a storm, and does, for all of her daughter’s visiting friends. We are all theater types, practicing our lines and trying out different personas on each other, so good food and a nice open house with a backyard swimming pool is a big plus! Her father is a square head German (I can say that, being one myself), who patrols every interaction any boy has with his daughter. He loves hunting and makes a point of showing off his many guns to all the boys. In the sixties, this is vintage behavior. The alpha Dad making an exclamation point of his dominance over every interloper in his territory. But, I am doing the dishes with Mom, and it feels good helping in the kitchen, and Mom is pleased that I am showing deference to the real head of the house since she controls her sometimes volatile husband with simple but brightly firm looks and facial cues. It works, almost unerringly, and my young mind has obviously picked up on that fact. After the dishes are done, I leave quietly, never really saying goodbye to that blonde I am so taken with in my mind. Why I do this is a mystery to me, even now. I take the long way home, but why I do that I don’t understand until years later.

being emotionally myopic i forget to say i love you

Most likely will never be ‘published’!

brainbell jangler

Any good blues hound knows it. Some song, some chord, some words strung together that just, touch you, in a special way. Nothing you can explain, nothing you would tell another person, no matter how drunk, how stoned, how fucked up you ever got. That special thing you hear in your own head, just won’t, can’t, should never be, shared.

midnight ramblin…
an uncertain mirror
holds an uncertain face

Most likely will never be ‘published’!