Faces
oak branches reach
through villages veiled
beneath nuoc mam frowns, —
enlightened cracks creak
above unwilling spills
leaving
every chào buổi sáng
every gaze
very little
Sir, Yes Sir
& there was never any toilet paper
never any soap not even a blanket
just salivary glands
washing up against underarm hopes
& yesterday eye had a sore throat
dry as hashish
salty as the Dead Sea
& from my ass
chickens continue to fall
like spent shells
cracking the red green chickadees
& today eye shot around
looking for regurgitated sweat glands
while
Monday
Wednesday
Friday
every Sunday
eye bury rubber thalami
deep behind thick lips asking
When will the chopper arrive?
This was metabolized as a journey
never ridden with a smile as
eye digest what’s left in my boots
scraps from blue potatoes in my underwear
minister to seasons, —
crucifying Charlie
rebuking Snoopy
backsliding Lucy
& tomorrow
before a billion points of aortic lights
cast across a face-less velvet canvass twirling
with 7 spleens ducking & diving whirling
eye watch Mars
salute every Corporal
yelling with every breath
eye followed my orders…!
Silent as Impression Made by Stone
Silent as an impression made by stone
Black onyx flamed with writings to go gentle in the night
So it is that I a Mysterious Traveler walk this way alone
In this silence I sit on the side of the dirt bone
Waiting at the edge of the black line of the farthest woods
Silent as an impression made by stone
Where all who believe this sarcophagus sown
Well into the hands of Osiris and Ra as mummies
So it is that I a Mysterious Traveler walk this way alone
All but a water lily speaks in the shadow of a lotus tone
I go formless shadowing-less across wading waters tarrying
Silent as an impression made by stone
Delivered on parchment paper to a mass of one
This message driven from essence long since gone
So it is that I a Mysterious Traveler walk this way alone
In my will take this much without loan
Paint me crate me canvas this I say
So it is that I a Mysterious Traveler walk this way alone
The Blood of Rain
Drowning in meadow-spoken roots, I reach for heartfelt songs, once, so rich with oxygenated virtues, twice, so free from an unforgiving life. Songs gleaned from salvific tomatoes, flowing sweet the Nile. Voyages imprismed as a glint refracted without blink, without smile, messages to splat against something, anything – life-supporting droplets passed with grass concern, lawn pity. What was there: a bed of crabs to obscure the analgesic dirt, the antiperspirant stench, the grandeur embodying a crimson stance. Like knuckles half-curled tapping on the drum of a shack, shadow of a room existing as a postal address with but one letter in the box, this song of rain continues to pour dry. Behind closed mores, I lick deliberate snowfalls, wrangled after birth. What did this mean? From where does this floodwater spring? My cup remains half filled, cracks lining its bottom have laid their webs. I watch reminiscent musings of pellets fall, nerve endings teleconference heme & beryl-blues & female & globin & woman & man & child, all raced by fashionable weather, as I drown, listening to the pulsations of torrential veils.
Why am I so thirsty?
Reading your poetry makes me wish I was half as creative with my choice and use of words.
Jc77heaven@aol.com
Congratulations Dr Low from The Golden Lady