Making magma

I’d like to draw a map of you

for perspective,

for options,

for borders, both imaginary &

reactionary.

Your vellum,

I now know like the belly of my palm.

And our lines converge, overlap, and seal off

familiar territories, provincial islands of natives,

like Us where

there is a sense of belonging,

lining up and finding places 

specific to our likeness and 
locale is in a sense

relative to distance to each other

within our limited spheres

flattened as Atlas can get
and remain.

Two souls collide Here, two bodies melt,

there two souls trapped, 
surrounded bodies of turbid water 

that become brackish by exchange.

This is all I can do 
with nothing else to make

but more magma

in these uncharted lands
and move on. 

Painting by D. Howard Hitchcock (1914) 'Moon and stars over Diamond Head' in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Tenacity

The air being pulled
from the right to the left,
lets up only to adjust and
regrip its hold
on hills.

The ants do not recede,
do not retreat in holes.
Armies have assembled
along the walls, there is no
start, no end, like this wind
no safe seal.

The papers pile up under the
evenings in red and
drip down for later.
Ideas fly out the window
lifting hairs, touching
elsewhere,
never landing as said.






Painting By Antonio Parreiras (1860 - 1937) – Painter (Brazilian) Born in Niterói, Brazil. Dead in Niterói, Brazil. Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Pale whale

Call me Moby,
he moaned, I am
the white whale with the
golden ambergris,
a blue sheep in a green sea
the tilting eyes
that unfathomably see
and do not forget
breaking glass
and all the colors
not needed.

I have left
footprints, where I have no feet.
Though I manage to move by strokes, I tell
the surface by light in weight bars, falsetto
where exposure to so much blue and grey
was too much to separate species.
It makes one sink
and red
and takes one's breath away
making fountains
without gills.

It is my special skill,
Moby would say.

Five-thousand leagues later,
all blues went grey,
and all green
settled for sheep.



Photo credit By Commander John Bortniak, NOAA Corps (NOAA) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A genda

Today, I will write,

Paint, read, make marks in space(s)

Empty of purpose ( ). 

Painting by Nicolas Henri Jeaurat de Bertry (1777) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Leave a message at the tone

The universe has a way of hearing the things we say,

aloud, Eliot knew this too.

No matter whom we direct it to, sound waves ripple

the atmosphere which hears this 

stretching--of---imagination

into speech tones, a whistle from the kettle of

the thermoshpere or body-cavity.

The rising sound, or the Doppler effect teaches us

the source

is closer than it appears,

-omnidirectionally-

It absorbs  itself and replies

as a twinge, wave or spasm, clenched

in the sinking feeling of a heavy heart

that beats on itself, calling everything an echo

of what was thought, solid enough to move bodies

into empty spaces and fills itself with volume

from heat, or by imagination.

It conceives these shapes and translates them

into words or wishes

which will settle for a collection of particles we

have  heard before

we knew the source. 



Photo By State Library and Archives of Florida (c. 1948), [No restrictions or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Danger zone

I got to thinking-
maybe we were doing it wrong-
facing fears-meaning
why not let the demons in-
hell, welcome them hordes and all,
feed them well, find out what they want
from us,
so when they leave
it is-
for good.

What if what soaks in our pourous mem-
brains, is what we ooze out-
that is All,
like Nothing is ours,
or New,
we just reiterate or refute,
repeat or recreate, take credit
and run with it like a baton-
on fire,
And the longer I live,
the more I've seen,
heard, worn, thought, been there before-
it seems All
stolen-
moments-that is.

Furthermore,
does one dare to consider entering
such dangerous zones as the solid realms
of love or death, one and the same,
before one has tasted
it on their own lips?

No. Not in poetry. It would be tasteless.
Alas,
beautiful things
are most draining.


Photo credit By:Henry Peach Robinson [CC0], c. 1860 via Wikimedia Commons.

RPM

She had been running like a top for the past 100 years.

All pistons were firing, the timing on, it was simpler then,
without all that electrical wiring and webs to get caught up in.

Everything started with a spark,
which caused the requisite chain reaction
needed for thrust and to accelerate
fuel through tubes and get the veins conducting
enough heat to signal friction, life, and movement
along with the exchange that lungs do, except
inside the dragon's breast, under the hood
there is smoke
where a heart should have been.

A simple jump was not enough.

It can always be fixed, we are reassured. With Parts
and Labor, the estimate is always exceeded.

Rebuilt,
She might have run forever,
had there been no end of gas, parts, expertise-

Or had the rules been followed as in right of ways
and merging. Had they not crashed, recklessly
leaving fumes, rubber, bolts and broken glass strewn,
we may have made it a little further along the road to civil
ization.

Aside from all the accidents and operator errors,
outside influences and distractions,
if we stopped all four ways, blinked Right and turned on Red
we would translate the road signs and Marx made,
as symbolic of the passed
and find a new way
to revolve.

She was broken down.



Photo credit taken 29 January 2005 . . Bogdangiusca . . 396x271 (52947 bytes) ({{PD}}) in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.