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Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

Flowers & Vortexes, Issue Two:
November/December-Reflections upon Reflections.

In a couple of weeks, I'll start working on issue three.

Becky Boo will be listed as a sponsor in this issue.

Give it shot! I've an essay in there myself, so . . . .

Come on! Open that mind. You know you want to.

The Prophet: Bob Dylan

Blowin' in The Wind

How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
Yes, 'n' how many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, 'n' how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

How many years can a mountain exist
Before it's washed to the sea?
Yes, 'n' how many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free?
Yes, 'n' how many times can a man turn his head,
And pretend that he just doesn't see?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes, 'n' how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, 'n' how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

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I leave these words here in dedication to
Toby Abbot who died on December 23, 2006.

Goodbye brother, goodbye.

Shadows dart
across the floor
a mouse is playing nearby
the tick-tock of the clock
maintains the rhythm
that creates the illusion
of a universal pupose
we all seem to have, to dream.





December rain wake me
wet and naked on the grass
exposed for all to see, shivering
in my shame, my pain dripping
upon the earth, soaked in the dream.




In a crowded Christmas scene, the old man sits at the head of one of the many tables, staring at his hands, funneling through the years like a time traveler. Although the noise is deafening, he thinks quietly; he misses her so. Why was he here, and she gone? Sweet Zella. Sweet Zella: always smiling. All his brothers, sisters, war-buddies, friends, and his sweet Zella: all dead. But he remains . . . in this crowded room, listening for her voice, waiting to become part of the dream.


Sleep baby boy.
Slumber so peacefully
warm in perpetual dream.

I never held you. But I will always hold onto you.


We’re all missing someone this season. Some of us are missing many. And in grief words may mean next to nothing. But make no mistake: even though, we don’t see them with our eyes open, they are here, loving us as we have always loved them.

Merry Fucking Christmas

Just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas. oh yeah. Mine's not all that fucking merry either. Let me tell ya. I'm really discouraged about what I'm trying to do with promiseofnobodyfuckinggoestherelight. I don't know. I'm broke. Cry me a fucking river I know. Everybody's broke. Yeah. I know that fucking too. I have to get this out. It's ripping out of me. Like that fucking thing on Alien. more like tiny butterflies with sharp claws and teeth, tearing. I try. I try. But. But what. Fuck I don't know. the next line. the next sentence. run on. fragment. fragmental state of being. I am seeing the letters pour from my fingertips but still it means nothing. it flows like ice melting. abrubtly stopping for no reason other than it's over now.

Simon & Garfunkel

The Dangling Conversation


It's a still life watercolor
Of a now late afternoon
As the sun shines through the curtain lace
And shadows wash the room

And we sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference
Like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar

In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
The borders of our lives

And you read your Emily Dickinson
And I my Robert Frost
And we note our place with book markers
That measure what we've lost

Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm
Couplets out of rhyme
In syncopated time

And the dangled conversation
And the superficial sighs
Are the borders of our lives

Yes we speak of things that matter
With words that must be said
Can analysis be worthwhile
Is the theater really dead?

And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow
I cannot feel your hand
You're a stranger now unto me

Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
In the borders of our lives.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




Back to work I go! Hi Ho Hi Ho!

Writing

I love it. Of course, you know that.
It's my life's work. You know that too.

What you may not know is how much
I appreciate YOU. I do you know.

Anyway. I'm working like mad on some important papers. I refuse to write shit, so I'm giving the papers more attention, relative to what percentage sufficeable for an A. But. I wanted to say to my friends out there: I haven't forgotten about you. I'll be back soon. Poetry's always talking to me. And sometimes I just have to listen. Most remain scribbled lines forever. Some make it into the public, here and there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


In the Middle of the Road

He walks
comes to end of the beginning
of this gray, rock-dust road

He steps-onto the pavement
stands on two yellow lines
the sun seems closer, here
hotter on my face. Wind: cold
so cold on my ears and hands

but my face . . . the face forgets
about the cold wind of winter

moments are lifetimes . . . lingering

standing

in the middle

of the road:

a relatively strange

individual.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well. I'm off to write some more analysis.
(you know what's really funny is how I remember to spell analysis)