along the strand;
a tiny floret
wistful and aloof
Art: “Path through the High Grass”
Blue elephants saunter in the moonlight, electricity keeps them
Focused, like pilots on descent.
There is no knowledge but bones.
In this bowl there are mice.
They squeal louder than the elephants.
Someone hears them, I’m sure.
The bowl is tossed out of the window
As the mice scatter excitedly.
Some of them are decapitated in the fall.
A bus driver dressed like a pilot (we barely knew him)
Took it upon himself to manually deflate each elephant with
A pocket knife.
A young boy implores him to stop, but he doesn’t listen.
He never listens.
His fibers of moral rectitude have been surgically replaced with worms.
He blinks like a mottled rat. Ugly bastard.
Galaxies arise after long, brutal nights of love-making.
Bloodied rabid dogs digest the remains of beloved heroes.
Her face is two-dimensional, like a crescent moon.
Anxiety is a dish best served by doctors in green robes with cardboard hats.
There is no room for bloated time,
For seedless apples with only two eyes.
Rest is the answer Ghandi crossed out multiple times with red marker
While tucking himself underneath formless elephant skin during the winter.
Art: “Villa II”
concomitant with swift movements
around, then through, then around again,
never to return to their places of emergence,
but to keep striving and transcending,
until they become as one,
and the ego is vanquished.
And a remnant graces her quivering visage,
wholly and concertedly renewed
by a tender lattice of divine thought,
in which the movements slow,
and the colors dissipate in the space of a blink,
and all that is left is a Barmecidal trance
of a thousand ages,
where the fruitful have come to keep vigil
and pray until the Sun turns gray.
Art: “Crozant Landscape (Grey Weather)”
Formless and inconstant paths,
weighted roots with no foundation;
whence does it arise but from a
disjointed countenance with no proportion,
or a leaf from a broken branch?
Dust in the fields,
sunless clouds in aimless procession,
breathless winds and incorporeal birds
that have forgotten their wings;
the water’s edge no longer beckons.
The once gentle and complaisant calf limps away in fear
along a scabrous meadow that has turned in unto itself,
where the borders now fold into jagged embankments on all sides,
where the drought-weakened oak palliates no more
and the hope of a thousand tomorrows goes to rest
Face down, arms tucked in, like a child stroked gently by the lapping shore.
Fate has made its final trek across the mound
and now comes to compel my love,
to usurp my longings and make sprightly
each of my steps to a sweet place beneath
A darkened moon where the leaves are heard no more,
where the touch has faded and this thoughtless mass
has swallowed the desiderium of yesteryear’s solace.
A singular drop seeks nothingness but does not find.
It vacillates between atonement and quietude
As have all the drops before it,
as have the senescent imaginings of an unattainable peace
that broods just below a smiling face.
I will not see it fall to the earth below;
The eyes have chosen the undifferentiated sky, and the sky, the unseen.
Art: “Bosque De Abdules”
Enter the mist,
Absorb your portion
and extract your errant freedom from it.
Soon there will be deities encircled about you
starved for awareness,
and moved to recognizance.
Approach them where the light vanishes between their wistful eyes
and render them the remnants of sated wilder beasts
that only pray to deciduous reflections.
The clusters will gather and coalesce,
and perhaps sing for a moment.
Deny them not their due space to bloom,
to sway to and fro to the rhythms buried neath the
fathomages of ceaseless change.
Delighted by the gleeful murmurs of lost cherubs.
Art: “Tranquil Pond”
beware the quivering hand of Night’s mercenary
and the muted helical wisps
of sweet despair that well-nigh consume
the flesh of innocence.
Lurid reflections recovered throughout
the travails of unrelenting circular journeys
foretell stories of transcendence and of sorrow,
and of leaves waxing restful on the pond’s silent breast.
Protean skies sit god-like on their thrones,
Heads bowed, but shifting anxiously.
The roots of these edifices will grow, they say,
and in due time, beatified to soaring ecstasy,
where children will lead in song,
and tread the dusky streets as Kings and Queens.
Art: “The Flatiron”
Edward J. Steichen
It all commenced witha journey to the edge of shadows
cast forth by a trace of light that smiled and imparted to me
truths that seemed to persist throughout eons;
Between one eon and the next a steady look speaks
directly into my Being, causing it to stir
with naïve inquiries into the state and manner of its origin.
And the Sun began to recline
possibly to fill in the gaps of lost space,
arresting every silken prayer in its wake.
An incandescent strand of her hair binds
it all together. I grab a portion and
waltz across worlds misshapen at the poles
And elongated at the center.
Her symphony arises breezily from the hazy blue
moldings that encase the equatorial seas
coursing throughout this protracted belly
of affections and passions unalloyed and unmasked.
A demigoddess once envied her tears
And attempted to destroy them,
but was distracted by the exigencies of every mangled thought
that swelled within, aching for emancipation,
begging the heart to recall every shrill note sung by
this restless hoard of deeply-perturbed, jaundiced crows
soon to drown mercilessly in her elegant streams.
Every angle has patiently waited outside of time, looking in,
awaiting her return. From whence will she come?
How long will they sing her praises before they glare into her windows,
erupting the seas of my solace anew?
Behold! Her silhouette glistens at the darkest hour.
She won’t weep this time; but will nourish me with the
Honeyed nectar of her voice,
which glows once ingested, then dissolves into a million questions
all asked and answered, interlocked and melded together
with slippery edges that taper off every eventide.
And every morning the journey begins again,
tracing a long, serpentine path into the shadow’s edge,
Addled by the piecemeal memory of her kisses,
Filled to surfeit with the lustful ambrosia of her
secrets disclosed under the hushed bend of this crescent glow
that shimmers no more. The rain has made it dull;
A memory dangles and fades into a patchwork of speckled flowers,
slightly recumbent, pointed in the direction where her footsteps would have been.
Trace my steps knowingly
with your whispered incantations.
See me to the crest
and look down on the terrace
they have carved out for us.
What of tenderness remains
in the subdued glory of lowly pastures
whose only wish was to fortify
the outstretched arms of chance
and the ploughman’s lament?
Redemption lies just beneath the surface
of impassioned passes to and fro,
of weathered hopes and copious returns.
Fruit beckons becoming as old iniquities are put to rest.
A procession of future mornings looks back over its shoulder
and shivers in wistful delight.
Art: “Enclosed field with Ploughman”
Vincent van Gogh
A spindle emerges
And worlds retreat into unknowing
On all sides.
The vortex has been reborn
And it figures into the life of spaces
Turgid with the fallen heroes of reminiscence
And motion inflamed.
And around it goes,
Taking time with it and dissolving it
Into hollow particles that move along
Slightly curved corridors
One by one, after a fashion.
And blackened thoughts
Begin to coalesce.
The corridors straighten out
And empty into vacuums of potential being
Sealed by a single, winding thread of excess darkness
Occasionally punctuated by iridescent
Moments of awareness.
Clarity happens best when edges are
Seared and smoothed out,
Connected by the wings of galactic angels
And cosmic vagabonds that sprint in every direction.
Tonight they will all break free
And be seen no more.
The vortex will be shattered and consumed,
Spaces will bend until collapse,
But memories will resume, fully-realized, on all sides.
Art: “Constellation: The Migratory Bird”
We shall reflect upon the meaning of our disgrace,
Grasping truth unencumbered by blinded eyes.
Fugitive moments eagerly await the call of memory’s trace,
To stand before the day duly countenanced by obscurity’s demise.
We’ll hasten to discard every cloak and vain disguise,
And submit to all that the interest of honesty requires.
We’ll journey through forbidden caves of deceit and compromise,
Abducting strange thoughts, denuding secluded desires.
Fate guards the door of timeless secrecy to which our crime aspires,
Every path to resistance impeded by overgrown weeds of shame,
Ravished by the guilt that remains long after the fact expires,
We kneel wearily at the feet of judgment, ignominious passions with no name.
We are what virtue has disavowed.
We are what freedom has disallowed.
Art: “Les amoureux aux clair de lune”