A murmuration of bodies

It is not all about the long (form) poem,
or the short (form) poem that

captivates the reader to go on,
but form, oh form! It must be solid-set-and square-

there it is identifiable in space,
man-woman-yin-yang,
it must lie there

flat and
come around the full circle of Oh, I see,

and be intriguing, as eyes tend to be drawn
to bare bellies showing

the sex

it becomes impossible to look away, rude
to rend attention from the white scene that unfolds
sheets,

we tend to go too far in our search for likeness

in passing, we come upon the sight of a crash-
rollover and rubbernecking, our prying eyes seek
identification (relationship) of bodies,
make and model,
fault and genre
or scheme
or theme
(the way we drive).

The way
we seek familiarity in reflective surfaces projected
outward from flat atoms that cling together making a solid
point

reflective and with water
like cement, belly flops
that sting and leave a body red
scared us straight.

I see me

Cadence reminded the reader that the
human body and its homeo-static form,
feels it is not wise to slip into
a semi-permeability-stage-phase-
that would be weakness,
or prose

in words of erosion which sink quite naturally,
predictably.
Under pressure diamonds are made
by poets sitting on ideas
awaiting the train of thought,
engineering the license to use lines
at unsafe speeds

with glaring lights, blaring horn

blowing by

en route thru

to

the scene.

                   The limp body becomes
                                                     ejected
                   and stains the concrete
                   longer than rubber-
streaks.

Anybody can learn to drive
a point
Home
(some are more [w]reckless than others)
and the point Being
only the poet knows where they are going (if they do)
it doesn't help.
                       Detours and congestion both seem inevitable.
There is no way around
the good poem.

It just lies
there
(as in Found)
or flies away
on an impulse, taking the words with him wherever he goes,
traveling light
never arrives.





Image of starlings in flight at sunset taken February 2006, By Tommy Hansen.B.A.C. at da.wikipedia [Public domain], from Wikimedia Commons.

RPM

She had been running like a top for the past 100 years.

All pistons were firing, the timing on, it was simpler then,
without all that electrical wiring and webs to get caught up in.

Everything started with a spark,
which caused the requisite chain reaction
needed for thrust and to accelerate
fuel through tubes and get the veins conducting
enough heat to signal friction, life, and movement
along with the exchange that lungs do, except
inside the dragon's breast, under the hood
there is smoke
where a heart should have been.

A simple jump was not enough.

It can always be fixed, we are reassured. With Parts
and Labor, the estimate is always exceeded.

Rebuilt,
She might have run forever,
had there been no end of gas, parts, expertise-

Or had the rules been followed as in right of ways
and merging. Had they not crashed, recklessly
leaving fumes, rubber, bolts and broken glass strewn,
we may have made it a little further along the road to civil
ization.

Aside from all the accidents and operator errors,
outside influences and distractions,
if we stopped all four ways, blinked Right and turned on Red
we would translate the road signs and Marx made,
as symbolic of the passed
and find a new way
to revolve.

She was broken down.



Photo credit taken 29 January 2005 . . Bogdangiusca . . 396x271 (52947 bytes) ({{PD}}) in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.