BY JAN HAAG
VARIOUS KIND OF TRIPLETS
Most of my life is secret now,
an expedition to the underground
that froths-up the stream of life.
I'm embarked on a paid
who's (also) reclusive, obsessive,
When young, my sole emotion
was fear. But it was a crystalline,
pristine desiring so fierce that I
pushed right on through to
I (later found out) I
I'm busy developing a fundamental understanding
of life as
Turrell excavates his volcano homage-ing
the image of
invites you in. You see a purple light in a purple
Only the maker experiences the process.
The process is all -- (God's longing) -- and secret.
With stones in her pockets,
the parting pond accepted
adieu-ing success and prestige
which sufficed not a
for the hoof-ed and aloof
gazelle bouncing bliss
of fame's intermittent siege.
Percy Bysche went sailing,
not too long after Mary
and his monster's failing
quest to marry
which was never,
and doomed to be not -- and blind
The Pacific swallowed Amelia
and burped up her legend.
part or identifying heart
ever appeared to amelio-
rate the now
s flying about or walking
each with immortality for a Virgilian cart.
of those bald-headed men
so substantial, so
admired, balding, witty, named James,
what I am to see and believe in,
declaring their lives
(world views) more substantive than mine, so
articulated who could doubt? Argue? Why would one want to?
of the world made crystalline, transparent, see-thru, glossy,
of turbid emotions, flood-basalt-leakages of
never being able to match those elegant Jamesian
my simple reality, nothing ever being complex enough
for me to understand, always too clear, definite
dreadful, encased in proper
grammar, let alone reason.
& THE COMMON COLD
sneezing globs of snot on the
re-polished floor, eye-watering,
nose-running distress, wiped by
tissue and t p, piled as
used, drying-over-night mountains,
attractive, intricate, nuanced as
glacierized snows, but discarded anyhow.
exceedingly white paws. He's fastidious
to a point of fanaticism,
his triangular face with the astonished
blue eyes, his
silk coat, his bum, his decorative
brown and white balls. So, is it
I am surprised when he appears
with smudges on
those delicate, white paws?
it be dirt? dust? an aging to grayness so soon? Or,
lying in the
sun, has he been tanning those paws?
He doesn't want me to touch
them, jerks them away
as if my fingers were pincers of fire. At
he excavates in my boxes of memoirs, papers,
forgotten keepsakes. Down through his
archaeological dig, has he met pay-dirt?
revealed, way down deep, he's come upon
Tutankhamen's tomb and,
buffing his paws,
against the secret sarcophagus, he has
the change from kitten -- my Shiva-purna -- to
seriously, his role as guide through this odd
outpost of creation.
Touchy, when I touch his paws,
he snarls as my human brain snoops to reveal his secrets.
Copyright © 2003 through 2015 Jan Haag
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Jan Haag may be reached via e-mail: email@example.com
BY JAN HAAG