I Want My Thousand Words (Draft 3)

I Want My Thousand Words (Draft 3)

Look up,
look it up.

She’s running wild
climbing adventurous trees

Those wild trees uproot themselves
just to make a statement
even if they fall short of running
but, of course, it’s not recommended

Yes, trees can branch
that’s their slow motion adventure
when they must wait for seed carriers
that bear their fruit

Maybe she’ll come down
for our favorite wine
and a dithyramb
about ecstasy
and leafy love

I have seen her dither,
climb a tree in bloom
speak with flirty birds
and have a word with me
that is a subtle twitter bark
surrounding like a hug wood
a play with banter-word chirps

But wilder is better…

With such waiting twiddle I wanted much
to touch her since then, and
there is a flourish in melody
that accompanies the twaddle
of the giddy blooming of me
I hear when I think
of her as branching music
reaching for the sky

I know she’s reading
between tweets
sneaking a look at
longer things like me
world famous innuendo

Hello, I can see you and
I have words to sing.
Step away from the box screen
and meet me in the forest;
there’s a long body
of conversation
of pleasure

I want my thousand words,
don’t want to abbreviate you
or shorten the picture

I don’t see you
as a u or pic, and
I’m so sorry u
were picked on

I will file a brief
in the highest court for
je ne sais quoi appeals, and
run rampant on ramparts of verbosity
because at least prolixity has a tongue
a lingua frank and a lingua true
not politically corrected scrub
but where I could be a tree
and you could be a bush
in the metaphor field
away from the digital box
and on to lots

short enough for ya’
u,… Oh, I would ask
your real name, but
I forgot mine

— Douglas Gilbert

I Want My Thousand Words (Draft 2a [second try at post])

I Want My Thousand Words (Draft 2)

Look up,
look it up.

She’s running wild
climbing adventurous trees

Maybe she’ll come down
for our favorite wine
and a dithyramb

I have seen her dither,
climb a tree in bloom
speak with flirty birds
and have a word with me
that is a subtle twitter bark
surrounding like a hug wood
a play with banter-word chirps

With such twiddle I wanted much
to touch her since then, and
there is a flourish in melody
that accompanies the twaddle
of the giddy blooming of me
I hear when I think of her as music

I know she’s reading
between tweets
sneaking a look at
longer things like me
world famous innuendo

Hello, I can see you and
I have words to sing.
Step away from the box screen
and meet me in the forest;
there’s a long body
of conversation
of pleasure

I want my thousand words,
don’t want to abbreviate you
or shorten the picture

I don’t see you
as a u or pic, and
I’m so sorry u
were picked on

I will file a brief
in the highest court for
je ne sais quoi appeals, and
run rampant on ramparts of verbosity
because at least prolixity has a tongue
a lingua frank and a lingua true
not politically corrected scrub
but where I could be a tree
and you could be a bush
in the metaphor field
away from the digital box
and on to lots

short enough for ya’
u,… Oh, I would ask
your real name, but
I forgot mine

— Douglas Gilbert

I Want My Thousand Words (Draft 1)

I Want My Thousand Words (Draft 1)

Look up,
look it up.

Can you come down?
I have our favorite wine
and a dithyramb

I have seen you dither,
climb a tree in bloom
speak with flirty birds
and have a word with me
that is a subtle twitter bark
surrounding like a hug wood
a play with banter-word chirps

With such twiddle I wanted much
to touch you since then, and
there is a flourish in melody
that accompanies the twaddle
of the giddy blooming of me
I hear when I think of you as music

I want my thousand words,
don’t want to abbreviate you
or shorten the picture

I don’t see you
as a u or pic, and
I’m so sorry u
were picked on

I will file a brief
in the highest court for
je ne sais quoi appeals, and
run rampant on ramparts of verbosity
because at least prolixity has a tongue
a lingua frank and a lingua true
not politically corrected scrub

— Douglas Gilbert

Writing On Paper (Draft 1)

Writing On Paper (Draft 1)

I remember how much
you used to love my letters

Touching things have gone missing:
a digital age feels itsy bitsy
without ink on paper,
the primitive’s refuge

Perhaps I shouldn’t read
paper books any more if
their subversive rumination ink
flows like veridical blood upon
capillary pages waiting for the
extravasation of truth, but

the pain of veracity is
like a paper cut acquired from
handling an edgy sensational plot

If there are no paper trails
to follow into the forest,
would the scent of the pine
be lonely without a nose

If there be no object to touch
is one nonsensical or itsy bitsy

The object of the spirit
seems fleeting into an empty ether
such a lonely dark matter to consider
without sails or voice to carry it across

The soul in the body
can be alone; it is
tolerable in a way where
at least there is the corporeal dialog:

the ego speaks to the fantasy
sensual things happen between the two
who fool each other into thinking

the other is real, and then maybe
both are not, or there is
one soul that will carry on
like the scent of the pining pine,

but what if after death
it is thrust into a distant galaxy
with no body to reincarnate
no houses or trees to haunt
no gods to worship like objects

Is this the cosmic loneliness
when one can not be two
even for the moment of a dream

How could it be I’d
be thrust into a distant galaxy
with no useable matter
with no bodies for reincarnation
no light, no sun,
no spirits great or small or petty
no discernable benevolence but memory

I wonder if I will be less than ash or dust
just one who has no papers, no letters

I’m so sad all my papers have turned yellow, and
I’m not even sure if they make pens anymore, but

I remember how much you used to
love my letters and cherished the one
that I dropped from
the cruise ship of loneliness
into the ocean like the
twilight node episode with
the glowing message globe
looking like
a crystal ball from outer space that
lit up and spoke to the shy lady
at the edge of the surf, addressed
“to the loneliest person on Earth”, but

you are too lovely and kind to be that
and I don’t know why you wrote
a reply to someone who is silly enough
to throw bottles into the ocean that
many mock as pollution, but I
shouldn’t have had to pay a fine when my flotsam
was so finely written in script for
the loveliest person on Earth who
would stand on the beach
and retrieve me from a bottle

but there are more cosmic things
outer space things.

Remember to reply again
if ever I am one alone
stranded in a distant galaxy

because it takes two
and I wouldn’t mind
if you were a goddess
or a human on the beach

— Douglas Gilbert

Writing on Paper (retro-Draft 0) [took something simple and made it difficult…]

Writing on Paper (retro-Draft 0; making something worse& starting again)

There is no object to touch
when one is nonsensical

The object of the spirit
seems fleeting into an empty ether
such a lonely dark matter to consider
without sails or voice to carry it across

The soul in the body
can be alone; it is
tolerable in a way where
at least there is the corporeal dialog:

the ego speaks to the fantasy
sensual things happen between THE two
who fool each other into thinking

the other is real, and then maybe
both are not, or there is
one soul that will carry on,

but what if after death
it is thrust into a distant galaxy
with no body to reincarnate
no houses to haunt
no gods to worship like objects

Is this the cosmic loneliness
when one can not be two
even for the moment of a dream

How could it be I’d
be thrust into a distant galaxy
with no useable matter
with no bodies for reincarnation
no light, no sun,
no spirits great or small or petty
no discernable benevolence but memory

I wonder if I will be less than ash or dust
just one who has no papers, no letters

I’m so sad all my papers have turned yellow, and
I’m not even sure if they make pens anymore, but

I remember how much you used to
love my letters and cherished the one
that I dropped from
the cruise ship of loneliness
into the ocean like the
twilight node episode with
the glowing message globe
looking like
a crystal ball from outer space that
lit up and spoke to the shy lady
at the edge of the surf, addressed
“to the loneliest person on Earth”, but

you are too lovely and kind to be that
and I don’t know why you wrote
a reply to someone who is silly enough
to throw bottles into the ocean that
many mock as pollution, but I
shouldn’t have had to pay a fine when my flotsam
was so finely written in script for
the loveliest person on Earth who
would stand on the beach
and retrieve me from a bottle

but there are more cosmic things
outer space things.

Remember to reply again
if ever I am one alone
stranded in a distant galaxy

because it takes two
and I wouldn’t mind
if you were a goddess
or a human on the beach

— Douglas Gilbert

On Sand and Steps (Draft 4)

On Sand and Steps (Draft 4)

Without power
dark and hungry
hurricane charms.

None could wash away
Sandy sorrow and surges
when too many steps
needed to be taken urgently.

My thigh hurts from a pull
because I am unreal, ungraceful
in keeping blind rhythm masterfully
unreal for walking in the dark, and
I fell at the bottom of the stairs
flying like a fledgling on nested steps
catching my foot on an invisible edge

She used to find me charming
thought I was her good luck charm
but for a while now
I’ve just been used

Without power
dark and hungry
hurricane charms.

She said to
turn off my flashlight
because the looters she knew
would know she left her apartment

She knows everyone but me, and
I suppose I used to be charming

She needed to charge her phone
to talk to her real friends
in the real world

Seems that I, being unreal,
can’t see in the dark,
missed a step,
fell, and
we went to
charge her cell phone
near the security booth
where they hide guards
and do nothing, a light light
house like Potemkin’s façade

There’s a generator at the booth
where she can charge her cell phone
talk to her real friends
in the real world

Unreal in the dark
without heat
without hot water
wet faces are not washed
dirty, filthy tides cry, but

the ocean is more beautiful
and magnificent than the mud
of the tidal marauders, and
the seagulls sang more sweetly
than the people on the street
as I wandered through debris
on the beach with flashlight on
watching a Dredge pipe spray
new sand for replenishment
new food for seagulls, and
food for thought that
wiggles like worms and clam bits

A few skillful birds caught
long pieces of food
and each had five
other birds attack it

A few snatched little pieces
that they ate surreptitiously

Some just enough
for air-to-air to beak combat

Many got none and
one stood away from
the main torrent of muddy water
not seeming to care
wading without waiting

I mumbled you’ll never
get anything that way

It barked at me

Why did you bark?
I blurted

If I chirped
would you pay attention?

It knew a good sand bar
so it flew and landed
flew and landed
so I could follow it

I walked across some rocks
onto a sand bar bizarre, and
an unopened bottle of whiskey
freely floated onto the bar to a stop

I poured some rye
into the whiskey’s cap
let the seagull drink
and wink at me as I
drank from the bottle

Foam rose
time to go

Alone with a thought
it seemed more articulate
than a parrot distraught; thus
it bravely rested on my shoulder
and I brought it home

I was so cold but
I lit the oven aglow
and put up some water
to boil, bravissimo

It asked me to open
cans of clams and sardines
which I gladly did, amen
seeing as I needed an ending
to the orphan joke: a man
walked into a bar along with
a barking seagull, a chirping dog
a priest, and the bartender spoke…

I thought I had been quite a good host
but then it asked if I could
charge its cell phone…

That’s when I cooked it.
It tasted like chicken in wine
blessed by a priest and a bartender.

She knew every storm but me, and
I suppose I used to be a lake

— Douglas Gilbert

Face Recognition (Draft 2)

Face Recognition (April 24, 2013)

Blissfully, I thought,
we were walking
an innocent route
side-by-side down
Fraught Street

“Here, have some fruit,” she said.

I chewed on it, expecting
sweet attributes of seduction
but it was a hot pepper, and
my nose and eyes ran
my whole mouth hurt,
needed water or mouthwash
or a pain killer

“I see you have a cold, and
you should go to the free clinic
that Big Sister has provided —
isn’t the Big Care wonderful?”

She kicked me, and
I said yes somehow
not understanding.

How was that historical novel
you read last week
she wanted to know.

Somehow I said fine
though I was huffing,
looking for water
or mouthwash.

Oddly, she said
to give her my hand,
showed no concern
I could discern for
an agony of pain

She caressed it
with one hand
and tapped in my palm
with the other: a tap
a stoke pausing, taps

Was the novel interesting?

Huh what? But then
I realized she was
tapping in Morse Code:
it said, “Face Recognition
camera ahead. Your face
needs to be in pain.”

“Look,” she said,
“that building is on fire
and we must save the baby!”

My mouth hurt.

Trust me she had tapped, and
we ran into the burning building.

The building was full of
thick colored fog and the cameras
couldn’t see us, but oddly
we could breath normally, and
it didn’t seem like smoke

“Save the baby!”

We ran upstairs
lay down and had sex.

“You were wonderful:
you put out the fire
and saved the baby!”

There was no baby, and
the cameras didn’t recognize
my joy. Big Sister was
happy to see my pain.

— Douglas Gilbert