Sunday Dinner

Lasagna.
Wreck-tangle in layers of cheese,

I add a pound of spinach for extra iron.

It is a production, 

each layer has a plan, to become part of

an edible architexture, an assemblage,
full fromage, flagon, flag off

in red, whine and green.

Read and cook, turning the page,
the fungi’s sizzle

and The Hidden Reality outlines details

of jitters, making energy and arrays.

I stir, it pops, I read, it steams and

condenses sugars.

Put together, my job is done,
I wait
it melts
all together. 

I close my eyes for the first bite,

forgetting all I threw in.

I think I taste nutmeg, but then remember

this often tastes like M-theory.

I must have forgotten the salt. 


Painting by Jacopo Tintoretto, The Supper at Emmaus (1542-43) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Elevation in feet

From those dark mountain valleys etching destiny

like palm lines

We conjure up rain and ropes,

tethering our dreams to vibrant green acres of horizon

radiating our perspectives of

voluminous bubbling energies under

entropic skies

over there.

If only

we had more energy,

if only

more time...

We would make it up

and over and climb higher to see

what is

over the top,

finally.

The other side

is sleep.

Painting by Winslow Homer, In the mountains, 1877, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

What is Black & White and Not Read

Dear Poet,
Thank you for your diligent inquiries.
While we appreciate your work, it is not right for us.
In addition, we encourage you to continue to try to fit in-
stead fast, stand under a lone wolf moon at the howling,
or some-such-thing.
Please note-our open minded period is very, well, narrow.
Also, know that you will not be known,
yourself unfit for traditional shapes, bodies of work
form @s.
I almost forgot, Notoriety. Silly me.
You must agree, you will be not known to anybody,
you are generic,
in the white flimsy boxes with the black sans serif
font-ain't it close enough
to alternative nutritional facts?
Anyway, we hope that you are more than satisfied with this
onerous offer.
Please do not let us know later than possible.
(there can be no changes or credit).
Respectful to others,
Them.


Image credit by Marjory Collins, described as-'loading sugar in a grocery department' July 1942) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Piece of quiet

Recluse, recover

Head on pillow, tucked in, begin to think peace and quiet-

Meanwhile

A riot swings a racquet the tighter my eyes try not to see

so many sounds blanket as epiphanies.

Snuggly, cotton covers partially, crinkling fibrous shifts-

sounded, a trumpet climbs up the scales, ring in speakeasy tones

two doors down from this bed, this horizontal head.

A boxer dog boofs over the fence, again and again,

the microwave chimes in.

My son strategizes and vocalizes his next cyber move with friends in virtual vociferousness.

In the next room, my daughter squeals, secrets I guess, tamping down her girlie giggles.

The man on the couch coughs, catches his breath then chuckles at the idiot box,
in muffled notes the next door neighbors converse in tension talking circles all tied up in Nots.

A muscle car motors by, fuel floats in the window crack, the bass is left behind

on the pavement, the other side, by the five, waves of autos roll by as white noise, 

white caps, following white perforated lines, swooshing along over catseye caps.

The neighbors' small child cries in huge bursting idles this bedtime,

the grey cat on my left side sighs, letting down his heavy head, insisting

nothing is that interesting.

A dove coos to his lover, and purr

the phone vibrates atop the oaken tiny rec-table, my stomach churns bile,

Blood swirls around my wetware, grey matter, then hits the fingertips hard,
my heart sinking a steady beat,

a door creaks down the dark hall, a glass in the sink, the faucet flows, pipes hiss, 

door whines,

and falls shut.


Painting by Augustus Egg [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

At most, Fear

When one notes

the Atmosphere,

I wonder

what do You
conjure, in imagery?

A mood, light,

aura, ambiance, affect,

air, Up, There,

Ascent?

Dare we 

try to touch the ceiling, 

thusly tempted terrestrials?

We determine to defy 

our own manmade heavy Laws.

We break barriers, sound out loud, 

maximums

as axioms. 

We try to fly, defy gravity,
soar for more

throw wishes at stars

and hold our breath.

At this inclination

drops dew hover insight,
and we called it Fog,

blurring dezephyr

into

at-mos(t)-phere.

Background muzak soothes

voluminous volatiles

(i.e. such as) we hear. 

Image of Earth atmosphere taken from the space shuttle Atlantis in May 2010. Photo Credit: By NASA, STS132 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

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.