Bitter Me and Boris in February

Since it is February

my pens all lay in disarray atop my desk,

a box of tissues crouches underneath,

nearly empty on the fifteenth.

Twenty dollars, six gallons of gas,

radio streaming from Sirius, I try driving away the stillness.

Those bruised and patient pens will wait an eternity,

or February.

Nowhere are these thoughts not there.

I find serial murders of crows, low lying clouds 

hovering and bitter cold from below

all cast down in ochre light. 

I try to forget
any distinct lines

with clarity and save the cruelty 

for April.

Piercing eyes also translates 

into Truth

and the inevitable thaw, moving matters,

the fiery tears Fall with drowned dreams.  

Heavy, a serious wind is now winding down 

her watch and brevity makes beauty

of all passing. If you remember 

how purple was this February...

it must just be

Time

the words mixed

blood and ink.

Painting of Borris (Pasternak) beside the Baltic (1910), By L.Pasternak [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Omni-presence

I have seen those. They do not impress me. Showing off and it makes me want to look away.

This one sticks out, it is different that is why. It is special isn’t it super, ultra, mega, stupendous?

Indeed, like these, none of me. Look now, how nonchalantly they pass through, as though neverthere…

smooth or slimy, a greased wheel on a slippery slope all ways gets through or goes down.

I swear this was much much bigger last time. Different. There were reasons and stones. 

Last time,

I left residue and sticks in a mound.  It has been too long to see where these ended up.  This is why babies have no memory. The train still goes through. 

I heard my name called but it did not sound like mine, at first, I did not respond.  

It could have been any of us.

Now, I hear myself differently. This tunneled voice originating in the upper torso blows out something close to heartburn; milk and tears, wine and years, sweet and sardonic, work and wrest, this too will pass over me.  And I listen for harmony.   

Rainbows are too rich.

Foundations are never solid. 

Those shoes do not fit them. Watch how they walk.

Aliens, angels, guardians, demons, magi, healers, ghosts, and gods, why would omniscient Them’s-obsess with teeny humanity? Have They not learned nothing from us, taking no credit, just having a spot of fun, and making it worth their wait in astronomical units…I found out, I don’t think so

since this is Public, you look like a regular here.  

I am still new. But so glad I found you. Shall we? 

Tell me more…

about all the-while I am just observing too. Don't look 

now. 

Painting by Jan Baptist Saive (II) (1597–after 1641) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

I, Here, Rollcall

How much can a pale blue
wheelbarrow or say, heavy duty dolly
hold before the wheels collapse,
or give in, and flatten out, under the
weight of cubic yards in
troposphere?

Yeah,
we should all fear
hellfire.
The torch we carry
is a tiny match
for life.

Picture this,
the earthen crust is fourteen miles
deep,
the sky limit-about 10 miles high,
so relatively, in proximity,
we have all we need in this space
of 24...

Have you mixed your matters?

Serious as feline excrement,
one big one
is all it takes
for the cardio to come dressed
as anxiety.

All hamsters on deck,
let the race begin.

Artwork by Alphonse Mucha (1911) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Counting Sleeps: A Bah-lid

Don't I dream anymore?
How to say,
I mean the real you

pixel on a big picture,
just too much macro-clysm
to mouth out, I conceive.

Mostly,
breathing through it, as I
must.

Wanting not of mine,
not that I would
disagree in contentment.

And all of those steps made today,
left right traces
blown away...

Somewhere may we-
someplace, let us-want to
make some thing interesting
since I cannot sleep
under such a new moon.

For now,
I would join you since you too
are going my way...


Painting by Władysław Ślewiński (1896) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

US versus They

It is a plot to divide US

It is a ruse to stimulate a surplus of national pride in US

It is a ploy, we are the toys.

They use trigger words to incite, to goad and prod US along

As though branding were everything, to US

As though we wanted nothing more than blue fescue, rather than

greener grass, voracious verdant vines with bosky blades as tall as bamboo, success.

They use hot keys to gain entry into our pockets and private dark places.

They use races sorted by skins as friendly competition

They pull heart strings and the wrong note reverberates.

Here.

The game must have players who want to win.

The business must have buyers who need to lose some extra cash.

The nation needed a nemesis, they wish hate was more common than sense,

It was

Easier

To fight

US.



Artwork By Lily Furedi (Smithsonian American Art Museum) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Captains Log: February 9th 21st century

Marine fog has come

and gone all day, it is similar, the same,
the way Gaston B was obsessed with this very mist

I muse over its movements in particulate.

Blue skies peek through,

a thin cloud rolling by,

and it has settled, for Now

rested thick, wet and multiple times

it is a clear day, others say, just on the other side…

It does stop us, coordinately 

from believing what we see. See evidently

I am most grateful for our limited scope,
as far as hope floats

it is the certainty we would choke
on the very air we need

if only we could see how Primo Levi detects the miasma
that hovers above all smoky cities. 

A gritty plume, caustic and lye, and lie like

light always gets to you.

No machete necessary, under a chenille throw of clouds.

No doubt it always will get through to someone,
as it has always done,
before the big banging and seed sowing.

Before the smoke there must be fire,

Before we could relate to the sky speaking in sea,

Collecting the mood in glimmers and vapors

The fog finally makes it all clear.

It was something in the air, where the light broke in

And scattered array.

Image credit by Tuxyso / Wikimedia Commons, via Wikimedia Commons.

Where Art thou Writer?

I tried to paint black cows on a moonless night,

it never came out right, 12 times out of ten,

but then I added blue and I knew

I was not a painter,

so I quit for a bit.

I tried cleaning

Once

I tried mapping, lists, and other gists of things,

All of which turned out were wrong.

then I wrote, and wrote and wrote

without periods,

and tried and tried to stop the words whizzing

by, arrest and test, to find the best ones.

I was fooled, I failed again and again

picking pyrite on sight,

my carbon spilt into lead,

took nothing out but blood,

a flood of it and died on the page.

Now the cows can sleep peacefully,

if only I could see.

Artwork by Paulus Potter (c. 1647) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.