bonne nuit.

where are your gentle eyes...
that grinned at me,
through the smoke of my failed french inhale...
where are your eyes, what do they see?

The Ephemeral Cotyledon.

She crushed the leaves in the palm of her hand and smelled their dark aroma. The wind swirled around her and picked up the broken pieces which were carried off into the distance. She followed the fragments as long as she could, but soon they were lost amongst the elaborate details of nature.
Her eyes traced the grassy fields that stretched beyond view and gazed in wonder as the warmth of the magic hour danced resplendently along the bellies of the clouds. Slowly, but immeasurably, the milieu was draped in shadows, but the reflection of the sun was effulgent in her eyes.
As she walked the dips of the verdure, rose the scent of moist earth and intoxicating green, titillating her memories. She became conscious of her breathing, which deepened by dint of indulgent reminiscence that cloyed her senses. She was headed to the distant edge of the field where the hillside dropped away to a vast drink. With each step, the moist blades slashed her now viridescent hem, leaving a testimony of her sojourn. Later, when she would question her situation, the mordant chroma would remind her of how she got there. She would remember the choices, both random and naïvely chosen, and know how she had arrived.
When she neared her destination, the increasingly salted winds washed over her cheeks. She inhaled a hastened drag and the briny air piquantly pricked her tongue. Her conscious hand flitted to her mouth and slowly slid down her neck, over her whirring chest, and down deep into her pocket. Cold. Her fingers clutched memories, now cold and dormant.
She could no longer be surreptitious, even if she wanted to be, for the sagacious sea knew all her secrets. She withheld nothing. The whir peaked. With a roar, all her fears and losses and desires jettisoned over the cliff, and the sea crashed back in response. The waves greedily lapping up the fervent effusion, showed no empathy. This was her very being now, the matter of her existence.

So allowed to fertilize, a bud had grown.
The drum began a slow, steady beat. The locket descended; blue.
The pulsing luster in her chest charted a map to the constellations.


In the dark, is how she was made.

Huit Pierres Dans Sa Poche.

De façon les humains sont capables de mesurer et de déterminer un abstrait par un autre abstrait et de le déduire vers le bas à un cliché dépensable. Parfois l'amour n'est pas assez, même amour vrai. La distance fait seulement le coeur oublier. Le temps n'attend personne. Par conséquent, vous pouvez être trop en retard. Des scientifiques sont satisfaits comme temps étant un dispositif opérationnel en lequel l'unité définissante est la seconde. La seconde est souvent attachée par rapport au battement d'un coeur. Les battements de coeur sont-ils équivalents aux secondes ? Par le jugement de Kant, on pourrait jamais être trop tardif, parce que le temps n'existe pas. Cependant, à plusieurs reprises, << trop tard >>, est la platitude respirée outre des lèvres d'un amoureux à l'autre. Comment peut-il être trop tard, quand les humains à l'intérieur posess le gardien de temps du monde scientifique ?... battant le rythme à l'âme de l'existence, infestée par l'habitude du lapin blanc. Un abstrait peut échouer un autre abstrait...mais quoique mon amour soit vrai, le temps continue à passer.

A marked note.

A letter mailed from Palatine, Illinois remained positioned on my dresser for many months. Though I tried not to consciously delve into the significance of the action, I placed it purposely within eyesight of my usual sitting spot. Each time I looked up, I would clearly discern in my peripheral, its precise white-with-a-tinge-of-smoke outline. Most often, I would keep its recognition in the posterior of my mind. Yet, there were several days where I completely thwarted such cautious efforts. Audaciously, I would pick up the envelope, reread the names on the addresses and reregister the postmark in my encephalon's timetable. I would run my fingers over the page encased inside, and feel the slight indentations the pen had made onto the precious solo sheet. I would replace the letter to its position and continue to be both grateful and perplexed at its presence.

Today, a different liturgy ensued.

From my sitting spot, I looked at the envelope and reflected back to the day I recieved it. I remember reading it and laughing as I walked back inside from my mailbox. Today, when I read the note, it just as easily elicited a smile. Instead of placing it back to its post, I put it in my filecabinet in a folder specifically marked "Grandpa & Grandma." I lightly pushed the drawer and the sliding tracks continued to close the drawer all the way.

I paused, and consciously grasped the significance of this action.


Je t'aime, Pépère.