____________The Language Of Flowers_____________

by I0na Verse

A thorny geology of green and colored glass pressed together under pressure now hangs and tinks together from high heavy branches.           Straw and silk summery nights,    long against the thinnest skin evoke labyrinths where once was a meadow.     An unraveled shape causes the only shadow to become a half-                                                       shadow within the lace of bamboo walls;                                                         the sound is soothing but any louder and my ears might pleasantly evanesce.

I am riding around in a cart choosing music.
There are indications that this garden once held rings and vessels of earthy rain and lavish pools of bubbling enthusiasm.           As if to tell of luxuriant leisure time – a different kind of tiredness – where light could be intensely studied. Where bushels of thorns placed sideways and perpendicular at precisely 4:06pm on a certain day would create in their shadow the shape of freedom.
Where under the soft rich topsoil a fissure hissed but never opened.
Where on a molecular level self-transcendence happened even to the air.

 This opulent dead garden proudly projects its flickering movie in time to blinking eyes and tinkling glass,   offering a backstory,   revealing her terrarium  as another wedding party begins to arrive.

Related Articles

• “Stinking Flower Blooms” and related posts (weeklyworldnews.com)
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An apple, Infinity and a Field Manual.

Now on our own, Curiosity looks out over the world. I try not to care about speaking the fragmented obvious but often times I regret not having done so.

Home; the tinder nest of birch bark and bees wax. True meaning of home.

The reflection under my hat was that of a bluewhale-painted uhaul pulling away for good. Apple Cider Red  for-lease signs covered the peep holes in the doors, and the picture I took in the late evening looked ghostly with a hint of motion blur. There are still things in those rooms on the floors behind the doors, but the sign screams irreverently in advance of an announced Sunday 5 a.m. departure. It will mark the 4th time they had moved in 7 years – all of the previous 3 within the west side sector of Los Angeles. My neighborhood,  my neighbors. They are leaving one life to find another and in one regard are effecting a ripple of personal journeys to be explored by us all – their friends. Their family. They’re leaving. They don’t linger. They make a plan and do it with such authentic intention. The Cuban will drive the truck, and Whittier will drive the follow car with 2 cats and 2 hefty dogs. Their chosen route across country is the southern one in attempt to avoid the bluster of atmospheric chaos; as if packing up a life is not chaos enough.  

today’s ἀφορισμός (aphorism)

“It is my ambition to say in ten sentences what others say in a whole book.”   -Nietzsche

Filthy Graffiti Bridge With Dead Bird Floating On Cake.

Hiking last weekend we washed down a river paddled by our surreal   commitment to special effects. For me there was no later to that day, only flying transparencies in the current and echoes of our fruity exchange iced over by shadows of a heavy blue girder.

It was my turn to speak but I broke apart.  

Mustard Gas & The Asian Happy Tree (pt. 2)

Part 2  Jan  16, 2011

In good company and with a view from the start, this journey is as random and as vast as the trek of a thousand turkey-tailed mountains.

That’s what I see as I sideways stare at a Chart of statistics.  A visual aid with peaks and valleys speaking to risk and life-span.  I see a striking cynic holding hands with a convention of rookie astronomers; a limited number of stylized inkblots on an L-shaped music staff on a textured wall of constant risk.  

Mustard Gas & The Asian Happy Tree (pt.1)

Most people are other people.  Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.

–oscar wilde

You know me, though.

I am the combined effort of everyone I’ve ever known but I don’t walk around the house like a champion.  Instead I am simply that 1 in 8 statistic – the pink spiney elephant in the room who has outgrown its’ glass vivarium – that friend-ofa-friend of whom the other 1 in 8’s whisper about –  that actress in the movie last Sunday who won an award for being so brave as to shave her head and for vomiting and crying at the same time – that Large Corporation down the block near your house funded by glowing hairless shrinking pin-cushion people like me.