Dancing with Orion

Clouds wisped away by firefly breeze
commune via galaxies afar
dancing with Orion
he never drops his guard
Taurus watches nightly
swishing his Pleiades tail
Ignore Libra's glare, wind away
quickly on an early spring trill
summoning all Jupiter's moons
it's time for the Gallow Hill Reel
carrying sheaves like a warrior
shielded by a furrowed brow
there will be no tomorrow, no stories
so tonight we must listen well




http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/613077/a_cherokee_myth_of_the_pleiades_and.html

Daily Ablutions

Shards of last night
echo what was on TV
barely noticed but embedded
somewhere in the psyche
where threads rub upon fibers
a neuron calls a synapse and says
Hey, did you hear the one about the croc
that ate yo mama...or was that Obama
what's the point of cream without sugar
distilled is fine, diluted should be rejected
less said, less rehashed later

Children and grandchildren
nieces, nephews and cousins
will remember, not thoughts nor dreams
how could they ever have known them
but interactions by their own definition
things we do on impulse with a quick laugh
instinct is thicker than intention
it blends better if you pour milk in first
swirl the sugar before even considering coffee
too many have come and gone before

Reviewing homework from last night
you teach them to count, about money
what do you say about juggling bills
nothing when a dumb screen beckons
opening deluded avenues for escape
oh daughter, oh son, from what do you run
why are you my déjà vu
where was I when you called me
there--only partly, mostly far far
off in some allusion to karma
reality slobbering at my heels

Tighten the laces and drive due south

* ARCantu * 2010 *

Double Edge of the Rapier

..."you experience a story within yourself from its beginning, from the distant point up to the approaching locomotive of steel, coal and steam, and you don't abandon it even now, but want to be pursued by it and have time for it, therefore are pursued by it and of your own volition run before it wherever it may thrust and wherever you may lure it." -Franz Kafka, from "The Diaries of Franz Kafka, 1913."

I could say I'm better off without, believing it a lie
Does that we once were green together
in the same shared slip upon some time
ever haunt your re-formed mind?
Consumed by fruits of your labor, you grind
I wither along hallowed shores of the Nile
Anubis and Osiris bid me come
Tell me I have a pharaoh's smile
I have been the ideal
Patron of nature, magician, friend of sinners
I hear petitions of the downtrodden
Will you yet confess, yield your harvest here?
Daughter of the sacred earth, I resurrect
your dying pallid bat (Antrozous pallidus)
flank his naked wings, habituate your
deserts and arroyos, westwardly piercing -
rasping cries echoing off crisped, sere canyons
Every rhetorical climax of Poe could apply here
self-perpetuating, developing, insisting
so long as these same conditions prevail
Parry no more - fold into this knight's caress
I will only welcome, but I travel West no more.

~ARCantu * 2010 *

Slowly, with Determination

I have a little space to fill
Would that I could
Break myself open for you
Take the portion that will
Satiate you best
And leave the rest

I hunger, and thirst too
For your toil and sweat, verve and grace
Thrust deep within me
Pulsing, beating
Lifeblood and knowledge
Coming closer to the truth

* ARCantu 2010 *

for what are we without words?

Eyes, windows, souls
Smile - it is Saturday
O is for
Whatever the moment allows
Drama has no place here
If you need me to rest
Take eat, take drink
For this is my body
And my blood
Sustenance
Comfort
Dreams

Chapter 2 - The End (a new beginning?)

Aurora cast cascades of crimson, orange, and gold across bluing vestiges of the earth's atmosphere as he dropped her at her father's. She invited him in to drink coffee with her and Duke. Dad would be asleep at least until noon. He declined. There was purpose behind his soft kiss on her earlobe as her fingers reached for the Tahoe's door handle. He was in no position to linger. Somewhere between intermission and the closing curtain he'd decided. Dancing at Spurs and crepes at I-Hop hadn't changed his mind. He and she were going nowhere. He was going somewhere, albeit destination unknown at present. She smiled thinly and said, "Call me later." He said, "OK." He watched her sway slowly up the walk as she searched her purse for the house key. He waited until the door was closed...counted to ten...and put the Tahoe in gear. It was 2 miles to I-45, and the truck made an easy transition to 70 MPH in less than six seconds. North was good, for now. Maybe west a little later. The windows down, he thought the cool clear air never felt so refreshing before now. Humming along with Kenny Chesney, he wondered what needed building in southern Colorado...

I have no idea where I'm going with this...

Chapter One

It's not quite early evening. Memorial Park is quiet. Picnicking masses have availed themselves of their various modes of transportation and delivered their snot-nosed nymphs to Spiderman and Hannah Montana beds for naps. An unimposing platform blocks a view of the pond where ducks, geese and swans call out that it's time to sup. Spindly pines surround the area with some azaleas which seem to have taken no notice of the fact that it's early January. It's unclear if they're foolhardy or hopeful. As Forrest says, maybe it's a little bit of both.

A lone couple returns from their meander along a curving trail. She carries a blanket to spread upon the semi-green expanse of grass, where, in an hour, the night crowd will gather for Shakespeare in the Park. In January? Well, this is Houston, where folks aren't bothered by fickle trifles like weather.

He is a beleagured carpenter, on hiatus from new home construction that leads to overpopulation of what once was considered national forest. She interests him, yet he's clueless as to her reasoning behind the gothic attire, accentuated by dark lips and nails, which casts a gray pall over the otherwise softly caressing fading light. He doesn't understand her sorrow. She's a product of the upper middle class, after all. He's a working stiff still trying to make good.

He's confided in her that city life doesn't gel with his lifetime goals. She complains about her Australian Shepherd Duke, whom her father keeps because he has a back yard. She's resigned herself to the ridiculously expensive condo downtown, because she works in the medical center. Ironically she's a lab technician who spends eight plus hours, five or six days a week, drawing blood. She looks like a mistress of the dark, who's forgotten she can't traipse about in the daytime. She curtly dismisses any further discussion of family, shakes out the plaid flannel blanket, and arranges it neatly upon an even patch free of dampness. He takes her hand as the sit in silent repose. Tonight it's The Tempest. He was hoping for As You Like It. But that was last week. They missed it.

She sighs and lies back to admire the last rays of a star she has no business gazing upon. Her sense of disdain bothers him. They've known each other a good while, but they don't really know anyone, not even themselves. He asks her if she's jealous that a female friend called on his cell while they were walking. She replies with a, "Humphf," and says nothing. Is she petulant, or dismissing it as inconsequential? He thinks her most grievous flaw is her lack of appreciation for classic theater. He lapses into what appears to her to be a state of suspended animation as they await act one, forty minutes away. She contemplates his sweeping black lashes and faded worn jeans...