Chart the path of falling pages

I stand alone and clap in the park at midnight and turn the crank and the music continues its qualities  are questioning appreciation notes of clarity floating softly on lines supported with breath the song goes pump blue blood in and out of my friend's heart warm and safe in my chocolate parka

it is a gift to whom or from whom I do not know but it is a gift dating from some past era when differentiation  is unfashionable or unnecessary now it is too often confused and left on the staff with many others alive, dead, and not yet conceived however this time the tune is played like a familial love drunken holiday I and it birthed in exercises before memory

compass divining rod global positioning system the blind fold that wraps my eyes from sight stacked ducks broken twigs bread crumbs strewn along the path to Gretel's future and pounding the pounding coxswain metronome even the reminder of air and trust the song it plays stirring ashen chicken bones and grooved goat hooves on my Father's ranch

please include rushes of traffic honking horns ticking pocket watches folded leather wallets unfolding with bills dispersed

and help search for its voice it is late shush I believe it is sleeping.



© Donald Grube, 2010

After I'm gone, I wish to be thought of as the pompous ass

It is a nice, acclaimed collection of books, letters, pieces of art, and coherent journal entries that will be distracting to those looking for my voice, but if you listen for the leading tones, become the grout holding the church's wiggly woggly lines in mosaic that are fresh tellings of old traditions, the parable might be found in the broken phrases, incomplete lists, old mildewy and stained paintings, maybe even below the soot collected in my GE oven, but family, and others who by chance got to know me, please sort through my junk and rotten fruit like the expensive investigative team, sifting, lifting DNA samples and plotting to account for that one ill fitting turn. 

I wish to be read and reread, literally or figuratively, by someone who's appreciative but I know that I am nothing but

the shit that stops up my toilet.

Please find my kernels and laugh at my presumptive thought that I had anything to share with you but lies. Once laughing, rejoice and make a different choice. You don't need to search anymore, because I'm telling you it is pointless. There is nothing but incomplete and incoherent thoughts everywhere. 

Give up the search, the striving, doing your best and grab what you need. It is all that counts. Grab it. Take it. Eat it as quickly as you can!

And then run.



© Donald Grube, 2010

Darting Doe

I search for it through springs' redressing. Sometimes it comes and other's not. This round however is more hopeful. I can't wait for its colors. I watch listen promote and stop projecting; how could I unconscious or awake create its fascinating motion. It needs no help; it exists. Stand up straight. Be bold brave strong yet careful to learn its primal language through pulsing morse. It just needs a quiet cavalier with which to stroll perhaps dance. Be ready to forward reverse and lift. And again. When sensed a dip a peck then help it to spin

There will be many more bands this year. Let the music lull your mind away and your heart, well hold it in your palm out in front of you as a witness to the nakedness. It will become harder with practice as you strip away the leather each layer softer than the last until it's more like un-webbing a caught humming bird. Breathe with it beat with it sit with it stare into it calm it balm it love it open and 

fly



© Donald Grube, 2010

This Moment Is Mine

He drinks coffee and eats donuts every morning. Stuffs himself on pepperoni pizza and guzzles beer for lunch and dinner. He likes to sit in his Willys Jeep on West Cliff Drive and stare at the girls, and loves to take long showers.

Or at least,  he used to. Just yesterday.

He ponders.

What did he make that second pot of coffee for this morning? And how much coffee is left. Did he turn the pot off? He thinks about last night's dinner, preheating the oven, and about the buzzer. How much beer is in the fridge? What about PG&E?

The people walking by distract him. He wonders what they're thinking.

I'm fucked for sure! What is happening to me?

I get out of the jeep and start to run along the cliff as fast as I can. My breath speeds up and makes scratchy sounds in and out. A stitch in my side. Soon I stop to catch my breath. Thoughts chase me again. I pace in a frantic, chaotic pattern. Then run. Then pace. Run. Pace. Again.

Pain in my head.

Finally everything goes black.

***

My eyes are wet with tears. In the distance I hear the waves through the rocks and an obnoxious seagull calls out. Cold, calming air passes my nostrils down into my lungs and up out again. 

I am curled up in a heap.

Live
Pulsing
Flesh



© Donald Grube, 2010

It's not a bird!

I have the desire, training, experience, products and self-knowledge, to love you.

If that love should ever fail you, I can sidestep it like that! Then with the mushy, new, green, gunk growing from deep in the ground, between my toes, up my legs and spine and out out my arms to the tips of my fingers, I will great each new pulsing, slimy, unformed mote of a love thought, with a warm  and enthusiastic bear hug! For now, I have discovered my super power:

I see patterns clearly and quickly.

Patterns in love's nascency. From one amorphous shape, dividing and multiplying into more recognizable conditions. No longer will confusion stay. No longer will I be miffed. And if I don't answer right back, feed me some tea for god's sake and let me stay a while. For maybe a conversation is needed, to stir the pot and quicken the brew!

Oh, world I do love you now!

So beware planet. Here he comes. Not a plane. It's not a bird. But...

Pattern Man!



© Donald Grube, 2010