An other day

On the other side,

walking atop this Spring earth

we get carried away,

some say Fall.

The light frays, either way,

shards of stars squeeze their sharp way

through black sand, latticed like a shell.

We often think of castles

in our alabaster grandeur, with adobe esteem

and admiration for the deep moat we have made.

Closer today.

The water reflects her
forbidden territories. 

Painting by Antônio Rafael Pinto Bandeira (1891) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Hiding faces

Once stabilized-we could then be reminded of how fragile
the required tension taut us to be
and to react with white gloves, as pallbearers
and with two hands for beginners- cradling the whole
as a complex system, which blurs and softens sharp connections
so it may be held.
But the etching on her body, overall
scars showed those nasty inclinations,
she had to write it out in masonry, chipping in at the impenetrable castle,
where kings tried to hide rule with heavy brute paws.

There were others, outside, they were callously shooting arrows at her place-
those all loaded with poison tips are arched in equipoise-
as in heat seeking entropy.
Fear could not move her out of
The Way.
The wind picked up her scent,
Something is dying in a dark corner, over there-
It is freeing itself from form
inside its dwelling of singularity. Invoking a greater depth,
at last she lingers over this.

What sounds like whimpering is the art of her inflection.
The walls were caulked thick and swelling.

None heard her screams at the point
when the knife went in.
They all looked down at their toes,
wondering where they had been going...

Alas, there was none left to ask.
None had seen anyone pass through.
Long forgotten, the woman picks up a stick and tosses it
back into the bone pile.
Familiar with the general vicinity,
she knows every stone has a name and point.
Of Origin. And this,

is how mountains are moved. 

Painting by By Richards, Albert [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. "At the Village of La Plein- There was constant watch for snipers hidden in the village, 1944".

Nightrail

The rules are:

→Below 45 miles per hour, at all designated crossings, 15 seconds before, 

but no more than 20 seconds (before).

→O for short – for Long

The standard pattern remains two long, one short and one long

__   __  O  _____

→Most importantly*do not mistake: O __ for __O

One means inspecting the breaks due to malfunction, 

                                                           the other signals approaching a station.

→The restriction is now under a lawn mower, 

horns must be kept lower than 106 dB,

*Pain has been recorded at 125 dB*

The train relentless           last night                     when then rooms dark-in

                             the horn and heavy steel wheels push                         on past

Silent , one-eared heads

-interrupting-           -the thought-              ---process—yes---where were –

Before, it just came again...come again

            Two tracks too much

Amtrak                                                             a freight of     BNSF Railway

Park and Ride, park in the driveway, sit in traffic on the freeway-

                          Toss and Spin, Smolder. Seriously?

People are lined with pennies to pinch under cog and sun, coal for going places.
In the midnight, there must be quarters.

It is called interest. It builds, accrues, and you rarely notice it, until you 

start stealing thoughts on rails

                                          laid down on the line 

                                                                            with the precision of an air horn

rolling over
                   corrugated sheets under tin-eared scalps.

Painting by Paul Signac [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

                                                                                        

Catch

We may toss around

Love and Homicide

too casually.

Mutual attraction is limited, finite,

if a connection is made momentarily

And result in Love or Manslaughter

it seems too lofty in-

Designation or in-

Decision

To place fat Hope woven
round, a chalice.

There is fault or fissure

between psycho

And Matter of Time.

Those that do make it a-

cross feel justified as 'survivors'.

Meaning making, throw or drop intentions,

Themselves, proclaiming they be gods

With clay and Pray, hands take shape

as in For-giveness For-self-

ishness.

Since the air is thin and light

relatively pliable

around laws of nature, it was all natural

to let off steam, in order to play games

Sharpening
our serrated skill sets,
with the wrong weapons.
It was no duel, not one against the other,
rather competition can be
humbling,
when the ball is dropped.


Painting By Тиціан (бл. 1480-1485—1576) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

housing

Walls of light

Standing planes and panes

Like prisms akimbo to light

Have held me rapt here

With skin in the game

Comfort be confound in coy

Contrasted by temperate untouchables

Hot like colors

Never seen lightning linger long

Enough to picture

Over iron mountains, topped mesas,

Yet you can smell the rain too, can’t you?

Miles away, the ions spin colliding

Into calm air-

Fixed for change.

We were warned,

Senselessly.



Painting by Jasper Francis Cropsey, Catskill Mountain house, 1855 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Unearthed

Raw. Now, ready to keep going.

In a moment-invisible-ceases to Be

wholly occupied-full-filled.

We have all lied.

We have all stood others up to and for-

There is no way around,

only through and through

- - -exposure- - -

...

We may stare-bluntly, we may mention Growth

and add up layers, like scars

To become better

prepared when encountering naked, knowing bodies

swallowed as photogenic duplicates.

We want to match the magic

of new skin,

out of regeneration

as it stands

with consumption,

levels, assumptions,

quicksand and ice in the air

leaves us thirsting.

The water all runs off...

Painting by Winslow Homer, 'Weary' (1898) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Hear me, here me

It is in the way one focuses in with their entire skin

to yammering Twains and muted Cages,

I have been listening, intent on comprehending

which requires presence of mind-a-ware-ness-or

No-thing from me.

I have filled my creased palms gathering

dust others have lain out for me,

 they say, fit me,

Fine.
So it may be.

The young lady with the feather in her hat-

the old lady with a crooked nose

saving face, the youth refuses to come out
behind memory

which is why mirrors won’t work in-side,

over-time.
They have me pegged,

and while wedged, with my arms tucked,

I have taken a moment to look around

and recognize my proximity 
to the precipice,

                                                to others on this plane

as day.

Painting by Winslow Homer, The Red Feather (1864) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.