Assemblage

It was a group photo
taken of a womans' twenty
assorted pets

on and around a green
velvet couch,
all facing forward.

In order
to capture it,
one had to be there.

But anyone can easily put 

together what happened
after
        the click.


Painting by Rufus Hathaway (1770-1822), 'Lady with her pets', c. 1790 in Public Domain.

Nasty Bird Woman

Nasty woman.

Mean spirited old bird. 

She knew she was evil

and she tried 

to contain her corrosive

spirit, 

blanketed in righteous robes

of recycled plastic number seven,

which frayed at all the visible edges.

Rough is not equal to sharp.

For the safety of her loved ones

she played Nice,

but her costume did not fit

anymore.

She was swollen, frumpy

in her misery, her resentments

festered like puss,

she reeked of infection

and abhored the

good scents

like innocence.

The green oozes out

leaving a slimy stain

where she once stood

her ground,

she makes it sound

like she is stuck

in her own trap.

A trap is a trap

when open.

Witches always walk

high and mighty

as if they were born

for power,

mistaking strength for malice.

Weight was all she could do

well,

I found myself 

standing over her well,

peering down 

into the depths of her Hell

which widens like a sinkhole 

swallowing all solid ground

and livlihood in her proximity.

My nose shrinks.

It smells rotten. 

Literally,

those that profess they possess;

intelligence, honesty and tidiness

are ignorant of the obviously sloppy lies 

they leave everywhere 

like litter-

who left this here?

There is a fine left to pay.

It will be collected,

any-witch-way.

Lastly,

How in Hell

does she sleep?

Champagne and Mexican pills.
Her flute overfills
bubbling over
the limit.

Artwork by George Romney, 'Tom Hayley' in Public Domain (date unknown). 

To: Night, There will be no words

Moon shimmer atop the sea
                              Take me
Into your crested,
              Closing, wet black
Mind-
          If I
Stand here,
                   listening to your
gentle snore, rhythmic as
                     White noise
No one voice
Rises up

High moon,
                    Mid-nite, we stand
edge to edge, like the
                    Folded note
I tried to sing
                   To you, like serenade
I made a solid
                        Offer,
of my devotion
                        Hereby

Anchor leaden legs
that sway and stay
in Place
              seemingly,
ceaselessly churning in places
                              vast, liquid,
Beckoning as foreign skin,
sucking in
                  the air between
Us,          as a magnet may
Be attracted

The Other
shore
is out there,
We stand here
and just Believe
We must.



Painting by Winslow Homer, "Moonlight' c. 1874 in Public Domain. 

King of Sandcastles

All the little boys begin
by feeling the power
of costume and cape

learning man versus
nature-
good guys and bad guys

until one day
the costume
becomes a uniform,
clean lines
disappear and
superheroes
become firemen

capable of brazen acts
of valor.

Before the selflessness,
all the little princes
are pranksters,
putting a single grain of sand
inside the oyster shell,
into the monks shoe,

and these became pearls,
of course
time
refined
things.

Little girl, I was called
Firestarter,
and practiced the title
often on bridges.

I have never seen the Sandman
in my sleep,
but in my wake
I feel the sand
filling me in-
side.

Apropos of the ritual 
I chose
to be buried alive
after I say
I do
wish
to be cut by pearls
into innumerable
and indistinguishable
pieces of myself

made up
of ashes and rust
as it must be
my nature.

I must confess,
the arsonist
admired his work
while I wed

the King of Sandcastles
before the tide rushed in.



Photo credit: Galveston Island Sandcastle, Texas, taken July 2011 in Public Domain.

Greener grasses

Pre-fixed upon how

the rooster breaks his silence

atop a fence post.

Painting by Ada Thilen (1852-1933) 'Rooster and chicken', in [Public domain].

Found art

Another day rolls by
                             and I
along with it
                             incubate.

I try
to focus
on a
single
spoke
           in the blur of spin
one catches
                    light,
and squeezes
it
into
sound
            high above
the audible range
            one carries a note,
and belts out
                      lashing with it,
create, wait, create, wait, create, wait
                      bare-backed
swinging both ways,

naturally
and only
                     through the gait
                     known distinctly
as your
body
and work
as an address.
                     
A watch swings alongside
reminding me of the beat.

It is time to hibernate.

I count the cat's eyes
           staggered and lining up
in the middle of the street
until the glare
broke
into poetic little pieces
like litter.





Artwork by Robert Delaunay [Public domain], 'The Tower and the Wheel' c. 1912-1913, located in the Museum of Modern Art.

Slang-ing rocks

It's like
they were trying to keep up with the Jones'

Who are They? 
Like the Kardashians?

Okay, no. It's more like 
a bad case of the Me Too's!

The MeToo movement? Who
did what to you?!

No, no. It was all 
about the iWant-

Want what?

A Tesla, an Apple watch, a DNA Test, 
a viral video-

You do not.

No, of course not.
I live for the struggle. 

Your expressions
literally, make no sense to me-

Nonsense! I just hit the side of a barn
like two birds fleeing the hurled stone!

The Jones' barn?

Spot on. 




Image from Missouri History Museum, photographer unknown, dated circa 1901 in Public Domain.