Obviously hidden

The treasure chest is locked

of course

I cannot find the key.

Losing it

intentionally

was self-defense.

And of course

someone asked about its

contents.

Privacy excluded,

they meant no offense

to my memory.

But of course

certain things cannot be trusted

with others

Or oneself, really.

That is why

it is safer to hide

Inside.

Painting by Edward Mason Eggleston (1882-1941), 'Princess of the Treasure Isle' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

High Cue

Sap from heart-wood drips-

Honey, no one would call It.

Can you Smell the sun?

Painting by George Inness (1825-1894), 'The Mill Stream, Montclair, New Jersey' c. 1888 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

As in Synonymous

Chest

like vault

or treasure keeper-

holder

as in Heart

or locket, like a lockbox

fitted with skeleton key-

hole-

simply very heavy

and something

sounds 

broken

inside.

Unable to lift alone

as pallbearer in the past

I feel the dead weight 

familiar remembering

without seeing

This must be why

we bury our dead

in wooden chests such

as these 

likewise.

Photo credit: Harris & Ewing, photographer, taken 1925 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Cardiac muscle

 

Any-one-of-Us

who have heard

the shattering of a heart,

of a world

fragmented, knows the 

intent to deafen each piercing note...

Those of Us 

who have struggled with intruding songs and scents, 

are stuck in a triggered trap, clamped

between sharp teeth

and resisting no more,

alone. 

Some of Us 

disagree 

with how lovely it is to have lost

than never have had

played a game we did not know.

Intuition, like embers emit no smoke,

but deep connections 

lean candle flames without a breeze.

It can be felt,

on fingertips, burnt leaves, ashes-

heat is Life.

Death is a dampening, silent

as in, buried Alive.

And I know

how these memories 

refuse departure.

On the ancient land where I now stand-

my story is held momentarily

footprints in the red dirt 

alone, cauterized, singed, 

and dappled with sunlight.

Fire with fire.

Most of Us

will not get that close

ever again.

None of Us

understand 

the heart that burns

and beats without Us

skipping over

tiny details like nails

hammered into the heartwood. 

Artwork by: Sigmund Grimm, dated 1520 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

branches

This is not love.
We can be certain.

These arms may connect us
or reach
away
yet-
only a knot
knows what was
once there.

And I have started to lose feeling
after clenching so long
the words or a similar
breeze to bring me closer
to you.

Instead I hang
precariously
numb.

A heartwood drains
down my
whitened clasped hand

an indistinct ring-
ing in the ears
is calling for Us
to let go of dead weight
before the wood
turns to bone

without love
there was no way to tell
how high we were
there was no way
we should be certain
to survive the fall.



Painting by Charles Reginald Aston, between 1852-1908 in Public Domain.

Hollowed out heart

I unsheath the telescoping rod
from the vein in my left arm
connecting my ring finger
to the heart
and pierce the stale air
of dwelling in this too-small space
atop the low mountain ridge,
I scream, a hawk echoes me and
I determine to open it up,
as a surgeon might do,
and bleed out the rest of the
swollen lust built up
from impossible dreams
and so many bruised misentries
stain like scar tissue,
there is no feeling in this area
that the immune system
is ill-equipped to treat

As the resistance is overkill,
homeostasis is not a residential zone.
The needle-tip inserts alternate forms
of nourishment and necessity,
only meant to keep the heart
beating me up and down
like a closed fist
striking empty chambers.


Painting by Hans Dahl (1849-1937) 'On the mountaintop' date unknown, in Public Domain. 

Witness whiteness

Who is watching?

I feel-

Enough.
It was
-not needed
              any more
Love
         you sooo much
rains    candy,
Sugar name drop not

Justify
Too

it is complicated,
intricate, entanglement-
through
close contact-
intertwined
and inevitable.

You see. You do.
You are-I am too.

Kiss me
Aloud
if you can

in this tension
of Presently,

Let me
             land-

(softly) Held,
holding

your gazing heart
that embers
                    Into

Ashen skin
before

All of This
living in sin
bore witness
To.

Finally,
just

what do you wish
to be called?


Painting by Franz Dvorak, c. 1927 in [Public domain].

Assets minus liabilities

It causes a sharp pain
in my chest
to witness
the kitten perched
on the edge of the
couch
watching television-
while the people
are occupied
with other screens

It pangs my stomach
thinking about
the income of
a Poet
who wastes not
a scent or moment
to dwell
upon
the wealth of
interruptions
like pangs
spine shriveling-
the Book won't come
Out
I shout, Inside
voices affirm
the lame excuse-

Not saying

the churning sense
of burning
ears or pants,

Love has been simmering
on the back of the stove
while I wove a couple of loose ends
and made a sweater
without a head-hole,

Thus
confirming my ineptitude
and such
as feeling the need
to Escape
the bleeding clutches
of Loved ones closest
to touch,
the spot
which widens where
no treasure is ever safe
keeping.

The kitten purrs
from this place
smiling
finally
noticing me
watching him
stretch
and grow.


Artwork: By John William Godward, 'Idleness', c. 1900 in [Public domain].

'cat purring' from Wikipedia:
"Although true purring is exclusive to felids and viverrids, other animals such as raccoons produce purr-like vocalization. Animals that produce purr-like sounds include mongoose, bears, badgers, foxes, hyaenas, rabbits, squirrels, guinea pigs, tapirs, ring-tailed lemurs, and gorillas while eating. Animals purr for a variety of reasons including to express happiness, or fear and as a defense mechanism. It has also been shown that cats purr to manage pain and soothe themselves. Purring is a soft buzzing sound, similar to a rolled 'r' with a fundamental frequency of around 25 Hz. This sound occurs with noticeable vibrations on the surface of the body, varies in a rhythmic pattern during breathing and occurs continuously during inhalation and exhalation. The intensity and length of the purr can also vary depending on the level of arousal of the animal."

Pray, Prey

"Praying is asking; meditation is listening"

At what point-if any-does saintly
become so sacrificial
that death is its ultimate end?

When, if ever, does the heart of an angel,
hit with its own dart,
concede this too
must be divine?

Whence and why does Spirit
move energy so intensely
it reverberates into the material
realm?

Maybe the middle is maddening
to mock me
for the time
I put into making such massive
messes.

I have studied for this test.
All of the questions cannot be known
before-
I have learned
only enough to get by
and yet I try
anyway
I can
to pass-
to move on
to the next question.


Painting by Margaritis Georgios, 'Sappho praying to Aphrodite' before 1843 [Public domain].

Body in motion

My heart does one hundred meter dashes,
jumping at the reloaded gun.
The infantile hairs on my skin are erect,
as though blowing at high speeds.
                 --cannot catch up to my breath.

Sporadically,
at the apex of my rib cage something feels
trapped or collapsing in origami swans,
somersaults and am sitting still

listening to the bamboo wind chimes,
low & lightly in the late-after noon shade...

There is no further of going nor
West I can go,
and a sense I cannot share this feeling
-end of the road
with anyone.

Anxious, I guess.
And I don't ask,
because I am alone.

Is it uneasiness,
I never wondered
too hard
I'm afraid.



Painting By Arkhip Kuindzhi (1842-1910), Sunlight in Park (1908) and (http://kuinje.ru/) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Lesson 1: Nature and the Soupman

Travel back to your first lesson
taught by Mother Nature.
When you learned
your parents were not the only
nor the best
teachers
about life.

We went camping,
my parents, their friends, Hercules-the dog.
We'd go to the Russian River
where there were no campsites-
you sight your spot and camp-
if you like.

They would drink and fish,
and drink like fish,
and more-it was the eighties.
Their friend, 

a man called Kevin Soupman
was fishing near me
when he caught a rainbow
trout.

He held it across both his hands,
it was shiny, slimy and squirmy-

the things kids like.
Moments later,
he said he had something for me.
He told me to hold out the palm
of my hand.
I did, eagerly.

In it,
he placed a crimson pebble.
It rolled a moment
as I tried to see it more closely
then it settled in the evening sun-
(un)still

throbbing and beating its inner drum.
Thus,

Nature and the Soupman
taught me
all I needed to know
about heartlessness.


Image By Ken Hammond / USDACornischong at lb.wikipedia [Public domain], from Wikimedia Commons.

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.