Would it be lying to speak of autumn trees, specifically, the Plane, Looming in plains so strange as resemble Mars or Enceladus, When in fact we see in plain sight the Plane itself?
Despair of yellow if you wish — The taint of choleric bile, Midas’ daughter, snow pee, jaundiced eyes. While Orpheus’ golden lyre went to Hell and back, sunlight echoed on dayend clouds, towheads ran on Baltic sand, dandelions colored my hand. Jacob’s stairs still ascend — presumably to Heaven — But who waters the geraniums?
Yes, it’s better than glass — a hard, cold divide from reality. I can feel the breeze, rain falls and I am wet, squirrels fear my smell, jays rail at my presence. But, there’s still this matter of nylon, a millimeter thick, a soft cage of unwanted domesticity.
Early morning fogs
rose from the river.
He waded through an eddy of
warmth swirling slowly
between bank and goal,
a heavily wooded island,
cloud hidden,
Spanish mossed limbs
penetrating
opal curtains.
He felt time evaporate
a hundred million years
as he entered the past earth.
and knew the river damp smell
was once familiar
to a dinosaur,
that nothing had changed,
that his particular world's
sights and sounds
were truant.
Reaching shore, he had
no idea how close he was
to the nest of guarded eggs,
as she burst forth through fog,
the Great Blue Heron,
screaming in the
very rasp of God,
a cry so terrible
that he became a
wee twitchy creature,
scurrying to evade
scaly winged masters
of this new world.
"I'm sorry about the Moon...", he said.
"Oh! What an interesting sentence!",
she replied,
smiling with unexpected delight.
Love illuminated them
in the recovered lunar glow.
The Demon-Casters of Asilomar,
in the great lodge room,
huddle before fire,
Ess-word mutterings float,
"...sssalvation...,
...sssatan...,
...ssssin...",
potent, frequent
"...Jesssusss...".
Bowed backs as
shields,
Stares as
needles, knitting,
White thin lips as
prophet, knowing,
But no
blue eyes on the
lurking heathens
(who suck your soul),
No
flirtation,
temptation,
touching the
unwashed.
This is a joyless,
serious pursuit,
Saving the world.
My friend, the under-employed artist, sold photos to the Sunday edition of the paper. Strictly freelance, not a regular job. “Shoot anything but put three kids in the middle, in red, blue and yellow.” The formula never failed. Every Sunday, $25. It paid the rent.