A lady makes lace

A fistful from elsewhere

Punches back in brass-ware-bare-

knuckles wedged in the apex of this-
body

cage thatched walls, splintering straws

called shelter and In-side to pro-tect this

(hide).

Half dives of full lung, skimming the top ten percent

and heart labors with lead levers, knobbiness is us put out

subwoofer, speaks her dropping a guillotine beat tapped
feet.

Shine, reflective knowing rust by blood

does not make it more occidental
or evident.

Voluminous was in front of us.
Luminous. Seethe and simmering. Conduct thyself.

It meant we were alchemy in the ancient light and cubed to

feeling how close we must be-coming-a but-ajar-
collided with vaporous transitions in space-not
now.

Inevitable and deaf,
truths collide and cling on crystalline charities,
pyramids and Euclid's. 

Insoluble, diluted, inconsolable.

I heave recycled the air, carbon copies fuse for our survival

fitting with such suffocation as we wear with elephantine
authority sans sin-cerity on extended vocation, retied without
social security
which

never Was
you are welcome.



Painting by J. Alden Weir [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Nevermore

About Prometheus,

Not all things combust this way.

The will with wings

plies the sky same as our rows are sown, 

the bird does not always

Fall for it,

and never sweats it. 

The Raven, not Michael nor Quoth

Wingnut, whose pine cabin home was hewn

down in front of mine-by a giant crane

now moves from Ficus to Loquat to Mexican Fan

Palm and gets around others-his heritage gone-

Well, I watch him still,

He plants trees in the front yard.

I watched him with his will 

balanced at 2 o’clock rest,

Perched fifty feet up high 

toward the end of a silver branch

when he notices me

watching Him.

He cocks his head, his eyes drop 

to tiny me,

He lifts his left leg dramatically, 

talon spread wide and up,

his eyes fixed toward me,

Sure he was about to pivot

to change 

the view-

Instead

He fell,

He tucked his wings to his sides and plummeted,

He fell.

My heart rattled,

Hart Crane.

And just when I could no longer see him, 

he rose.

Wings wide, he climbed with his will,

promptly doing a flyby down 

the empty driveway.

About intentions, 

Prometheus knows nothing of arson

He can only carry on

hot air to rise-

besides, 

Legends live too long, 

Atlas lifted all but his eyes,

too busy with the world and all

Fire and Friction.

Meanwhile, I am learning 

to lean on the wind,

like the crane floating offshore

feeling 

this is not falling.


Artwork By Kawanabe Kyōsai (Artlino archive) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Stacking boxes

We seem to be on the right track.

Some words contains things.

We are confident that the black box

contains all the answers or the y’s-anyway

we need to know

Don't be chicken, unscramble the egg 

before the givens and ganders include

more than two lame ducks and an ugly goose.

Sharp edges, right angles, cubism

is no plaything

for block stacking children.

This black box we found is the thing

to eye-so-late

and define –objectively-we made enclosures

and watched the walls hit home.

The black box must have its corners

where all information clusters 

in tapering space...

The black hole, faucet or vacuum tube

where All

information is contained past and future

flow freely-

both true and not chosen

come together 

only to matter.

Blending by chance, choice, or

opportunity, effect, and someone said

Noise not blur...

Now, this is all there ever was,

Now, with reduced facts, take

atoms, quarks into questionable chunks

of say 100 neurons or 3 seconds-

A moment may be lost-watching-looking

For it. You are it. You cannot feel yourself spin?

I read a note for you

Inside the black box

It says where it is from-

                              there is no gift receipt. 



Painting by Adolph Tidemand [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Post Art-i-fact-o

What happened in here?

They All asked

they made Art

with what they found

with new found Purpose

They said

let us try to Make

something of This

you See more than many

Depth, behind or beyond Being inside

your Time

Frame.

What happened was-All reaction,

I’s further upon reflection,

absorb color theory, insistent as Form,

stole shape of an idea and Acts upon it.

It happens.

not all see it.

that way more for us

to take in and make out. 

Painting by Władysław Malecki (1883) (cyfrowe.mnw.art.pl) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Light flavors

Now,

without the sun

                        overbearing

we can be

just

Honest, say don’t hurt

just

because you can enunciate

                        I can.

            I can-say it-

Now you say it

Strong like Bull-

            Head

Built like brick

            Chicken

-house-

Homeless vagabond renter, 

                         squatter be

categorically dissimilar

part Yokohama

                        by strolls through Ipanema

Say, there goes another

                        Bohemian

Fine

Young

Cannibal 

               could eat you up!

What have you to say 

that won't sting?

From where we began

Now finds us in the strangest

                        Truths.

I too prefer plums

                        To lemons. 

Painting by Hieronymus Galle (c. 1636-1646) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Composition by ear

The music tutor

Directed the pupil

Watch-Watch-My Hands-

Listen-Hear the sound-

In Here-It feels

Right-There.

and those scales rose and sank

perked up for notes to hang shapes

Of waves on passing ears-

No-No-NO-

You missed a step-

Here-skip-and where is that note

You played-out of tune-

Try to pretend you play.

and again, the pitching seas rolled,

bodies thrown together, clumped 

Whole words found themselves 

in forgotten consonants,

meaningless 

Bumbles swarm. 

Painting By Frances Hodgkins (1869 - 1947) – Creator (New Zealand; Great Britain) Born in Dunedin, New Zealand. Dead in Dorset, England. Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Was

She cringes. They knew.

Didn’t say, wouldn’t change

nothing, anything

help or hurt

They wait, mercy resides

patience, temperance,

in these, out there

touch and feel

lost and found

not looking, not seeing,

not needing, not wanting

more than, merely

her presence, her past

come back…

Painting By Félicie Schneider (1831 - 1888) (Sotheby's New York, 29 January 2010, lot 867) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.