I have no story. No masterpiece, no grand release, no claim to glory. I live inside the artist’s brush, the cooling night, the river’s rush, the knocking of the woodland Thrush; in Plato’s Allegory. *** Art by Remedios Varo
Out of the woods
How
How straight the young oakthat dreams of sky-rise. How turtled- the hot houses, brow-beaten in the heartbeat of the heat. How contrived- the perfect lawns like dime store pictures. How bobbing- the tiny birds that speak in peeps. How serene the cat- curled in woolen sleep.
Perfect ~ by Lisa Alletson
We would always stub out our candy cigarettes on the mulberry leaves in our tree house, fingers and lips stained purple from berries, watching our parents drink gin and tonics after sets of sweaty tennis. Mia’s mother with the long legs saying her daughter would soon need a nose job. Her whisky voice rising into the branches when she asked my father to join her for a shower. My mother giggling and pouring her gin to overflowing.
***
We would always track down the nearest bar no matter what continent. Mia’s huge grin getting us in even when the place was full. Waiters competing to refill her perfect martini. Refusing the men buying her drinks, she’d pull me from my chair to slow dance, her fingers smoothing my hair, holding my body tighter with each passing city and year, as we’d sway and sing Piano Man in every language we…
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All my life
I feel odd and strange: as if someone from the future has breezed into my room. From a point of light in a grey sky he comes. He has broken wings and sunken eyes, but smiles and caresses my face with warm hands. And he says...no, his eyes say..."All your life. All your life." (With... Continue Reading →
Laundromat
My opinion is that some go there with two weeks worth of dirty laundry and take up too many washers & dryers. Others come and empty the change machines for their poker games or parking meters, then leave. At least one has stolen a nice sweater, when they thought I was reading my mildewed paperback.... Continue Reading →
Tempests
Having come from the seas of your storms and decades of disquiet, I step, directionless, on an unmoving Earth. Being tooled for havoc, I despair of knowing what might fill this brazen peace, this wild surcease. [Art: The Ship, by Salvador Dali]
Womb
Do not speak of it. Do not see me. Give what you have to give, willing or no, and don't mind the scars. The remnants of your gown, oft removed, keep us coming back for more. But, in time, you will womb a tree that reaches to Heaven. *** [Art by Zdzislaw Beksinski]
Steadfast
~ Though ugly are those thorny trees with octopussy limbs, —I say they're Kings of Forestry- conductors of its hymns.~
Jolly Roger
I saw a UFO last night- Looked like a pirate ship. But, soon as I turned on the light, it vanished with a blip. Must've seen me- was it shy of being talked about? "Come back!", I said, to empty sky- My light, I turned it out. [Art by Francisco Fonseca]
A thousand cuts
Forgetting the landscape of shaving, I run the razor sidewise, coaxing a bleed. We have forgotten Corinthian love, or never knew it and wonder if it exists. Wounds, we have, unsalted but unhealed.
AreMyFeetOffTheGround 