Spectator Sport

Middle balcony

where reporters are filed

and whores are stashed

doesn't seem so long ago

Middle balcony

up in the branches

the birds mast

where cackles sink

and wails lilt

into the rafters

it used to be so

Middle balcony

cast in the dark

as a side remark

of jesterly hospitality

and for courtly banality

Middle balcony

too far to catch

the rigs and ropes

behind the magic

show down stage

Middle balcony

posts up extras 

for the epic play

with broken legs

and body doubles

Middle blacony

 is a caste idealist 

for the grand finale

leap of revelry 

one must take

into the pit

of the old

Globe.

Image of painting by Thomas Francis Dicksee, Juliet on the balcony (1875) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

De mure De moon

She walks in the open at night
wrapped in white sheets wet from sweat
that darken in every crevasse
by her movement

She speaks in shapes of words
by the phase of the moonglow
and knows she is watched, barely
as she pulls the threads closer

lightly, it was the way she cast
down her eyes
dutifully does not speak
until spoken at

The careless sashay,
the way her hips open
to accommodate the frame
that holds her

Embellished, a facade
shiny with optimism,
buffed and presentable as
Potemkin villages
de mure

But the light from
her being
there shifted and softened
features receptively

In decent she saunters
the skies, timidly taking her place
outside public walls
where no artificial light falls

She sees purely, clearly
she is not needed to light the way
for others to see, but every so often
she brightly becomes
full of herself.



Image by Luis Ricardo Falero [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Count of Poiesis

Should you meet me in the day
-Be Warned-
Under the glaring sunlit lamp
I am grotesque, in the worst light.
I avoid my reflection in hindsight
and it rejects me back.

They still say vampires
once dwelt in caves
nearby, while I dwelt
while growing up.

The solar alarm sounds
strong to vowels, soft with consonance;
sensitive in all tenses, and thirsty.
-Be Wary-
my dreamy stranger-
under the open atria of night,
we are both tied to the ticks
of blood-sucking time.
Transfusing our eternity away,
craving the sap of the skylark.

Composed 10/10/15.

Image by Philip Burne-Jones [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Le Vampire, c. 1897.

The Limits of Infinite Green

Serene, you say

and touch upon

your spinning wheel

earthly orb round aglow

with yellows 

the arrow shows

blues and all its complimenting

hues of pure and azure

blending in

I do not know

as far as colors go,

what on earth you mean

when you say green...

olive

raw

new

wild

moldy

lush

envy

nausea

verdant

toads

vomit

cashola

chlorophyll

dragons
aliens

pesto

eco-friendly

army

grass

gems

under a green light

asking me to go,

rejected and moving on

a blur, recycled back into

the landscape accepting all

applications of green and

its basic redundancies, likeness

bordering on biopic multiplicity.

Composed 11/3/15.
Image by Vincent van Gogh, Green Field (1889), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Saying Hello to Yellow

Yellow is such an excitable color,

I wonder why it was not chosen on the dollar?

Go for gold, so we are told, now green means greed (or anthropocentric-ecology).

It gives its gist, its tones surround

awash in amber sunlit streams, a honeyed round.

These bees knees.

Evaporate to dissipate, all yellow with its white,

Ideological color-coded representing light.

Puffy clouds up there dispelling do not care.

A wisp, a wind, invisible in blue,

yellow of miasma, a heavy stench to view.

Blinded by the light, illuminated insight.

Details and dust, minute moments under highlight

backlit aura in glow, a heavenly halo gets bright.

It is the color of embrace, a warm greeted face,

a marvelous matter in Persephone's case...

Flaxen, ashen, wheat grain hair looking for more fun.

The Ylang-ylang used fruitfully in Malay

wouldn't tell or like to smell any other way.

Innocent in assertion, overpowering in desertion.

Wrapping around, at the end of the ray

yellow is what makes a beautiful day

Drafted, swilled, mead drunk filled pores.

The dying man's last words, a fluttering flock, a bird

tweeted the suns secret, in the buzz, it goes unheard.

You will find the secret in your Sol.

There's nothing mellow about yellow.

Faces of happy, or warm air, and for daisies,

slowing down, its pricelessly making maybes.

Composed 3/15/15.
Image of painting by Gustave Caillebotte, (1848-1894), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons."The Yellow Fields at Gennevelliers".

A Charming Third Time

She reached out, compelled
to place her hand on the spinning wheel.
She trembled toward the blur,
despite the risk, she was unable to resist.

She stopped it on an arrow
whose two points of infinity
changed direction in the light,
no two rays the same color.

She drew back and it spun again
wildly as if it had never stopped.
She noticed the colors blending
but never overlapping the white between.

She looked around to see if anyone else
saw, or had seen the giant wheel
before her, spinning on its own accord
humming in its smooth momentum.

Alone and reckless,
she tried to touch it again,
this time to only grab the blue
but landed her hand on an arrow.

She knew the symbols well,
circles, arrows, points of interest, color codes
but could not decipher the definitions-
clearly, each stood for something.

She watched its speed grow
the longer she waited to ask again,
the more dangerous the choices became
even though they always stayed the same.

She closed her eyes and flung her weight
toward the wheel, groping for anything solid
finding herself on an arrow
not knowing how to hold on, she let go.

She watched the wheel whirl,
murmuring about momentum.
She heard one of the 64 arrows
call her name and whisper, The Way.



Image By Internet Archive Book Images [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons. East of the Sun West of the Moon, 1922.

To Prey

Perched upon the precipice, putting it out...There

Toes of talons testing

Tensile strength

the weight of gravity’s grip

Knuckles fisted white feathers

circle around palms, swooping ling lines

under current, jet streams, screams

of circles

sees squarely, keen

seen belly dancing

BuTter-f-l-I-e-s

Flutter, stutter, mutter

pinned in air

frozen

tock-only

circles in the sand, out-lines

beat

        ArounD

the                  bush

Tracing the clock

You Are Here.

Composed 3/27/15.
Image By Justin Connaher (https://www.dvidshub.net/image/1695289) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.