Titilating Entitlement

       All we have are letters.
We have made many names with these,

not to confuse utility with title.

When I say

This chosen wisely,

You have started to build-

What is in a Name?

Impressionism in colors.

Blend and bleed by disagreement.

I do not regret leading you on

down the stream, naming and pointing

at amphibious synonyms, 

like crayfish holding their feathered gills.

As only bends and boulders can dictate 

in a white water fury, insurgency in translation,

an explanation of how all minerals find their way

to greater meaning than assembly 

or Magic. Deception has its angle.

Words like water most transparent

when calmly collected. 

Dropping names sink

Ideas float
Titles tell This. 

Image By Romaine (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

I Pink up the phone and say Yellow

God called me on a rotary dial phone with the piggy tail cord.

That is how we met, unofficially, when I was just five

my grandparents took me to a church

and the man in the middle, his name was Revren was happy

to be the center of our attention, he beamed and bowed

although I remember details like pulling out the tiny threads 

from a cotton lemon dress. 

The bald man, Revren, wearing the dark dress, 

a stage costume, I guessed having been to the theater 

much more, before-

he handed me the receiver of the phone, and shouted 

{He 

wants to talk to YOU!}

Grabbing the phone, 

I held it up to my ear like a shell,

no ocean, hell, just a loud sound called a dial tone.

When I handed it back after Revren asked me what He said,

I simply shrugged and muttered, { I don't think he was there-

anymore.}

Revren bald man shouted to the audience-That

i {did NOT BELIEVE}

{Pray} for little me, but I did see

i saw the light 

through the stained glass panes throwing yellow strokes 

liberally down the aisle

and understood others don't see this

from over there, it may be blue. 

My grandmother who had been a teacher,
slapped my hand
for unraveling her homespun delicate
pinafore
No reason. 

Image credit By Tyne & Wear Archives & Museums, titled 'The camera was great but her new phone wasn't working (1964), [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

deScribe

   

       

   You write mystery

I heard-     Poetry-     that is

          the same difference.

Painting by Philippe de Champaigne (1602-1674) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Where art thou?

People ask me where I've been and I am mystified.

I mean, I don't know if they mean recently-

or ever-

neither of which is that fascinating-

          which is completely untrue.

Nobody ever asks me this.

I have recently considered how Primo Levi said the glaciers melting 

in green varicose veins 

          could not be described.

He reminds me of Pluto in nebulous ways,

after all, he said it actually tasted like sky.

I guess we have all tried to touch rainbows, 

     and I think most of us prefer shiny things,

not semi-transparent or deflecting items such as prisms

     or  iridescence. 

Honestly, I am still trapped, 

so tell is all I can do. 

It takes determination, geometry 

to hold on to other crystals like granite,

becoming solidified, and structurally sound for a time

bond even, but really just passing through. 

This is how too, 

          rivers are reminiscent of veins 

                         and the passing of blood,

like what is liquid or solid 

               and divides me by you. 

Painting By J.E.H. MacDonald (1873/1932) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

 

The distance attention spans

Who reads anything

anymore Long-ish, I wish

for the short answer.

Painting By Félix Armand Heullant (1834–1905) (Düsseldorfer Auktionshaus) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Our Lady Alexandria

What feels like Now is never heavy enough

to last longer than a Sunday.

Idle times like June, we tend to wander too far,

it takes august

to bring us back to routine.

Presently, reading.

Presently writing

Then and Now lying in front of me,

blurred by biography autonomously-

     whose voice is lost in the amplified volume

of imposition

     whose own prosaic tome is never true or tight enough

to carry the note all the way,

to cut the final folio, to fill the flyleaves.

More memory appalls dead weight

          one will carry to the cemetery, nary a soul should know  

Those things, flammable flashbacks attack hard back, unhinged

in carnation

in damnation

in citation,

My cover slowly singing, smoldering as I am oldering,

lighter 

Now (transparent)

on paper backs.

Painting By Juan de Echevarría (Bilbao, Spain, 1875 - Madrid, 1931) Born in Bilbao, Spain. Dead in Madrid. Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Squiggly lines

Draw the wind for me

                                             That is a line

This is a wave

                                             It is a cloud

it is not raining

                                             It is floating

It doesn't resemble energy to me

Because it can fall or disappear

If I cannot see it, it is not there

                                             What do shadows show

Movement

                                   You must move-first to see 

I see stillness, yes

                                   this second, do I breathe

Alive, you must Be.

Not imagine

                                   show me the difference

where water and air masses separate 

conglomerate as clouds 

                                   demonstrating the movement

of nothing.

No thing                     that floats.

Now your turn to draw the water

                              well are not those tears 

Artwork By Вера Владимировна Хлебникова (1891—1941) ([1]) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.