Vivir con la incertidumbre

"To live with uncertainty"
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Thats the theme I am going with for this writing exercise I am about to participate in.

It says :

read the Haiku "Touch" by Jim Moore...

easily done.

Do not feel Lonely.
The Disappearing world longs
for you to touch it.

Now I am suppose to take a few minutes and use "all of my five senses" and write a poem called "the Disappearing world" using at least one concrete image in every line. I am suppose to make it vivid even as it disappears.

Here goes.

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"The Disappearing World" (more aptly named... "The Disappearing Man")

once a stout and sturdy man
with thick nubby whiskers said to me,
"the world is disappearing"
My cloudy mind did not believe him.
I watched this man walk on egg shells,
white and fine beneath his feet;
the slightest crack
and he was toppling.
To try to see his view more clearly,
I pressed hard the cloth into my glasses
hoping to make crisp the edges of our sing song distant melody,
the drone of a chords sweet passing.
All I saw was a bright young man, weak in the knees and wobbling,
with the intent
of the very first steps
of a colt.
The gray blonde strands in his beard, however, made it clear
he has many times attempted this walk.
To try and see his view more clearly
I joined in the muddy brown haze of sweet toasted lager
and hopped up we went skipping down the coal black lane.
I rubbed my eyes and unfastened them from the rim of the milky moon.
I was beginning to believe we would both dissolve
caught between two black lagoons.
His voice began again, sharp and withdrawn.
"The disappearing world is just a song on the breeze
and I'm trying to keep up, with tortured objectives
and a mind to collect it,
the end result is a mouth full of bitter apples
and a sour ripe cut. "
The closer I became dear the clearer it got,
the man was fading from the world; the world disappear? It did not.
his red stamped tail lights in the pitch
grew smaller and smaller
with the span of earth beneath the trucks hitch
In the faint splash of sweet sweet dawn
I laid flat on the pavement
a head full and heavy with new reservations.



................................

well then. I can't seem to get out of one fudging writing pattern... but at least stuff is coming out.

Not my favorite poem but ah... I'm not good with all the "concrete images."

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Second Part of the assignment.... Describe something... an object... a person, something in your dresser a stranger standing still... in as much detail as possible. Where is that damn poem I wrote about the guitar when I was "hanging out" with joe dejesu. Damn It I am not looking for it that was years ago. I am so tempted to pretend I have a vibrator in my dresser... and describe that. Nope can't do it.



ukulele uku uku

four little strings
a smooth mahogony smell
17 frets
five opalescent white dots
six blacks dots along the neck
cold silver tuners
two little yellow circles around the sound hole
sing: "my dog has fleas" to tune it
a few less fingers to hold down the strings
about two feet long
no strap necessary
strum it with your thumb
pick it with your fingers
sounds slightly out of tune almost always
dark brown bridge



.......
Ok I admit I can do better.

So tired I cant think. Soft bed needed now.