Interloper

Interloper,

O’ what have thee made of me?

Beautifully tragic

And devilishly clean

Sticklers for perfection,

Conjugating all perils to pillars tall

The sacred space of air

Bears witness, as time is amputated by the wind

Stale diamond flecks of salivation

Seeping stealthily from the creviced cheek

of all who dares to enter

Turn round; Gather ye horses

Do not look back; hurry fast

For like barnacles attracted to the external frame

Interlopers, once adhered to rules as well—

Never leaving without inducing the most severe measurements of strain.

The Intermittence of Rainfall ( Directionless Dreaming)

Intermittently—

Pianos tripping,   

Overlays the distraction of

A variant shower’s stolen scene

Someplace in the background’s distant frame

Minutia’s outstretched legs

Coveting the space between

Within each the hour’s spent

The cruelty contained

As minutes suffer

The seconds blur

Spiked and dull,

As train-wrecks abound,

Yet hands still clutch

Throttle’s down

It’s somber symphony

Ever playing, soft and slow

Disturbing repetition

The briefly quelled

Eyelids beckon

Of sleep appears

The renewing curse

*quick note:  the piece can be read in either direction, but is meant to be started with the last line and read backwards to the top.  The poem can move in either direction, or so I made that attempt.  What I was going for was to play around with placement, and just see how this notion of placement can alter meaning.  Anyhow, just saying.

Changes

Solid, liquid, gas

A frigid mist at hand

Altering consistency

Of sleep and space

Wolf to human

Human to bat

Bat escapes

With bloody teeth

Shedding serpent,

Regenerates

Ch-Ch-Ch…

No—for another time

Steadfast to the crevice

Open, yet maritime

Adrift—in cradle

Sifted salt

Curated pessimistic

The way nostalgia feels

Crops reaped

Into waiting arms

Of machines,

                  Machines that grind—

Gritted tooth—

Cardboard cogs

Processed fast

To the bellies

Fat yet pseudo-free

Ch. Ch. Ch…

Nyet. Not yet

Beauty blooms

Only to fall in wilt

The dead seed splinters

As stem and stalk unite

A last ditch effort

To elicit

Ch-Ch-Ch…

Pray for it.

Ch-Ch-Ch…

Pray for it.

                  Nein. Nein. Nein.

Constipated are the tear-drops

Pinecone-birth-decay—

Carriage ride…stops to fix

Spoke in wheel

                 

Dawn to day

Day to dusk

Dusk to darkness

In God we trust

Paupers to pulpit

Pulpit to King

King sneers at Queen

ALL JESTERS FLEE

Ch. Ch. Ch

Redact.

Perhaps

Pray for it.

Ch. Ch. Ch

Are you feeling it?

I’m not!

 But I can pretend

Ch-Ch-Ch.  Maybe one more.

Blue flame

Stirring

Stellar

Nova….

Bright

Pristine?

Hardly!

But It’ll have to do.

Ch-Ch-Ch… Changes

Turn and face the strange.

Ch. Ch. Ch. Changes

Turn and face the strange.

Newton's Apple, William Tell and the Art of Invisibility

Newton’s apple came to me,

From a rooftop, perhaps a tree,

Many chimneys surround me here,

In this place without a voice,

So many faces, so little choice,

It was the day, this I know,

And the church bell ringing indicates an even hour,

If you don’t believe, then take your proof,

So many saw it well,

From different angles,

In other language,

From close and from a distance,

Each a difference in thread to spell,

But here’s the core, the rest's in me,

Before we met I’d yet to eat,

And it’s wrong to forgo lunch in all this heat,

Since no one knew,

Nor did I,

Except for pictures taken from the sky,

And from the ground and pointing up,

Yet for those the sun, for the most part, messed on up,

All this drama surrounding me, you’d think I’d have much more to say,

Yet the only thing that fell to me, was time, will tell, and in the end will get its way

A Stream Distracted

Fatally attracted to her,

Drawn like a magnetic force

Tugging me across the floor

With complete disregard for

Any host which occupied the

Space the shortest line would take us,

Blanche and bored, spiral and ignored

The magnitude of a marching band,

Is contained not within the song, but

In the syncopation of the feet and arms,

Gyrating little shy girl pouting upon the safest

Place in her house, porch bound, never could grasp a read,

Never caught a glance at those eye while the auburn caressed the lid,

Stream, sputter, stream…streaming stopped,

Too hard to think,

Impossible to focus,

ROOTS, BLOODY ROOTS

Assailing me over my shoulder,

Without thoughts man’s future, at least mine, grows much colder,

On the cusp, and a cup of tea,

Yes, the vanilla chai, that is fine,

Gaining ground, getting close,

Almost there, Just barely from