In you, I have dreamt
a glowering cloud bank
lowering to feather the fields.
Gloving the lava sun that waits
to cure the purchased rain.
In you.
Dark Angel
What was the thing I saw
in the dimness of fog forest?
Tall and straight and still it stood,
its head bowed in supplication.
Its person was that of a dark Angel,
and the flowing mists imparted
an artist’s brushstrokes to it.
In my awe, it saw me not,
for it was of another world.
From memory
Were I able to paint or draw,
and had not seen you,
even for a year,
I would find joy in the task,
and have at it until I was
well and truly spattered
with remembered colours.
As it is, I will dress down.
Take up pencil or crayon.
Something erasable.
Getaway
Dissociative. When I was but a young stranger, my train rolled slowly through an area of wilderness. Muskeg, tilted tamaracks, power towers. And I thought not of my destination, but of wanting to paddle a canoe into that green buzzing haze. And I myself would find the answer.
Quakers
I know why you couldn’t shave anymore
I used to think that you could
but needed to be touched
I think, now, that something told you
“What’s the use?”
and you agreed
and your hands and knees agreed
and next morning
your shrunken head
could think only of hard rivers of nerves.
The Owls are not what they seem
I’m wary of owl eyes
You have them
(Has no one told you?)
and a nose
not button-cute
but commanding
All in all
bird like
but one of prey
Formidable
is what I think
(Unfairly?)
I don’t know you
I shy away
from your art
What has made you?
Do you love?
Do you live?
Do you feel.
A dream Dad, a burning yearn.
Why’d you lead me into corn-stubbled hills? This mind of mine swirls with overthink. Come on, old man. We’re supposed to be waiting by the highway for that Buick to pick us up. It is to take me home. You’re just a distraction.
Suggestibility is a downfall of mine. I’ve followed too many false prophets. And, why do you take the name of my dead Dad? You’re not him. So I’ll turn and defy you. Walk right by you. Screw the corn, it’s without meaning. Highway it is for me.
Hah! I look back and see you following in your rubber boots, making dusty puffs in the dried mud, defeat and aggravation on your puss. Now, over the last rise, there’s the fence by the highway! The beige Buick with the young kid driving it…
He must have been waiting and didn’t see us, ’cause now he’s pulling away.
I shout. Shout No No No! and he sees us, stops. Smiling braces, freckles, ball cap. Say something, Old Man. I done beat you, you couldn’t take me to your false halls.
We start to roll on the smooth road. The young kid is from my nucleus. He’s been sworn not to say much, but he tells me the car has to go in for repairs, and he’s going to drop us in town for some “entertainment”. And, Old Man, I know you’re a lecher, and I do believe that you and Alfred, here, have been talking. Entertainment. Yah. He drops us off in the red light district, and you try your come hither again, but no, not this time. So you shrug, and I watch you descend long long stairs into a floodlit mine.
I know my lot is going to be something better today, and I don’t even care about the Buick no more. I walk slowly, through side streets of old houses. I wonder why I’m so warm, and then I realize I’m holding a cat. Then, through a hedge, I see a house with a picture window.
The living room has a soft glow of orange, and there’s someone in a rocker. And I stand, a voyeur with his cat. Kitty purrs now, and I can feel it through my chest.
A slow hand parts the lace curtains, and I see knitting. And I cry a man’s tears at the rosy cheeked face of Mom.
“A living thing” is on Spillwords!
A feint hope
A sudden cessation
A last surprised breath
A fall
Then nothing
An ignominious end
To a mediocre life
A clamber and a clamour
For divinity
Yet still better than drawn-out agonies
Words and words and words
Feeling the insistence
Of a slow knife.
Thin Lizzie
I am with the thin cat~
her love, she shows~
uncaring of sharp bones~
face pushing, pure purring ~
knowing~
how long she will be needed~
to carry me home, after toying with Joy~
and just how long I might stay.
Aremyfeetofftheground 