Showing posts with label fences. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fences. Show all posts

Thursday, March 17, 2016

A chain linked fence


Galvanized tendons twist
to form diamonds uncut
steel.
Roughly transparent in
semipermeable static lines,
electrified when more than it
is.
Keep in the bad,
holy cells skewed of
graphed locking turns,
sideways squares that we see
thru.
Holding red cup circles,
as a symbol that means
heart pushing thru
with
crimson aura.
A link between sides
that were never a
part.
Kept inside shapes,
diamonds tilted sideways squares
holding red circle cups there
to share a cold heart, locked,
barbed bivalve and by block-
nearly far enough to-
gather.



Image By Evan-Amos (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sunday, August 16, 2015

Sweltering in suburbia


He is winding his cobra hose
into a giant pot
it knows the way
and conforms to its coiled state

He checks his wrist
as the Cross's sprinklers cough and sputter
erupting in four corner rainbows
just for the latch key cat to see

Beads of sweat match the dew
as he knits his brow

She buses the kitchen
tidies and tucks, neatens and preens
applies her costume makeup
before choking herself with cultured pearls

She grabs the knife noting the missing
empty vase, with a handheld guillotine
poppy heads will roll, the daisies do nothing
and the hydrangea trembled in sweet defeat

Her paper mache skin tears on a thorn
nearby, she sucks up her own sap

Somewhere a horn blares
two trumpets picks up the pace,
accordions shuffle along
a guiatrrón leads the falsetto

Her heels dig into the Bermuda sod
as the peeks through the fence, tipping her toes.
An entire expanse of brown earth contrasts
the blue-white linen in milk chocolate hands.

The thick brick woman on the other side
pins and shuffles along a line, barefoot
a little dog prances and pops at her feet
carne roasting wafts in the wimpy wind

As she moves along, some are dry already
pressed and flat, stiff without starch
same as paper doll clothes with foldover tabs
her yellow tooth sweat stains circle her silk pits

Night and day
they do not say
or share a word

Next door
the paint has given up on its tone
the grass doesn't bear fruit, or wishes
laundry is pressing itself in midair

The Senorita hums and smiles blindly
Blanca sighs and tries being kindly
An alien in her own skin
not knowing how to begin
a new accord.

Escaping from the scalding sun,
Blanca goes back inside to hide
The Senorita stays 'til done
her side wafts with pride.


“El que más temprano se moja, más tiempo tiene para secarse.”

He who gets wet earliest has the most time to dry.


Image of painting by William Aiken Walker (1839-1921) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.








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