Somewhere between reading Rainer Maria Rilke and listening to Ray Wylie Hubbard’s “Drunken Poet’s Dream,” the following just flowed out — as usual, no rewrite, you get what you see.
THE BODY SLOWS ME DOWN
The body slows me down, but the blood still flows, the soul hasn’t slowed fostering a deep and necessary intimacy with life.
The body slows me down, but I count my blessing without a 60-cycle hum, freed from habitual trains of thought.
The body slows me down, but the poets still, please with a taste of bittersweet chocolate, burning through the words manifested in music.
The body slows me down, but my mind leads the way to an enigmatic mystery, seeking a Rilke Maria’s moment freed by Ray Wylie’s applause.
The body slows me down, but I keep running from the ghosts that keep on coming around the bend.
The body slows me down, but it’s a dividing outline is no longer there providing a membrane between inner and outer worlds.
The body slows me down, but I can still hum Polk Salad Sally, framing cosmic image descending from invisible heights.
The body slows me down, but I still use my imagination to inspire conscious thinking, allowing “the damn fox do what a damn fox does.”
“The days I keep my gratitude higher than my expectations, I have really good days.” — Ray Wylie Hubbard
Monsoon Clouds Over The Catalinas — Image by kenne
Over the Catalinas, monsoon clouds rise like mountains upon the mountain— rolling, swelling, breaking light into silver and shadow.
In black and white, the desert’s colors fall away, yet the drama deepens: every ridge sharpened, every fold of stone wrapped in the storm’s unfinished script.
The sky is restless charcoal, the peaks a pale bone line— between them the promise of rain, the hush before thunder speaks.
