The Incantation of Sprung

The ringing had to have been

the resistance of air in being dissected

with a rugged swung scythe.

A crude way to make matters worse.

Should we speak up

so breath can chime in and tune on its own
accord to T for truths, sinews,
or sing along so we know

where we were going
when it is over?

Souls dissipate most visibly
when the sun is a mere

ten degrees above the arc at the end of All

and they blush as they come
into vulgar exposure.

The vertiginous extension of body

feels its mineral composition,

just as the mountain has long since
gathered here and crumbled there

under the broom of wind and whistling.

The wait is the same atomic gravitas

so we make music on its shoulders,

conjuring notes we hope will

carry,
raining colors in a natural spring

Forward marching over the detritus
of the Others
calcified fragments, ground in silt and 
carried by such quick sand.

To hear and to be heard over the years

something so sharply.

Watercolor by Karl Bodmer (1836) Assinboin in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Ahold of things

Floating on fingers

moments away from slipping or suffocating.

It is not safe yet, meaning has not been found.

There is much sleeping left, 

I am wet behind the ears.

The head feels the body catapulting and spinning 

on this solid mud earth.

Sinking in unsound.

The ringing of the ellipse, 

the thunder touched the letters as I type,

con-forming to thought.

What solace could be made 

with such furious fingers?

Latently the violence in man will awaken.

Grasping for notes and singeing the ends 

in godspeed.

Smoke fills in for music, dancing in swirls

It disappears with the keys.



Painting By Yamashita Shintarō (29 August 1881 to 11 April 1966) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Teach her

There was something of a

learning curve

that resembled the arc of an eyebrow

hoisted in intrigue

as though there were more connections

to be made, fine hairs to grow

to bring a-round

complete insight

from the pupils center.


Art by Alphonse Legros c. 1949 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Moving her lips

Distracted by a flicker, brutishly I burrowed

under the thickset arboreal pathway, forward through,

not needing a Virgil

Whereby, I found myself subdued and lowered

my angel body, knelt upon the gathering scrag,

with knees upon the well curb, my two soles

Watching my back, I feel the frosty shade

Safer now, I may close my shamed eyes

And I know why others have come too.

I reach right into my hip pocket,

making a tiny discomfit chime,

half-expecting the birds to flap.

I take out the three pennies

used for the i-Ching,

fingering the Nineteen eighty-four first,

it sits in the color of old adobe

streaked in rain grime.

I toss it into the blackness that is not

Empty nor dry

and I wait, waiting, listening, breathing,

hearing nothing...

The next one picks up the red in the sun and

glows facing its prospect of good conduct-

Two thousand and one

sided History, the honest man does not smile

I let it go as impersonal,

It falls quickly

I lean in

this time

and I don’t hear it hit

gulping back it was swallowed hole.

I never wished.

The last one left, I save for a

second thought, more

about splashless wishes

for Change.


Painting by Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

“Here”

Raise my hand-Why

would I point to myself

up high?

That is an outdoor activity-

cloud seeding and closing in on where

parchment persists.

Not spoken to, only @

A step back, none needed

knowing any more than No.

Tell me again what Confucius said-

To air is human.


Painting By Paul Louis Martin des Amoignes (1858–1925) (Bonhams) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Origination

American?  Am i canned? Is that what the label reads? You tell me-

This house has tile floors, no plush carpeting -that is the cold hard truth.

I cannot drink soda or alcohol.

My body craves salmon and vegetables;

fruit in the summer, cabbage in the winter.

Potatoes are best not fried.

I don’t have extra fat, or change, or time, or

extra-ordinary investments in status.

I do not own a pet, but a certain grey cat thinks he owns me.

I have been blessed with no religion.

I like water. I am not married. I love the children 

I was fortunate enough to support-unconditionally.

I do not chit-chat or pretend, I do not have a group of Best (Fake) Friends.

I don’t make predictions or apple pie very well, neither of which are really true.

Celebrity is maniacal and silly, 

the practice of politics are dumb diversion tricks, 

making bunnies is easy, that is not magic.

I use mirrors for safety. There is  a dusty one over my 

bedroom vanity. I do not like to make-up my face(s),

although costumes can be fun at a party. 

I do not like parties or gambling.

I am gainfully not an employee,

I make no money and have more than I need. 

Luxury is not the same 'Thing' to me, it is not a tangibility.

Slang, yeah, I find myself speaking in some art, not knowing what it means,

it sounds like beauty and looks Interesting or foreign.

I am not shrinking, I am still growing. I am not afraid of death.

I am just passing through. 

Quietly as can be...

Will I pass port?


Image credit John James Audubon [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

When (Hi-Q) Haiku

Is it Now? It is

Not anymore, just checking

It could be any time…




Painting (oil on board) by William Etty (1841) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.