west to east, but not easter just yet

from the Perth week, march 8th;
meditations on the tall guy and forward……
at six foot, eight inches tall, he’s amazing enough, but when you couple this with a voice i can only describe as “cleeseian” (best described as the aussie-equivilent to a vintage-voiced, monty-python talk show host-news commentator john cleese) but not in any way intentioned or mock-affected…,he simply speaks in this distinctly-clear, crisp, nasal-edged, slight-half-mocking tone; a voice i wouldn’t think of attempting to imitate, though at one point or another i probably will, hopefully removed from civilization in an echoey place, possibly in the safe confines of the sixteen-inch gun placements – battery harris east or west, i’m not picky – out there in the studioworld of fort tilden, in audience of maxx (gee, i miss him), long after writing this, recalling this pause, this moment as i look out the airbus window and marvel at the curvature of the earth to my right, speculating the distance to antarctica, the distance home and the beach, the distance to my missing friend, the distance to the eighth-electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension, estimating my chances, brushing the virtual specks of dust and celestial crumbs in front of me on the green felt gambling table the bottom of my right hand brushes, all the way to the edge of my pinky finger where the right-tip makes the ruffing-sound, like scruffing the courduroy jumpers i might have made up in my mind just now, a three-year-old, dirty-faced child, picking at a wad of gum from the pavement one spring day, the sun beating down behind me, little fingernails peeling at the bleached cement in the dark of my own shadow …..trying to get the entire wad at once, working methodically across, a bit at a time, collecting it together, peeling it back like silly putty from newsprint and offering it as a gift to my sweet friend, our morphing beings belying timelessness, letting me know we always loved each other and these people, all through time and space,…. our preciousness mingles in rain and teardrops, specks of ice streaking through the universe, tumbling atoms and hurtling flecks of brilliance and enlightenment everywhere there is and even where there isn’t, this, the message sent as i awoke this morning from who knows and who cares, the better part of me conveying the headline that it comes from these temples of love and kindness that exists here and there and now and then.
the white cloud cover below has spaces that let out (or let in) the blue below or around it.
it’s all indian ocean merging somewhere, some borderline i’ll never be able to tell you about, with the pacific….
this post airline-meal reverie whirls and winds like an uprooted house in a tornado, but it’s just as well a volkswagen bus that hits the pavement, wheels spinning, seventy- kilometers an hour, nary a sound as the rubber hits the road….yes…yes, that’s how it was when we passed one another in that dream, the one when we waved excitedly out there, the one where we took those deep breaths before disembarking from our landing crafts out there on the beach by the sea near the rocks on that planet in that sky where i last saw you jet by….the one where the big tire might be now, where all of those other secrets are,….the ones about travel tickets and eternal passages; those things that make us shudder and quake and the others that make us boogie and woogie.
we’re always dancing in our mind’s eye, believe it.
or not.
i know about as much as you do and if we pool our information, we’ll still be pretty close to stupid.

i’m an hour out of my destination.
i feel timelessly out of my mind.

About stephen trimboli

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