I am going to Daily Perks coffee House this Thursday for their open mic. I need to get creative and write some stream of consciousness stuff. Click here to see my attempt:
by Evelyn Cammarano copyright 2005
My black cat curls up inside of himself and leans against my hip.
Jazz music jumps around in our ears, and he dreams of catnip and toy mice.
No words are spoken in the morning of a Siberian winter , because your lips would freeze to your teeth.
Her breath circled her red yarn hat and she tried to not breathe, but the cold white puffs showed otherwise.
For us, it is a darkness where you cannot see your hand in front of your face.
You are too scared to step forward
and too full of wisdom to step backwards because
the dark will swallow you up. All you hear is the roar of plane engines above your head advancing towards you,
and you squint your eyes hoping to see the plane's tail-lights.
You walk up the stairs to the rare book section, and you find the door, and you put the key in and turn the knob,
and walk inside.
Walls of books. There is one book you need to find. Just one.
The dusty smell of ancient text jumps out at you from behind the shelves.
You need the one with invisible letters.
You know that furry little creature hid his nuts in these pages somewhere.
The trees are growing again from the pages..... and the dusty air will heal into oxygen-scented breeze, soon.
These invisible letters are in one book alone. There are ten thousand books here. Which one is the one?
The map has esoteric symbols on it.
The trees have grown more from your breath. They swallow up each puff of carbon dioxide you release.
Thousands and thousands, vibrating energy, blooming flower buds exploding in the un-sun of this place.
You radiate light. Without you, they would die.
Adam and Eve are naming the animals here. They are conversing with the snake. They are biting the apple.
The apple falls on top of Newton's head, and he smiles at the gravity.
The gravity smiles back.
Jazz notes walk the path and the life-blood of the maple syrup melts down
the ants trying to carry it away.
Such a surreal picnic. Such a melted clock.
Such improvisation of notes, and the clouds blow by and form dragons in the sky.
The stars sparkle and you play connect the dots
and discover the secret fountain of youth and lost continent of Atlantis.
You are Socrates swallowing the last drop.
You are the Krishna eye glowing in the white light of rose petals.
The gravity is still smiling, and you orbit around like the record on the player,
like the horse on the carousel , like the cat on floor drunk on catnip,
twisting and chasing his tail round and round, insane,
the two of them fight over it , hissing, with fur flying, claws and teeth and wailing,
so drunk on gravity!
She pours some into a foam white cup and throws it their way.
Why do we torture them and laugh like we do? How is this entertainment?
The numbers on the calendar and the hands of a clock
tell us how to breath. But us poets, us artists, hold our breath
and walk hand in hand with it,
and we can hold our breath for limitless time and space
because nines months is never enough time,
and neither is a decade, when it is remembered in the blink of an eye
and you birth a new universe made of light.
She digs in the wet sand hoping to uncover the buried treasure.
The piles of sand form a castle unplanned,
and the dragon seeps out of the sky and visits, smiling, teeth dripping with gravity.
She stops digging and looks up at her friend.
Golden eyes. Golden nuggets, golden keys, golden letters,
and the dragon's fire breath burns her away.