Sunday, October 13, 2019

Rumors Of Wars

image by Rebecca Sygnus
We were foreigners bloomed in exotic soil,
a kind of invasive pet.

Wherever we went, we had nothing,
and so performed and begged and stole,
spreading our arms in sheepish apology as our bellies growled.

We wore the emblems and baubles of our homeland,
as meaningless as gum wrappers here.
We were restless,
thrilled to be free of all that constrained us at home.

None of us were ever going to wear
those conical hats
or our men grow those little goatees threaded gray with eastern wisdom.

Someone called my name, in accusation or greeting
and I looked up to see only my familiar ceiling.
There was no "we", no scraping sharp-edged survival,
and so I rose, fetched the morning paper from the step,

And searched through every page, as if for crumbs
to feed the thing I had felt
in the life I never lived at all
with the imagined companions upon whom there was no reporting

Though I missed them with a ferocity that held on for hours
like a dying foxhole brother.

For Sunday Muse #77, from a wild and intense dream I had before waking this morning. Why I should dream of being part of a lost military expedition in Indochina is beyond me, but there it is. 

Friday, October 4, 2019

Robed Figures

image by mc__monster
Robed figures contemplate light and shadow,
involving themselves in the night's business.

Luminous bird, floating crescent moon
contain an offered curriculum
as momentary as new love.

It is in this milieu that I come seeking you,
long after any chance of discovery.

I call, I offer songs on silver plates
while disembodied watchmen persuade ashes to assume form
and name themselves, becoming hosts

For all that cannot touch, cannot hope
nor do anything but write night poems on water-paper
and eat stars to stun themselves beyond all curiosity.

for Toads Art FLASH.

Saturday, September 21, 2019

Itinerary On The Fly

Do not place
your piano on the tracks.
Do not bind to a base

A bird of any kind.
Still, facts are facts
and the unforeseen may occur

Without warning--without a word.
"I knew a tune," says the man.
"I knew the sky," says the bird.

And so they sit with what they know.
Man and bird at peace in place
with one stop left to go.

for The Sunday Muse #74.

Monday, September 16, 2019

civil defense

concussions rain dust
on flowers in a fruit jar
steady in my palm

a fauxku for Out Of Standard "Gimme (Fallout) Shelter"

the image is from the movie "10 Cloverfield Lane"

Sunday, September 15, 2019


Hey, it's crowded in here. 
I've got one's scaly dry elbow in my ribs
and another's Manolo Blahniks on my toes.

What? What? Speak up.
Tell me which one you want and I'll try to find her. 
Goddess knows if she'll be available, presto, just like that, though.

Whoa, back way the hell up.
Is that any way to talk to a child?
Okay, now you're patronizing me. I'm not twelve anymore.

Come and get it, sugar.
No wait, don't. I'm to old for this.
My parents are always telling me what to do, and now you.

Wait...what? I'm having trouble concentrating.
Talk to one, another might grab the mic and riff. Check it out:
the 754 ages of woman all talking at once behind my calm smile.

for Sunday Muse #73.

Friday, September 6, 2019

Shell Game

Water is not the glass that holds it.
Words are not the lips that speak them.
A body is a shadow of one shape, then another, then none.

No one holds an apple and says, "Here is a peel, nothing more."
We eat the fruit and leave the ants the core.
"Simple insects," says the man.
Simple human, beneath the tree.
And on the ground when both have gone,
those humble and forgotten gods--the seeds.

A meditation on physicality for Art FLASH at Real Toads.

"You are what you believe you are." --The Prophet Omega

Saturday, August 31, 2019

In Age

In age, I dreamt myself a child again--
a blown leaf, my parents the wind.

Alone, I dreamt of family again--
my son a child, I rose and fell from the west.

Adored by a dog, I dreamt of dogs--
alive again, and my heart was calm.

In sleep, I dreamt of youth--
desire and sweetness came down from the hills.

In morning, leaves tap the sill--
dog and I raise our heads to the early breeze.

for Micro Poetry at Toads. "Fill the empty parts."