Away

I remember something
Someone said, texture
Of close up paintings
And blue green music
Playing, a brain needing
Wallpaper hanging, the
Layer to be scribbled on
And reframed by laying
My hand, an arm’s length

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From, By

-Balloon to paper
Sack that’s empty
Fragile
The thought of
A cat, attacking,
Rising
Excitement..flat,
Matter of fact
Fulfilled
With a scratch
-A tap on the back

Twofold

Small world
Traced on buttons and lace
Placed across the chest
Inspected through a glass

And I crack
A smile because I can hear
That same music playing,
Laying my hand over heart

Shaped gold
Holding in onyx, emblems
Melted more than those
Blended threads ever told

Where

The sidewalk’s cold
On November, worn
Barefoot,
Out sleepwalking,
In dreams passing
Windows,
Closed curtains still
As air, chill as steps
Feeling

A Pretty Picture

Through the motions
In still life
Light, shadow, shades
Realism made
As romanticism paints

Writes

It drops
With resounding silence
A feather, petal, missed
In rain
Strained, tight, striking
Amplified like lightning

And Upon

One hundred fifty five percent. It began at two. Too young to remember an elevated vacation, they say. So, she sat with an auntie while four escaped. Funny, that eidetic memory. Corn slipped on the cob of stubby fingers. A Heath bar she thought she wanted, but sat on the end table uneaten, by the slip covered tan floral couch for a bed. Bubbles popped on t.v.

Black and white, Ansel Adams.

Photographs. Till high school, please. Finally into infinity. Green. Like breathing. Listening to mud. One of the pull offs on u.s 34, overlooking forest canyon to the big blue oval beneath the divide. Why not? As mother and daughter stumbled over that stone wall for a closer look. On the tundra. Under our feet. Feel.

She sees how her granddaughter’s shoulders relax as that gorge lake is pointed out, named. It’s the same. Untamed as a Kodak wants to be. Somewhere inside those deep trees. Living. Eating, sleeping families with dad in the den. And she never believed that bedtime story, till she was in it again.

Absinthe’d

And it got me
Drinking green
Cause gin, is
Empty, excuse
Me, vaporized
Evaporated in
Fairy wings, I
Don’t believe in
Imaginary things
Beating female
Anatomies into
Submission, it
Fogs my glasses
Past intuition
Left handed as
Anise’s fruition

BOP 913

Raised armed up
At a dare, stared in
Contempt, their done
Ones, sang song
Numb, but anonymous
Flat tasted tongued
Slipped glitter across
City streets, stage lit
Picked pad locked
Nine one, one, shut up
Mic Leavenworth’s
Lights runway’s run
Escape, says concrete
To steal away, some
How, but right now
Found on the page of
Memorization’s hand
And slammed spit
White gripped to steel

 

 

Paper Clipped And Cut

They don’t need to see
I bleed, poetry aside
Advertising, rhymes

Sometimes, at nighttime
When the mood strikes foolishness
In five, seven, five

I’m the other cheek
Speaking off the cuff of sleeves
Where heartbeat’s mind meets

Feeling with fingered
Syllables as if lingered
Longer to be seen

Or as recited
Under bright lights, memorized
Just to prove the sight

I’ve silenced, gutless
Stuck onto pages, bloodless
Paper clipped and cut