passers...bye.

this too is vanity...

senior discounts.

time is a fickle virus.

She acknowledges the diners
the vain futility of it all
she pretends the years away
scarlet knots tied tight
what if such were loosened
and with a free rein
the virus
were left to breed--
would she be consumed--
would her weak frame
now brittle collapse.
what say ye ole
Hippocratic oaths--
will profit bite
just whim?
at what point would
the reaper thrust
his hungry fork to
glean---
they shoot horses
dont they?
they--
them they
how'd they get
the power--
while we pay the price
slp

Part II
*
living amongst the aging
fits.
shes like them--young but old.
but they dont see that.
His son releases the trunk hood
so he can get his feet.
He wobbles a former air pilot
with a bag between his legs.
this one doesn't like the smell
of the old...
doesn't visit the nursing homes
doesn't frequent the dead hostile
places that remind her of time.
she feigns ignorance--
she feigns glee--
hunched over his crusted heels
he shuffles forward--
'stand straight'
another hollers--'and pick up those feet.'
pinpricks of scarlet daily ripen youth.
The aging--don't see if your up with the trends
don't give eye to faulty flecks of ones vanity.
the extra baggage --be it mid-section or back...
the extra growth of ears nose and hair--
well--whose to spot whom?
*
the hipsters ride two cars forward.
they have the strength to get there.
she'll keep up-- she always matches
a game--whether a fair component or not--
she feign as usual
they'll not know the wrestling
come evenings bite...
the inflammation of ligaments
undone --
s

when silence hurts too much

too tired to think

dips from the guardians of time

The idiot brigade boasted their wit
on banners that caught the wind
so as to propel their banter.

He --laid back as usual watching
the scurry rats pacing to
unknown and predictable paths.
She--anxiously vulnerable
thought not of time
but lingered in repose of thought.

meanwhile
another--
burns the roast--
cause the timer
was ignored--
no
it wasn't set
yeah--thats right.
it wasn't set
*
the guardians of time
hear not the mechanisms
that govern the ticking
the do not
spend time
winding it up
they know--- there is no time
by which to count
to live
they know--- time is of the essence
even if they do not know what that means.
s

in a house full of mirrors....

..we are nothing more
and nothing less.

*
Eatly
23rd and 5th avenue
The veggie counter:snore:

Sober Tales Of Grace...

Neither here nor there ...
a series of ones North and South.
*
The aging sit in
cafe bars--
sipping hard tonic
an eraser to earlier days
when fickle hearts
paid their dues
in yellow stained
corners
neither here nor there
Grace set her crown
high above her weary skull
assuming elegance
befitting
glory--
Recollections --afar
like most position themselves
Grace deemed not
cold truths necessary
to her deposition
Grace earned her denial
her bright smile on hollow lies
her naivete to deception
Grace--- wiled away twisted tongues
debris
with a subtle nuance---
was it par con---or as some would say--
Grace...
Grace--
sat in sober cafes--
sipping -- properly-- the brew life poured.
*
Meanwhile--
an adjacent sipper
drank the same brew--
in the same elegant pose
in the same cafe--
and hid the flask of intoxicating whim
and hid the flask that deluded all fool hardy wantonness---
and hid the consumption of betrayal...
and hunched over said brew--- did not see the reflection
Grace so saw...
Disheveled crown with bobby pins which barely hold her do done up so effortlessly--so ---so--- unconsciously.
Grace so saw--
Shaky Shaky stubby paws--- sneaking glances of paranoia as said subject thought none did see the shiny flask peeping out from overly stuffed pockets---too large for a typical day of solace in fine cafes where
the aged sat--
sipping hard tonics.
*
SLP

----

serenity

Mrs. Bartolozzi

 

Inspired by following Kate Bush Song
www.youtube.com/watch?v=GZnA4jHuyzs&feature=artist

I remember it was that Wednesday
Oh when it rained and it rained
They traipsed mud all over the house
It took hours and hours to scrub it out
All over the hall carpet
I took my mop and bucket
And I cleaned and I cleaned
The kitchen floor
Until it sparkled
Then I took my laundry basket
And put the linen all in it
And everything I could fit in it
And all our dirty clothes that hadn't gone into the wash
And all your shirts and jeans and things
And put them in the new washing machine
Washing machine
Washing machine

I watched them go 'round and 'round
My blouse wrapping itself around your trousers
Oh the waves are going out
My skirt floating up around my waist
As I wade out into the surf
Oh and the waves are coming in
Oh and the waves are going out
Oh and you're standing right behind me
Little fish swim between my legs
Oh and the waves are coming in
Oh and the waves are going out
Oh and the waves are coming in
Out of the corner of my eye
I think I see you standing outside
But it's just your shirt
Hanging on the washing line
Waving its arm as the wind blows by
And it looks so alive
Nice and white
Just like its climbed right out
Of my washing machine
Washing machine
Washing machine

Slooshy sloshy slooshy sloshy
Get that dirty shirty clean
Slooshy sloshy slooshy sloshy
Make those cuffs and collars gleam
Everything clean and shiny

Washing machine
Washing machine
Washing machine

Kate Bush

chasing clouds while dips with helium restrictions

by Joni Mitchell  

Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds * that way

But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way
I've looked at clouds from both sides now

From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all

Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As ev'ry fairy tale comes real
I've looked at love that way

But now it's just another show
You leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away

I've looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It's love's illusions I recall
I really don't know love at all

Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say "I love you" right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I've looked at life that way

But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I've changed
Well something's lost, but something's gained
In living every day

I've looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all
I've looked at life from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all

mano a mano

Shadow stills

Hollers along the dark side

you sang them sad songs

we shared solitude

and bliss

pain and wanton jest

it wasn't 'bout you nor I

in the frail momentum

of our youth.

These haunted streets

These streets are haunted to me.
There is a grungy reminder that impresses a residue of darkness deep into my kidneys.
I can fancy myself with the notion.. I am a third generation NYer.
I can pride myself in being able to capture it in multi-dimensions in a single frame and keep up with the pace.
the reality though--is far from it.
Plant my in greener pastures far removed from the hurdle masses.
Keep my lens illuminated with sunlight and rain not poisoned on its way down into my synapse.
*
These streets are haunting to me...
True --the romantic idea of kindred souls having walked the path my soles might get calloused upon --is just that-however--
surviving on slivers of light in tenement dwelling is like setting a giraffe up in a zoo.
*
Come Augusts fin----Our Southern stint proceeds towards its end.
The night of the iguana and Hemingway tales this was not.
But --we human adapt. We learn to see beyond the annoying elements of our existence to survive. Begrudgingly existing anywhere does nothing to the spirit.
I am homesick...its true. Not for a city that never sleeps--but for the embodiment of the word.
I cannot resist 'going back.' its practical.
I cannot resist change yet once more to these here fragile roots---think a Tree grows in Brooklyn. Get your roots well thriving and they cut you down.
To be able to break up cemented realities would be an excellent way to make my roots realize their potential...but yet...that seems unnerving to wee bit fragile strings.
*
Theres a nicotine stain that filters my perception on this town...
I hate that colour...that odor that vibe.
The disheartening remnants of paintings removed ---memories defined only by cleaner rectangular impressions that highlight the negative space of decay.

from a childs lens

*
These are photos taken by my sweet pea pod.

*
you will get older
my love.
and what ways
i'd seek to
preserve you
i hope run deep
even if its an essence
of vague recollection.

you will face
the lies of others
wiping you mad
sly licks of betrayal
knifed by
their venomous tongues

stay gold....
don't unfold...
don't let them touch you
don't let them ruin your path...
my love....
let no one steal your heart-
your smile
your lightheartedness
your love.
my love...
have mercy
compassion
pity your enemies--
but keep them far from you.

Chasing wings...

flora episodes

To touch what is true...

*

So much in life is not as it seems.
Often--where we think truth is presented
turns its face to be a well developed
charm--lie--delusion-deception--
perhaps --some even fancy their
delusions as truth...and therefore
project with convincing facades--
so that another --willing to give the benefit
of the doubt
beleive.
like children...too trusting...
too naiive...
holding on to
their fanciful illusions...
meanwhile
some-play with shadows
all their lives...
never cutting past the barriers
created.
in capable to see beyond the obvious.
to see the truth.
such--balance
to obtain...
to be wise--sage--
to proceed with caution...
and without caution...
to come out
not with bitter brow
in ones perception
a splendid
a task-should such thus
be-achieved
proved golden--
proved ..true.

Persona 'so not squares.'

song of dead fish...I will bleed no more.

Blue berry fields forever...

state of retirement

Studies of another too...