Blue Elephants

I Require Art

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”
Keegan McHargue

Requiem After a Dream


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.

Art: “Untitled”
Richard Diebenkorn

A Spindle Emerges…


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”
Joan Miró

This Place


There is life here.

And there are seeds aflutter with
Gleeful songs and abstracted praises.
And a blind bacchante coruscates with abandon,
Dancing amid a night’s earnest welcome;
And children enthralled by oblivion,
Bought and sold by insular moments.

Here is a toast to a passing frame,
Of many a breath drawn, and taken away,
Of an eye for nicety at times,
And at times given to bland, tawdry components
Hastily-refined (for my conscience).

To a past extolled
This new perspective
Determines unforeseen positions,
Clarity of vision,
Decrepit memories of
Mistakes buried into misplaced oaths.

I seek the fugitive in all permanence,
Then I cloak it in aureate trappings
Of meandering satin.
This fervor bears witness
And is steeped in tonight’s rage.
But I love her
Albeit with bruised and disconsolate
Prayers yet to be uttered.

Art: “Les Beaux Jours”
Claude Carvin

If we go all the way to the end…


If we go all the way to the end,
Where will all our beginnings lie?
If your piecemeal heart ceases to rend,
Where will all your tears go to dry?

If nothingness is war,
Will our presence conjure peace?
As glistening bodies wash ashore
Will our darkened conscience surcease?

Curse the wayward shadow, bruised and inconstant light!
Nebulous footsteps that seek terrain.
Absorb my gaze, until the taste of night,
And remember me, use me, in vain.

Art: Kristina Valic

In love with weightlessness and shadow…


In love with weightlessness and shadow.
Figured with nothingness and unmolded light.
Dreamt once, but never fully conformed
Unto this world or the previous.

Sing tonight, or rest among the giants
Of solemn defiance,
And know thy specter within my dying glance,
Infinite to naught, porous in every direction,

Seeping blindly out of captivity.

Art: “Pisces”
Oksana Zhelisko

Excise me from your womb…


Excise me from your womb
And guide me through
Shifting plenitudes of dust
Redolent of those jagged moments
When fiery wreaths were hung in silence
But still ruled the day.

Sift me, then scatter me on all sides
As your lips begin to blow and cast
My name into deciduous glass
And candied trees that refuse to melt.
Make way for tomorrow
When toothless gnomes make love
As universal peace awakens,

Walks to the Sun and back,
Sits down and thinks itself blind.

Art: “Scissors and Butterflies”
Francesco Clemente