icy river
all the world stands still, or
pretends to
snow deadens
sounds and signs of life
a blank slate
the breeze dies
then the snow fall ceases
time freezing
deep footprints
tell of a man and a dog
hunting rabbit
an old church
the surrounding snow
is unmarred
Minor tigers fighting for air.
This one? That one? The world don’t care.
All the pretty ponies prancing,
showing tribal styles of dancing.
All the while the world is burning
’cause of minor tiger yearnings.
There was a quivering soul string
that was bounced into a wild swing
by a chord amped to the nines
played beside some profound lines
belted out in a subtle suite of chaos.
cold white circle
deformed in its reflection
upon black waters
howling lunatics
don’t make me fearful,
quiet ones do
glowing clouds
streaked thinly through the sky
moon’s canvas
silent evil
slid through night, watched over
by a cold moon
the moon is out
my bones have gone cold
i blame it not
They praised the rucksack Lotharios,
glimpsing them through the mask.
It’s said you can tell a lot from the eyes.
You can if you have to.
If that’s the full display, all but for the stringy hair and knobby forearms —
when it’s the full picture — searching soul-windows becomes a superpower.
But the masked men clocked in on smuggler runs — hauling cataclysmic utopian brainstorm.
People loved it until they hated it.
Then the tunnel junkies were cut loose,
their magnetism depleted.
one-winged seed
drops, twirling to earth,
in slant descent
twisted petals
painted by textured brush
fall as one
porch-sitter views
a corn crib and red barn;
all slouch with age
trust all lambs
trust tigers to be tigers
trust man, not
if a sight
can quicken your pulse
it’s love… or death
Things better seen at a distance:
-snowcapped peaks
-fluffy clouds
-asteroids
-surgery
-any animal whose mouth my head fits inside
I asked an online reporter,
“How do you live post-bricks-n-mortar?”
“I’ve tricks up my sleeve:
tell ’em what they believe,
and if facts remain cut it shorter.”
I’ve heard it speculated that all times exist at once, and that our consciousness merely shines a light on a sequence of nows. But it sure feels like the past frays; that it’s dissolving from the edges. Worm-eaten in a way that works its way to the heart. The center reads clear for now, but one day… poof, it’ll be lost.
You’ll awake to find whole tracks of life are lost — like slides that were water damaged in the flood.
What happened in 1997? I’d need some sort of prompt to even make a guess.
I knew I was old when,
upon seeing a frosted windowpane,
I felt no urge to plow my finger through it.
The cost of a cold finger tip didn’t feel worth it for the pleasure of dragging a digit through the frost, carving doodle art or a word,
the frost curling and tumbling down onto the sill to turn from chalk white crystals to clear bulbous drops.
Anyhow, the mere thought prompted me to etch my fleeting symbol onto the pane.
