Good Question.


Meditation



This morning I watched him hold yoga positions,

His muscles radiant and powerfully lifted,

Now he sits on the porch, a calm figure of awareness.

The gray mist hangs over the gulch, the pinkish leaves fall

One after another like my father’s poses,

Each landing is a posture of self-mastery,

Tada-asana, Sirsha-asana, Vira-asana.

We sit on the porch for a long while, meditating,

Crows crow, the woods are full of angry birds.

Inside the cabin, the dragonfly cannot find a way out,

His vociferous wings create a useless fury.


CRA
12-21-07
Who am I?





The Piccadilly



Our waitress runs

With pitchers and hot plates, her rush syncopated

With two-puff smoking breaks,

Then it’s back to pick up orders—



       The metal wheel spins

In the rectangular window.  Cooks harry the grill,

Their paper hats dance in place,

As they lather the bread with butter.  



Grease smudges hands, plates, napkins, table tops; the
food

Tastes good.  I don’t think about anything outside

The orbit of my plate, the mound of sweet ketchup and
my mother—



She let me have her fries.



After, I peer under the antique cash register,

Into the cabinet of candy bars, packs of gum, and
cartons of

   cigarettes,

Relics from a bygone world.  My mother

Gives me a dollar.  Grease on my mouth,

I stuff chocolate inside.



CRA

11/19/2006

8/26/2007




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Artwork on this page by
Henry Darger
notable outsider artist