Hide around corners.
Peek between fingers
at things of perverse horror.
The fascination of fear
grows roots in safe shoes.
Then, the corners are dared.
The fingers become open palms.
The face flushes in the full carnal view.
In broad day, fixations amble,
cloaked as casual wear.
***
Art: La pétrification de la papesse, by Victor Brauner
“I have a hunger” –
Those words,
spoken in a formal manner,
were as stillborn, as heavy as a stone
cradled in an apron.
And, what does one do with this thing you’ve said-
you, who were always the comic,
furthest from the dead.
Taken aback,
in slow shock I cup your hand-
not leading you to bed,
but into nightfall’s garden.
We sup on the strange swirl of universe.
~I hung out with the gang from Otherwhere. They had very cool hoverboards and tinfoil suits. Spied on the Navy, we did. Frazzled their nerves a bit. Cat and mouse, haha. They showed me a star map, pointing with their wormy fingers. What a time! They smelled like spearmint gum.~
This black eye-
it changes sides some days,
but the worst of the gaze
is when the other side greys.
I travelled with three. One was pure and unnamed, as if it were her first hours on the ground. A second was ambitious, driven, risky. The third I thought of as a tower- strong, aloof, convening with cloud thoughts. In the glow of late afternoon, we watched a rocket explode. The hope of many. Gone.
Image source: The Verge. com
The one-room mind has insistent vines and an off-balance floor. Weighted words are thrown with the heft of a hatchet and a boomerang’s promise. In a trial outing, it sees a clove-eyed dog zeroing itself against a young oak, which trembles slightly and drops its curlicue hangings.
~Of late, dreams of flight have been over desolate landscapes, and instead of searching for Shangri-La, I want only to go home. Once soaring and drunk on elixir, now I must use my hover-hands to stop, skinning my palms. Doors and doors are heard in a slamming echo.~
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.
I’ve always thought that you had 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.
***
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.
Aremyfeetofftheground 