Transmission in Transition

Freeway roars more than ever,

not because it is a Monday.

With August time is pushed against A/C windows,

glaring about where blind spots signal danger.

Only congestion is quiet.

The speedway whines under the weight of grey.

The police siren screams in haste haphazardly,

with authority, a cymbal, on its path of pursuit

in order to keep mobilized migrations

inside the lines.

The fog rolls by, pushing through and cutting off

the idle sun.

A red-shifting light through diesel smoke

imposed speed limits as a dare,

to supersede a sense of departure,

with one eye

fastened to looking back,

The other I

travels light. 

Painting by Joseph Stella, 'Battle of Lights, Coney Island' (1913) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Thought Angler

...sounds a little like
reminding, word choice and voice
in head unleashed runs back over
itself, like long winds of Jack Kerouac.

When some words settle
like boulders, impressioned and set on
making a safe crossing of white waters
for rock dwellers and ware sellers
of Cages. When Neruda was no longer
a border,
Lowell and beholden-There
I was only a Rae,
scaled into a small Armantrout
aiming upstream it seems
by heart.

Planning my path further,
the banks beckon me with moving silt lines
that shape earth
with a wand of whim. All eyes swim across all
those cummings and goings
making sparkles
above.

I take Paz at the reflection,
amassing stones
and skip the flattest ones
across the Eliotic surface,
Poundless and unpuddled,

noting ripples like run on sentences
that could race round forever,
yet are bound by body, only to be
settled on the shores
in the act of abating the volume
of poetry
with only the words of Emily,
finally.

I have caught a current in a collective
intention, wielding a hand
with a hook that looks
like a pen.
I wait, feeling for the wiggle,
a sign, message spoken
through fingertips-

this was when silence
was most sought
by the spear.






Painting by Martin Ryckaert (1587-1631), 'Fisherman in a wooded landscape' in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A poet in prose

"Always be a poet, even in prose." 

-Charles Baudelaire

Succinct                                   Finger words attempt to grasp the shape

                                                or solidify some things that matters

                                                enough to cast shadows.

Withheld itself                        Where we have both eyes

                                                and this simultaneous process of thingness,

                                                the space it takes when ones eyes are closed

                                                or looking too long at any thing,

                                                turns to creamains, a small pile, still smolders.

In rote repose                           Mind over matter is when matter takes hold

                                                of our mind and an argument ensues,

                                                this circular discourse becomes a deep rut,

                                                here we go again, making a smile with left overs.

Umbra                                     The darkest parts, those chunky photons assembled

                                                from all particulars and are open to letting the light

                                                expending the conservation in equal distribution

                                                of temperature into background

Where loss of certainty           as love and mild.

Makes one move around         Musical chairs taught us how to listen

                                                while in a hurry to save ourselves and

                                                change our point of view without preference

                                                for any place other than staying in the game.

Look                                        Listen.

Within                                      Many layers of glass make mirrors. 

Painting By Paul Fischer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

ante meridiem

The first crows of day take flight,

Gliding across the cool metal morning sheet

Confidence rises cool and aloof,

Early raw and pink dissipates like sunrise,

awakening forges

Here to face another view of this again,

All anew and alloyed with quill. 

Photo By Hillebrand Steve, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (Public domain images website) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

No gift receipt

Give me
a dry wood chair sitting in the filtered summer sun...
Give me
a dry chair in the summer sun and a thin book of dense poetry to peruse...
Give me
a dry chair in the summer sun with some poetry to read and my blue cat upon my lap,
smiling.
Give me
a wood chair in the filtered sunlight with some sweet poetry and a fat happy cat along with a fuzzy soft peach sweating sugar at hand...
Give me
a warm chair in a little shade, some sweet words and a light breeze, along with a little purring, sticky lips from stone fruits, and the tiny taps of beak smacking mocking birds...
Give me
a chair in the sun, sweet poetry to sink my teeth into, a comfortable cat and a bleeding pen that simply translates all the birds' words,
then I am spoiled
in a shower of gifts,
sated and barefoot in the Bermuda.



Painting by Béla Iványi-Grünwald, 'Lady sitting in the arbor' (1903) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Versus Verses

Clearly, there are differences.

None of us is part of the amalgam.

Equal is not the same

as same as, but in lieu of

just as good.

With nothing to lose,

save the uniform of reason,

we could all bare the truth

as bad as we may see

this in them.


Painting by Jean François de Troy, (1735) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Rae of sight

She was the one who spotted

a fawn in the thicket.

She felt watched and sought the source.

Her eyes pulled up to the top cap of a cement post

where a cat has perched his torso behind a trees' trunk,

she catches a green flash and but holds it like a butterfly.

She did not smell the smoke since she was not there,

she pointed out the scorched earth,

noting the stain of fire.

The marine layers danced in choral lines

without fear of heights,

her sights set upon cirrus clouds,

she traces her lips over the shape of words

forming patches on her salted skin,

she is alone in wondering

how to move the world

without making a sound.


Painting by Franz Marc, 'Deer in aMonasteryy Garden' (1912) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.