I dream in hieroglyphicsand ink the walls of caves; eschew the honorifics, the accolades, the raves. It's all for fun, and all for free- I'll never make a buck. Matter of fact, I'm in the hole, but still I run amok.
I sit, folded into a flypaper chair. No one refills my coffee. I speak to google, and she answers. Sometimes tritely, and other times voluminously. Phrasing is important. She has a programmed sense of humor. We never mention Alexa, that bitch. Image: https://pixabay.com/users/geralt-9301/
I've always thought that you have an eye for fire. An affinity for flame. It's curious that we meet, unplanned, at these worshippings. And if by chance I see you in the cold air, your strange eyes tell of blue smoke. *** Image: https://pixabay.com/users/hans-2/
The sun was in beamsthrough the travelling trees,like a ruby- a lasering strobe, as I did a drivein convertible breeze,well abreast of the darkening road. And "Houses of cloud"(did I say, out aloud?)in the lamps of the settling sun,for I pictured a fortress- a bastion endowedwith the flags from the battles it won. In a... Continue Reading →
A cloak is dreamt. It is long, hooded, and heavy- as iridescent as a fish. Its imagined scales are of many colors. They resemble organ stops, tombstones, or pats of plastered paint. When donned, its weight makes one stumble- Accretions from an empath's trove.
You must've been a big man in the schoolyard. Yes- that is what I think when I watch you with others. Did you lie in wait for that puny kid who wouldn't fight back-who perhaps thought that this was how their life was supposed to be;who made up stories as to why they came home... Continue Reading →
Refuse in the oceans. God's things caught in its mire. In a come-lately penance, I think of small atonements, futile fixes. If a poem had power, had sway, or could be born of a prophet, sleep might come more easily. Still, I count the sheep of days, the fish in a river's flow... *** image:... Continue Reading →
Endings today- A small thing, as if hit, flails its last on the hot roadway, its doubtful heart and kicking legs wanting only to run, to run. And I have done murder, my mower surprising some bees and fledgling frogs who wanted only sweetness and shade. This grass will grow now. *** image credit: https://pixabay.com/users/thomaswolter-92511/
I have threads, vignettes. Some fleshed out. Others at loose ends. This unseemly train has lost its brakes- can't stop at ancient stations. Those sad confreres are left stranded, waving. *** image credit: https://pixabay.com/users/sjb3949-533112/
City bustle- swimmers in the deep air, all alive as bees. Urgent fetchings, bound soon for night homes. Closed curtains, cold hearths. *** Image credit: https://pixabay.com/users/stocksnap-894430/