Saturday, December 3, 2011

Still Fixated on Radiohead's "Lotus Flower"...

Clap twice, shake your head, take your hair into your hands and pull. Pull up and away from your "fast ballooning head." Know that nothing is as it seems. And what is seems, after all? "Mother, I know not seems!" says the devoted boy, the ghost's story leering into his tilted consciousness.

Lotus flower sprouts up, opens itself: wide yawn of the hopelessly beautiful and infinitely complex. How one life is absorbed into another, moments ticking away the only measure of the space between birth and death. Abandon poetry for the real, for the grounded and mundane. Sip it like a martini, dry and acrid but full of promise.

We lift our hopes on air, giant, colorful parachute desire: cat and mouse, though not a game. Not the rush of childish whimsy but the ballooning evidence of dreams deferred and wishes turned to ashes, ashes we all fall down.

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