these guest posts left behind
after feeding the mind
from the best of books and with a
potent sense of humor
man! she’s done an angel’s work
like a hurricane
she’s perfect, fearless,
somehow it had to be just right
and so it was
everything came out like the mill
like a violin through a steel pipe
her chest and voice
who in the hell can sing like that?
now’s she got the way
to ride the winds,
rope in by a moment
and bam! there it is.
she made it, the same way the world makes it
each one standing shouting for change
like a piano wire dangling over a hill
like someone who’s seen and heard
better things yet neither not of this world
just a stroke of brilliance
so life changing that her music permeates
the walls, the kitchen, the hallway,
even the carpet
sometimes she waits, takes a big inhale
and plummets to the floor.
:: 11.16.2020 ::
MANY times, more than twice have I seen the ghosts of family, friends and then some whose faces that I did not know.
Quaintly, with ethereal elegance they are silky touch, feather breath, and opal eye, outside of the tick-tock of father time. It is most inappropriate to ask of them to state their business or intended pleasure
extend your politeness over scorn I say. But if I may make a brief apparatus is there a paper in the room, a hall-cabinet or a desk on which a white sheet is available? Might I do with the sheet as a summons?
The respect that one owes one’s guests becomes tested with boredom, oft times probed with practicality of thrift for there is nothing useful to be erected in the holder of the sheet.
Only when it is needful to be done is the one supposed to write in it. The space for writing is too limited.
Must the words be in black to be read? Must they belong to make any good or neither would it do to pay homage to the white sheets anymore? Might I pour out some ink, some thread to fashion myself a gnomon of sorts. Searching the paper to be free from ink might I try another opal eye, like my mother and the razors my grandfather used?
To groom his hair, and his kinks, each time they wore them down, but never ending. Might I even fawn over a ghost. Might I shed a tear for no other reason than it would be distasteful, and uncivil, to not do so. The wrong that is done to ghosts, which is, who has time for them when there is death’s work that need be done?
It is said the uncle, being thin, frail with a rasping voice, would sit silent and tired; sleep nearly all day, never greeting the other relatives, as the family has dwindled to once, two at most.
That he would be found some hours before sunset, with no water and no food beside his dead little cousin. Who was his spitting image when his lips would open he would tarry another moment?
Recline again, only to open them and wander the empty halls, awaiting. Someone who could help him with his chores, is the scene I imagine. A half asleep and suffering ghost who will never rest as long as
he continues to obey the order of his keeper, waiting until someone pays his due respect.
Now the spirit, like some phantom to the nighthawks of the wind and the greens of the apple trees.
He moves as lightly as the wind.
He dances like the light of an airplane.
He looks to live yet again.
In a white sheet, with a black script which could read nothing.
:: 09.26.2020 ::
“i will not be that way, ” i said.
as she took hostage my heart.
“I will not be that way, ” i begged.
as she kissed my soul.
but for you i shall turn the stars
around and move the oceans i declared.
i do not love your beautiful face.
i do not love your curvaceous body.
i love your feet as they brought you
here toward me. And now i enjoy
your mind and through it all things
:: 09.17.2020 ::
A PALE SOFTISH ROUND COFFIN
SKIN can make me cry as roses. Scents of a female? for i do forget
spoken clearly; i am not afraid of death but life.. to have control
means relenting focus for a perfect soul. my questions are purely
my own as though if i ask, ‘what has become of you?’ the world may
never know but i am here. my heart is a shape of a pale softish
round coffin yet to be buried within your mind.
:: 09.17.2020 ::
i would sink if the moon left these shores! picture of myself,
bright floods! seeking shadowed roads. Of yellow and green
cellophane hearts –into the willows of an old courtyard.
O my dying quiet hearts of arts and words of black dog,
brown shepherd hungry formasters — bitter peaches upon the ground :
while sulfur and evil drown in shallow swims.
Oh but Lord! through amaranths and Sahara blues as fire and creepers
seep through the widow’s cage! i walked Guianan without shoes
and flew through the ducal window on such a moonlight as the blessed bindweed.
Across ages of time and hordes cross our aged Europe.
Every soul crosses the moors — all warriors!
:: 08.31.2020 ::
AND like poured water the love spreads a peaceful river across these wooden
floors aspired; dying or sleeping it reaches a lake alike my own
dreaming wishes! Sore, purple-lit shores oh burning sand!
And tearful horizons cutting light — appears an apparition of love!
Should i, after mourning and tears, conjure strength from God’s love?
Such strength is in nature and my heart but so too a refraining
strength of force in such crisis! I am no saint and church prayers
in summer burst-colors all sins turned purple butterflies away!
And soon! as I have seen so you the coachman beacons at cool night
a lonely soul comes away from love!
And what saddle-ridden journey has such a soul forsaken
to get across now, Unto eternal life?
:: 12-18-2014 ::
::rev: 08132020 ::
SENTIMENTAL AND WIDE
w a n d e r ing souls
eating muffins crazy cats
yarn at your feet — destruction
inside your heart/makes me lay down
throughout the night\ nEVER a
frown — a deadly smile of conviction
within my Cedar Box
it walks crushed & tulips i breathed
in the entire blue skies / –> so
together where you are : and all of
the things i ever said to you girl
makes me feel sentimental and wide.
:: 08.11.2020 ::
i ONCE stood taller than
LOVE : which smacked me down
to the lonely being i am.
Old and wasted i continued:
until my last breath not hearing
anything but my own dying heart
:: 07..24.2020 ::
as a falling note
upon the wishes
oh those dreams
:: 07.23.2020 ::
–sexy–. immortal age, fine skin, woman.
your vast fields held a single gate,
the heart you seek when in mortal fear,
deftly in soft romance. You come. To me,
so sweet and cute and take what is mine.
Through my golden gate of stability —
my apple on a table you bite and eat.
No sin. No gain. Only pain.
eating all these words while hiding
within a tree is this nature-woman.
:: 06-05-2014 ::