Egg tottering,
nest ruptured by careless wind,
future flight’s dashed promise,
embryonic wings unformed.
Bird ghost’s
first and last airborne arc,
parabolic to slate below,
shattered shell and yellow stain.
Surprised child
stops, curious, then home
crying in fear, chased by
angry mother cawing grief.
He saw, on his morning walk,
a house with cobalt walls
and pink eves,
But, on drawing closer…
the eves became brown
and the walls, gray.
He thought about imagination
and the word ‘image’
almost within it.
He had, as always, a goal in mind,
but this route was chaotic,
random with bias.
He chanced on a stick
in a gutter,
long, straight, lanceolate.
And imagined two spears,
one pink,
one cobalt,
Except the pink was really
like a filet
of wild Atlantic salmon,
And the blue was
like sparks of
violet and green.
He saw two knights
rushing each other,
red pike, blue pike…
And stumbled at the sign,
his goal,
“Matmor Rd”.
Mata mor,
mata moro,
kill Moor.
He drifted to the Crusades —
his fifth-grade teacher
described their futility;
Yet, he later read
about the 200-year
Kingdom of Jerusalem,
Probably not so futile
to the knightly order
for a long time.
She also remarked
on the Moorish failure
in Iberia,
But, the Caliphate endured
600 years, three times
my country’s age.
Images returned —
the Knight Templar,
the Saracen knight;
He thought
perhaps that
was the whole point,
To impale each other
on beautiful lances,
salmon and electric,
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?
Almost-touching orbs
cruel Fate’s separation
Frustration of joy.
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.
Bluster & Absurdity 