Geese Stop on the Way Following Spring
L. Edgar Otto April 1, 2010
Shadows with long necks against the sky, or hawks with long tails
who dive with sharp spiraling eyes and talons, practicing flight
The mallards, a different species, pay no heed to the geese save
at night they sleep near to them at a decent interval each in pairs
The great pond and sunrise through the still bare branches shows
its perfect but shimmering plane we made artificially long after our
Achievement in archetecture, said Santyana, standing Euclid on edge
In the space of diving hawks and sexual bonds our dreams in fairy chess
Our knight moves jump past the preator and the praying mantis cannot
see the green leaf nor the hoppers she satiated queen of the board
But lo when there is nothing else she consumes her own egg case
Pefection in the surface waters, reflection of the moon, creates chaos
The game so much harder our dreams made flesh by tours and shadows
No simple platts and brick cross roads our dance not droughts but wider
* * *
Our Wounded Love Song in the Silence L. Edgar Otto
April 1, 2010
In the shadows direct from the distant sun, or crosseyed in crescent eclispe
the tree of our awakening takes on a substance, a memory of its own
That is the loss of both her perfection imagined in my mind's frozen time
in what could have been, forever closed the loss of our innoscence
In the burning flesh and the settling for less no one can equal her dream
chance our entanglement where love in the present moment has no reason
She and your smug abuser and his whip somehow you cannot help but crave
as they haunt us like parents argueing in front of children sharing our hearts caves
Old Aesop and the foxy, foxy fox in the light of dawn and day loses his tail
what grows back without backbone can never be as good nor our telomeres
Love encounters night to become frayed beyond the second time around
Its second death so rare our hearts survive our wounds in second childbirth
Let our secret loves of our life, an ill match really, fight it out between themselves
Indulge yourself away from nests with that man of your bad dreams, in you I still miss her.
* * *
The Bactrian Mode L. Edgar Otto April 1. 2010
We are like the trees five fold our symbolic symmetries in ancient
languages carved in stone and inked in the landscape's blueprints
Yet the words are lost in babble to our ears, we who erect the ziggurats
structural arts lost in the chaos that once was and will come again
Somewhere in Bactria the ancient book is found, like the Chinese poems
just the form not meaning we cherish in ourselves for the calligraphy's sake
So analyze in our clear moment and deformed eyes those tree rings that
record the local fires and great events of climate from the stars long ago
Still, on the bark and beneath it in the growing electric waters we talk
from tree to tree as if we know the others are there about some invaders
Who strive to eat our hearts as we reach to store the sunlight awaken green
from a distance sound in the onion of my mind your words my flowers, fruit
I know more the clarity and intelligibility of your thoughts more intense in person
More than I reading by the river that spring your conversations with Nietzsche
* * *
Our Lesser Image God-like Creates First Chaos L. Edgar Otto April 1, 2010
The child that meets his centering of self rejected the continuity with milk
strives to organize is space with no clear model, young philosopher at birth
Quartered by the horses of the poles of perfection to maintain his space in first
breaths of emptiness and map the central city on the center and perhiphery of his soul
As far into the past can he be time lord of his future, decide with reason doubts
which way to chase the fleeing horses or up and down his guilded stud merry-go-round
What races in the hippodrome, the coldest stars in their eyes of churning blood and
chariots in search of greater macidonia, Alexander reason broken comes full circle
Christians and the lions, false conversions with false prophets in their hearts
only the explosion of life in this world gives purpose to the proud gladiator slaves
So in some wrong place at the wrong time as if this really mattered sweet music
fills his inner script and song with homesickness for some unknown home
He born an old one full of wisdom as much one of ten thousand failed acorns to the oak tree
Inside him his own measure while the wind decides for how long or forever the ride longs to live again.
* * *
The chessgame of our mind so full of nerves lost long ago we survived the rays so long
through the tissue alone do we puppeteers still move our articulated limbs
Let us be sure in the game that the goal, not so far to see ahead our task and ability
where we lose the pieces, sacrifice by tactics, that we gain the vision, win the strategy
* * *
I Know I will not Initiate in My Endtimes Our Reunion
L. Edgar Otto April 1, 2010
The God had given us at least one homeland
real or virtual in our hearts lost in its unwatched freedom
For us to sculpt or learn the local rules colors hidden logic
dealing with the programs and information exploding
The models made obselete in real time as we learn them
as if our cartoon charactures matched our sculptured visions
Or could convey the crystal hues of that backside of the moon
only children speak between each other while still twins
You may be right, philosopher, those high in the pecking order
of wisdom- hey, we had our conflicts but gave each other honesty
Who knows what personal dared they project in their boredom
that they would take the time do debate us lesser thinkers?
Or jealously that we out pace our speed of light so profusely while
Our best of standards we know are less than worthy of the angels
* * *
The world round swells so we
ride the waves of imagining
how it could be, not afraid our mouths water
On the awakened side, time in stasis
our ride through its tunnels
direct in chords through the orb of Earth
The ghostly momentum swung outward
where the bare branches of winter
evokes springs promise, not quanta of dispair
Life and love in jumps of singularity
Mars bright and near again since Einstein's death,
hidden seasons not some final end to get over it
That we cam begom again where we left off
We cannot do so instantly in a world of endless strangers
* * *
In that place where we do not record or cannot
our work of once and once alone the jazz, destroyed post modern art
The nay sayer on everything called us philosophers in bed together
not making it clear which of us was post modern, How 'bout them Cubs!
Not that an artist cannot be his final judge, you told the lady to destroy
her best piece of art that she awakens deeper of what lives if preserved
But when others belittle and destroy it is a crime against possibilities
our excitement far from equilibrium the spirit of seriousness, work and childbirth
I have learned well nothingness, know my place in time past meetings
claimed where the bureaucrats are at Friday afternoon
Between secretaries, fluffers and flappers, outwaiting them so catch a lie
yet I have waited my lifge away ignored Leonardo in their useless cabinet of files
You mentioned waithing for Godot, I am still waiting for those bonds I lost, I not hiding
like my thousand poems, my best work, my children's stillborn art missed growing up.
* * *
City Lights L. Edgar Otto April 1, 2010
I sense and am moved to measure time here in the belt of industry and rust
polite homebodies in the social network far from the nomad cowboy West
Or pride come take it if you can of Greater Texas and cotton climes
drawn to the ring of fire the social networks of concrete and rainforests of pine
Only in that I have noticed in these few days the last of autumn leaves blown away
and the buds and banana worms of pollen start to peak out and fill space between branches
Snowcover gone save what we blow on the slopes man made for Gaia's surfers
I know that the sky will vanish soon from my eyes as well the pond of shimmers
Private property the sign discouraging fishermen and swimmers but in the city lights
most of the stars in the sky are in the fog already, there is no Milky Way
The artificial satelites do holding patterns through the night, the antenna farms blinking
where did my long hair go? From where the wrinkles and the scars as wisdom grows?
Our small brains more compact between the branches less the distance there and back
My own ageless child does not startle me, I walked softly not to disturb his need for sleep
Yet deeply thinking out of time our dreams in the background solve with more intellegence that
exudes the cover sap of genes
* * *
The Louisville Slugger Enjoys the Games in Summer
L. Edgar Otto April 1 ,2010
Why do you worry that the dice of chaos ourside you or within you are loaded?
The perfect metric of your world can make your dream become the nothingness
The return by chance might reassure you, or might ground you in quick sand
Do we see the teeming life in the pond unaware but given it real and imagined motions?
Or perhaps that socerer Blake called it right if we could see and speak like the Tyger
The lesser beasts that do just as we imagine life loved and unexamined we might do
Our great gift a homeland far from and yet homesick for the variety near entropy
that if we understood their speech their way of life for us red in tooth and claw mental hell
Yet, we do have the same dream, and that dream is the voices within of our line and kin
as the Milky Way vanishes and our eyes contract its willful storm knows what to do
We could like them feign in our struggles, plot how likely she sheds her hourglass
put things in the same bull pin of play or practice, the Louisville slugger knows what to do
But we are not the totem animals we worship in our projections knowing her cannot help
At least not yet where perfect wisdom eats to saturation that we sleep and do not do.
* * *
Near Miss L. Edgar Otto April 1, 2010
The soup and ceiling, twenty thousand leagues and thirty thousand feet
the chaotic fog does come on little cat's feet and like the creator galatoms
I know what to do, air traffic control, zero defects the goal, paths in near miss
over redundancies our artificial trees can crash into the ground, night worries
Where though young, Hannah worries about her paintings on the cave, the
celestial canopy she reaches inward or without to count her sheep of wounds
I know what I must do and the journey took a lifetime to create, transcend
to watch the radar screen, be good at the ping pong spheres of souls, worlds parallel
The tyger not here I cannot prove my tailisman kept him at bay but then again
we in the flight simulator reach the ground flying up to the sky, or the sky into the ground
Healthy runner may fall so fleet, or strong bridges, when the holding patterns in chaos meet
stil what a miracle the billion thumps and rests of the thin web of your heartbeats
The light that comes again we put on the lighthouse tower. its motion faster not our reaching
Than our blinking hour swimming in the direction, following the reflected shimmering rays
* * *
* * * *
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