There is a time travelling elephant
showering a giant puppet girl,
as I walk to work today.
showering a giant puppet girl,
as I walk to work today.
I photograph them,
for no other reason than
I like the water streaming through her hair.
for no other reason than
I like the water streaming through her hair.
She landed in a Space capsule
on Lower Regent Street, sometime this week,
on Lower Regent Street, sometime this week,
I noticed the Space capsule yesterday,
but assumed that there were no occupants.
but assumed that there were no occupants.
It starts to rain,
the flowers bend,
their purple petals fall
mixing with the green grass.
the flowers bend,
their purple petals fall
mixing with the green grass.
A yellow tulip splits open,
I can see inside,
all its reproductive organs
are exposed.
I can see inside,
all its reproductive organs
are exposed.
My feet are wet,
I feel the dampness
between my toes,
my socks are heavy.
I feel the dampness
between my toes,
my socks are heavy.
A black swan swims
up to me,
it opens its mouth
wanting to be fed.
up to me,
it opens its mouth
wanting to be fed.
The only thing in my pocket
is my hand,
but I do not consider
my fingers food.
is my hand,
but I do not consider
my fingers food.
The swan does without
it swims away
in search of breakfast
from some other stranger.
it swims away
in search of breakfast
from some other stranger.
I look over my shoulder,
the giant time travelling elephant
whispers something
into puppet girl’s ear.
the giant time travelling elephant
whispers something
into puppet girl’s ear.
She is incapable of smiling,
her mouth is
a single painted black curve
on a wooden face -
her mouth is
wooden on a painted face.
her mouth is
a single painted black curve
on a wooden face -
her mouth is
wooden on a painted face.
The sun comes out,
and a man walks by in his underwear,
he is carrying most of his clothes
in a paper bag.
and a man walks by in his underwear,
he is carrying most of his clothes
in a paper bag.
No one seems to notice,
or at least they politely pretend not to,
out of stiff upper lip courtesy.
or at least they politely pretend not to,
out of stiff upper lip courtesy.
I ask a man what time it is.
I wonder if I am late for where I am going to next.
I wonder if I am late for where I am going to next.
I arrive, to the place I am destined to be.
It feels right then wrong, then right again,
and I wonder if I am early
for where I am going to next.
for where I am going to next.
I look at my new taken photographs
of the elephant, puppet girl,
flowers and birds.
of the elephant, puppet girl,
flowers and birds.
They are alive inside
the archive of my machinery.
the archive of my machinery.
I change the color of the sky,
crop the borders of the scenery,
crop the borders of the scenery,
enlarge the girl’s head,
and shrink the elephant’s memory.
and shrink the elephant’s memory.
I close my eyes
and think Romanian thoughts,
dream Moroccan dreams,
and think Romanian thoughts,
dream Moroccan dreams,
and breath deep the air
of a few too many flights away
from a few too many sights.
of a few too many flights away
from a few too many sights.
I open my eyes and look down,
from the height of judgment it is a steep fall.
from the height of judgment it is a steep fall.
When I hit the ground will I land on my feet,
or will I need to roll to protect myself
by tucking myself into a spherical
steam punked streamlined ball?
If the energy directed at me
cannot pass through me,
then at least it can pass over me.
I am a walking meditation
for the energy to clear from me.
I go outside again in search of food.
I buy a carrot juice,
a sweet dangling illusion
that might quench my thirst.
I dangle the dream of my life
in front of my face.
I detangle the web of my past
by weaving forward into the present.
I walk by the newspaper headlines
screaming warnings of another bomb attack to come.
I remember how the train station blast smelled,
filled my neighbourhood with smoke and debris.
You could hear the cries for blocks,
moving ghosts sweeping grief
quickly from one neighbourhood,
to the next, to another, to no end in sight -
to no end of insight.
Where is Sherlock Homes when you need him?
Nothing is what it seems after all these years.
You might think that it would all make sense.
Life does not make sense,
there is nothing common about sense,
or sensory perception of experienced events -
but there is a common thread in each story being told.
I am the thread that is common,
for my life is my story.
I listen carefully for the story
threads that are uncommon.
I witness my Self create
my participation in my events,
as creator of my universal truth,
I do not need protection from life -
I need more consciousness
of my intentions and desires.
So I bring my awareness to my insights.
My insights I bring within,
to disrupt my discomfort.
The unease within me
is the common energy
of each experience.
The ease within me
is my uncommon presence
creating more events.
Creating more Self-insight
within me,
is manifesting the dream
of my truth alive.
Dreaming alive my Soul's presence
into my heart
is me envisioning
my core's life creations.
I am existing,
alive, simple,
simply alive
in existence.
I am, the thread that is uncommon.
I am, the thread that is common.
~~ Other People's Fingerprints ~~
Sometime after 1908 Abraham Harold Maslow wrote;
“You will either step forward into growth
or you will step back into safety.”
by tucking myself into a spherical
steam punked streamlined ball?
If the energy directed at me
cannot pass through me,
then at least it can pass over me.
I am a walking meditation
for the energy to clear from me.
I go outside again in search of food.
I buy a carrot juice,
a sweet dangling illusion
that might quench my thirst.
I dangle the dream of my life
in front of my face.
I detangle the web of my past
by weaving forward into the present.
I walk by the newspaper headlines
screaming warnings of another bomb attack to come.
I remember how the train station blast smelled,
filled my neighbourhood with smoke and debris.
You could hear the cries for blocks,
moving ghosts sweeping grief
quickly from one neighbourhood,
to the next, to another, to no end in sight -
to no end of insight.
Where is Sherlock Homes when you need him?
Nothing is what it seems after all these years.
You might think that it would all make sense.
Life does not make sense,
there is nothing common about sense,
or sensory perception of experienced events -
but there is a common thread in each story being told.
I am the thread that is common,
for my life is my story.
I listen carefully for the story
threads that are uncommon.
I witness my Self create
my participation in my events,
as creator of my universal truth,
I do not need protection from life -
I need more consciousness
of my intentions and desires.
So I bring my awareness to my insights.
My insights I bring within,
to disrupt my discomfort.
The unease within me
is the common energy
of each experience.
The ease within me
is my uncommon presence
creating more events.
Creating more Self-insight
within me,
is manifesting the dream
of my truth alive.
Dreaming alive my Soul's presence
into my heart
is me envisioning
my core's life creations.
I am existing,
alive, simple,
simply alive
in existence.
I am, the thread that is uncommon.
I am, the thread that is common.
~~ Other People's Fingerprints ~~
Sometime after 1908 Abraham Harold Maslow wrote;
“You will either step forward into growth
or you will step back into safety.”
