Monday, March 09, 2009

Anecdote of the Psyche

No continents exist in the summer islands.
Instead the islands in-dwell in the castaway's gray iris,
where white sharks circle beneath a beached raft
that lists left in a lissome jolt with each azure wave
and parakeets with blue and green wings pinion a tattoo
at retreat toward a swiss-ed psyche. Landfall
stretches the comet's tail and a maitre'd arrives
and recites French, while the barefoot castaway stands
on warm sand beside a chaise longue marked reserved.
In that internal archipelago a snowcat purrs
in an apple-barreled rum in the castaway's daiquiri,
informing him that the first island begats the second
and the second births the third, and the fourth
mirrors the first and the first awakens a fifth
and there is no end nor order outside the rhythm
of the islands and no sound except the drone of a Hellcat,
scouting off the mid-way, and the pilot's hand vibrating on the stick
as icebergs calve from green glaciers in the north.


Anonymous said...
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Anonymous said...

It is too early in the morning for me to be reading words like these. But I shall come warned!

Anonymous said...

I am back! Ha!
From my reading I am getting how life is like a jigsaw puzzle and you cannot change the fit however much one tries.Everything interlinks. How life starts but carries on through the rest of your life. Like what happens in your past shapes your future.
I am no good with words and explaining what I mean and think in my head. Ha! I guess you've noticed by now *sigh*
I love your choice of words always, even if I don't quite grasp their meaning/feeling, straight away. You are educating me. Thanks, you.