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A Loneliest Way 6 a.m., a time where I belong cocooned, caped in a bed comforter amidst vacancy. The home is quite aged for the neighborhood. Morning fog, the cloud farce. Visible proximity is twenty meters. Farther out is an artist’s favorite flavor of canvas: blankness. The sun is but a luminous speck of white, like a flashlight under covers.
A rat ahead scurries from a rusty gutter, and if were me, that rat, the world would be comfortable among darkness and scrap. The streetlight bronze measures my shadow meters longer than factual, my ears under an in-town railroad bridge; I am further from a lamp now. This neighborhood is made of brick and, rising from untilled grass, appears as nether-squares. Shaken are the doors of elder homes. The paint had peeled like the boils of smallpox, their porches creaking and missing planks.
While my heels are aching damp, clapping the beige sidewalk, I muse over my steps. Clapping soles. S
A Library ShouldHelp support the price tag.
A telepath’s wish kindles in bone.
Sale the Dragon kindred reads a story all alone.
The aisles, misty forlorn
aisles--shelve they forgotten tome--grow
their own economy on a coin currency stone.
The printing press of paper
spruces up the orphan wood.
Books never adopted, a library should.
nestled upon bed peaches tinctured
with feather fleece cover; aroused her charmingly
the swan youth who dove.
Do covet lightning hair-streams a feminine kiss,
zipping electric neon blue strands charging fleece.
Oral pearls’ luster elucidates forth
in service to gaiety.
The bed-ship sways, lady navigating an atlas female.
Brunette in repose dips her brow to vanilla neck,
source of blueberry skin aroma.
Her braids swivel caressed by the ingenious
touch of her mate.
Vision fields finally interlock;
unified eyes frolic iris meadows.
As lilac buds blossom also lips gentle brush,
casting a cerise flair of blush.
Felicity, as well a sapphic love.
I Tie Love to a Lion's BalloonI tie love to a lion’s balloon.
A salon rinses curls that soak and shake away the
scents of other girls.
Wrung-out bonnet of acacia shampoo.
A boutique is our zeitgeist.
Thalia ItaliaWhy, audience, throw tomatoes at tragic plays for being tragedies?
Life is tragic; eat them during a comedy.
To tragedy she tends to tease.
Talented intrinsic comedy release.
Acts antecedent made lacrimal the coterie
underneath such secretion manifest vineal priests.
Such vineal priests.
At branches’ ends tomatoes worship pendulous
swaying neatly neat.
Cleavers axe their thorny stems.
The atheist coterie, now above their seats
aim savagely tomatoes to the sad stage beneath.
There then seen is Thalia, comic masque in hand,
playing her funny bugle! The ivy, a fragrant snake at her command,
slithers about her feet as they skip,
leaping to actors dead.
She knows them dead;
with laughter-filled persuasion she causes them to stand!
Holding hands in merriment the cast in circles leap
like the muse of idylls delights.
Frowns into smiles form and keep;
Death atop his darkest horse removed.
The audience, although jubilant, continues to weep.
Lovers out of script reuni
Before Partisan StepsHungarian Jew Alexander White
witnessed plights antisemitic, doom’s insult chaperoned handily under Hitler’s
His heartbeat resolute,
below White watched a Budapest cinema
SS officers flittered boots, flooded the movie house as would bewildered
animals, arresting age fifteen Alexander;
as Fuhrer claims, “The problem at its root.”
A Serbian copper mine to White sent work,
awarded no serenity in time.
He told another prisoner, “For food, my coat is yours,”
afterward flying from the fences!
Sooner gunfire heard his task to endure.
There down a daedalian river
parallel to a chapeau cap
besieged by water’s curtsy: a cap diversion onto stalker dogs.
Halt, you canine Nazi!
Into mountains White escaped,
trekking aimlessly dirt distances.
Dead leaves would not bind his movement.
And at last, when tired knees he grew
stifled every step,
Yugoslavian Partisans were to adopt another suffering man’s
nearly deceased st
The Flamingo PoetEveryone uses spoons in the morning.
I’ve a fork stirrin’ my tea
served with worry in a pink cup
Flamingo porcelain aviate
my tea in crooked wing.
Feathers rattle & quiver. Wrist riots,
I shiver, spill tea on fingers
fashionin’ four searing rings.
Invited calm sips incinerate lips,
my tongue tolerates a singe.
Steam pinkish pipes a voiceless misery binge;
poetry, a flamingo by the fringe.
Acta Diurna VIIMorning, stilled in a grey photo.
I am a mineral speck in slate mountains flanked by the salmon halo of Lady Gaia.
I left and pondered all the pictures I could capture.
Camera remained on the dresser.
Why do we share photographs?
Memory mustn't be pleasing seemingly.
Humans share photographs likely to convey messages of emotion,
or to detail without word.
Some share only to express their ability to steal the moment like a firefly in a jar
when the flash is on.
And some want for others to know where they were.
“Glory to the setting of man.”
Indeed, glory to the setting of man.
up and out
of their beds -
the sun smiles,
and reaches down
to embrace them
.the rabbits twitch
in their sleep;
of red bitten necks
wet with spit,
the birds dream of their eggs
and runny -
the mice dream of hearing
that tabby cat scream
as the teeth of life rip
unseen in agonizing silence
with no one
to memorialize them,
starfish begin to disintegrate,
dissolving into star dust
which we may unknowingly
breathe in through the
pores of our skin.
Nature reflects nature,
while dead stars
fall blazingly from the sky
in depths perhaps darker
more clandestine than the
entire span of universe
Astoridea break apart
like fireworks as they
begin to evaporate into the air.
When celestial bodies
recklessly plunge to the Earth
the whole world gapes in awe
as if witnessing miracles
but as sea stars
perhaps less gracefully,
more subtly yet possibly
with farther reaching consequence,
are ripped apart as if by
some internal centrifugal force
there is no one left
to recollect the incident,
no applause or tears,
no wishes made upon
their depleting bodies.
Even as they die
they strive to crawl away
from their decaying bodies,
one last grasp at life,
maybe a plea for immortality.
Sorrow of Songsunlight
morning ocean blue
over rippling waves
which once sung
though now cry
fractured and broken
to be trawled
from the deepest
where musical voices
away from home
they must go
torn from families
that circle deep
sending distress calls
as sun falls
from the sky
from eyes of Vaquita
has now become
Little OwlShy leaves sway in wind
the sky bleeds, raindrops
the flowers huddle together
A gentle breath from glass lungs.
A little owl sits
high above the world
eyes flicker back and forth, see
the light of a forgotten moon.
Wind chimes echo, scatter
acrylic sun rays
birds peck at the empty shells
of once loved soliloquies
in a pool
Crystal, sky blue
in the air.
Clear cloud white
bubbles bursting with
warm summer sunlight.
The cool beauty
against your skin
takes your breath away.
No Fury Like WomanNo Fury Like Woman
No man alive can play dumb
Why the weather bureau gives a woman's name
To a tropical storm
When eventually either comes
She is a raging tempest
Bound to wreck his home
The storm bears woman's fury
And the man must leave them in a hurry
But I stay calm
No storm has the name Puabi
"Please come and rest with Puabi, beloved."
July 24 RainJuly 24 Rain
Tonight the rain cascaded round
Its voice like soft laughter
Then I looked beside me
On the bed
And her soft laughter was like the rain
The heaven may cry or it may laugh
Like the one I love
She was made there for me
She reflects all there is above
DreiadesTo lash fuchsia
Is, to Future, stain a floral bed,
Whereby a billion butterflies
Embellished in a belle of white
Lay weary heads!
She's awoken with a morning
Tucked under a bang
All rise the hanging grapevines
And fruit veins
So compelling her to sing.
"A nymph of forest
Forfeiting her needles
Such am I,
Pining for a fire to keep me
Oh so warm.
If the cool is wavered
And I heed what fire warned,
I shall sleep on with the seasons
Until butterflies are adorned
With their own beds."
if you need help making it through the dayremember:
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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