Drifty October by Peter Gidlund

Drifty October by Peter Gidlund

If October is a jellyfish, May is the hyena,
cackling like a soggy berry off the tree, ripe beyond age. 
May is a hyena, doing the heavy lifting, drawing first blood,
collecting txes, gnawing the scraps.
October is a jellyfish, drifting through the surf, oblivious to currents, out of its mind, praying for prey.
October is the jellyfish washed up on the beach,
no longer regulating the water, but still a thorn of the sand.

Earlier today, I passed a gate to nowhere.
The line pointed to the side, but the true jib
was straight ahead.  A few other guests were making their way in,
the dance from wind was about to start.
The grasses shimmied and shook, the trees stood and swayed.

The stalwart cross stands detattched from nuisance,
A giant Russian egg doll, made from the remains of
past life, molded and cut to its current stance.
Life from death, death from life, all mothers know to recycle.
Inside of the past, nothing had left and none had gone,
An anchor, symbol of industry, cast of iron, casted by man,
its components and composition were all the same scam,
leftovers of the previous endeavor.

Once in a dream sleep ceases, and genius takes the wheel,
an engine of centripetal force, the heavier the ball is,
the faster the call goes, the faster the moon orbits, the sooner the string breaks

I never thought life could be such a hoot,
echoing and summoning visions of the future's past.
I never thought life could be so much about fruit.
Wearing your skin and peel, like a three piece suit.
I never thought life could be such a drag, endless
possibilities, in every capability, for every type of porridge imaginable.
There are no longer three settings for our lives and times.
What is a decision, on top of a forest, inside of a whale.

Believe me what happened next, it stood up and
gazed through the peekhole, into the granite, a well.
Nothing to tame, the beast inside, no longer taking life for a ride.
No time left to spend in my quarry.

The worst thing you ever said to me was that I
was part of the effort and action.  How could you
know what could be work, without a face or hair?
When might you say, that the brittle will break?

These days I feel like a plum, trying to plumb
the depths of your heart, the canopy of your mind.
I feel like a sailor at sea, seeing himself,
inside of the delicate pyramid, a monument to stain.
Listen:  you can't do it as one or alone.  There is no
singularity for the somber, all of infinity to zero,
but without the one.

Once in October, I found the sneakiest way to fall down stairs.
The key is to holler and hoot, to reign and to root.
Fall down the chimney, covered in soot, Santa is a jerk.