LAPIS
for the Neruda in Everyman's soul

What is the color of blue other than hot?
The very best blues are the hot ones,
Why do so few see that?
I think of fire as blue, not yellow.
I feel ""blue"" as hot.
Lapis Lazuli tears that stream down.

The Irish are green and orange,
devoutedly so.
When you mix green and orange you get brown,
a color which is the stain of the earth.
A color in which all wild creatures want
to lay their muzzles down,
and tumble, roll,
reverently celebrating the joy of existence,
simple, unabashed, unrepentant joy.
A roll in the dirt,
the ear to the telling stone,
all things old and new
at once,
simmultaneous and significant.

all she wears are her words
and one invisible badge that reads
justice

he was a cowboy cop
put a quarter in,
and delight in the
mechanical romp

I have never had so much silence in my life.
(poets do see differently)
I don't listen, I simply sit.
""Be in this place.""
(something beckons...
a brown Indian hand,
mayhap,
or,
the wild Irish one
who left
full
of
hurt

In those Easter ""uprise-ins""

she left then, for a new place
across the sea, and only
a dream away

indominable

(janeymack, where'd be the questions
a la Neruda
sheisse
forgive
please
I got carried away)
*yes poets see lonely visages*
(vee-zzhahzzze)

**tis much like:
lapis lazuli

lahpees (soft s)
la jolie
only oonle linguistic tongue thing differente
OO -- oo like boot
lazuli

as a kid I was perplexed with accents
(the grammatical ones)
They gave me fits.
(and got me in all kinds of trouble
with the teachers
*who were ""desparately"" trying*
to give advice
on speech.

Cowboy come back to mind.
Wrangle.
Cowboys are a neccessary evil.
I presumes guilt until proven
innocent.

Nothing is innocent now.
All is tainted.
Poetry will never be
tainted.


Blue would be that:
the ocean,
full of the things
it cannot say:
like choking on words
that willna  come

This is this space now.
(full stop)

the poem is ended,
but the thought
are   
not...


alix