On the Hill

Since he was from Old Town on the south side Warren
felt right at home on the hill. He told me he had
been reading Gibran and that all were well. A young
man's early twenties are often his most wise. That
early wit lost maybe found if one truly believes,
or if one has faith.

I'm glad we decided to go up on the hill that day,
Warren and I. As we sat and watched the city roll
by all our friends one-by-one began to move up on
the hill. We were having a good time laughing and
talking and enjoying the sun. Then Warren decided to

Discuss cycles and Brahman's hymns of breath beyond
the still of life. John asked-"do cycles reach
such heights, are generations which were once here
now there?" Warren coldly replied - "Like fallen
leaves in autumn's rush, some cross decay."

There are those who believe in reincarnation.
They said that we had all seen these things once,
or twice before. I said perhaps, or maybe not.
It depends on such things being possible. Certainly,
one must be in the right place at the right time,
or doing the right things...

The Sun will someday set in the east.

The Scrolls agreed and they read-there is a universal
essence in all...This makes us free and good and
glad to be. A man will be a man and a woman will
be a woman and both are of the universe. Thus we
all agreed as we sat and watched the sun set in
its usual place in the West. We were content to
believe in the goodness that is in Man.

As there is no crossing that curse which wanes ascent...
And we would daily not into that curse which wanes
ascent.

Still Life

An isolated glass has its own purpose
in the geometric frame of a
Bold young man's craft. Pointing
Out the lower left corner within the
Rhythm of the Cubist display a
Note in (the universal tongue) which reads
Tomlin, no doubt the seal of
The artist. I see a figure molded
Into the shape of a type of
Skull, while to his right a carnation
All lily white and like a pearl.
As his one eye sees nothing, not
Even the oddly stained floor-
I wonder if he thinks...
If he knows that there is a
Glass painted deep brown and
White and grey: while breaking
From a wire that dances through
A blue flame. Skying into
An olive green nowhere... A spotted
Corner having another purpose.
This is an odd place similar
In ways to this old apartment;
Warm in the effervescence
Of an always aesthetic craft. Isn't
It Shakespeare who remarks in concern
To the workmanship of a man and what
That man has accomplished in his
Work that like this art, in its
Mirror, or mind, in 1939? -