Quote

New Born Evergreen

Wandering questions before a wooded labyrinth

Whisper, asking for a grand theory

A cannon filled with run on unpunctuated sentences

And questions unanswerable.

Yet, those barely audible whispers!

For the life of me

I couldn’t tell you who said what

or what they said.

But that’s the sounds of trees for you. Supercilious, taller in unison without harmonies

Reeds and wind instruments. Cellos and flutes. The rarest contraltos

Singing together then humming as a bee swarm choir.

Conducting an opera of my delicate sensibilities,

Dramatic, cracked crystal by the secretive octave of deception.

We moles blindly sliding through a wooded curtain

Where roads we won’t see disappear into the air.

Led nowhere by maps on the night’s inky sky, the leggy lustrousness of unlit highways rose with those low tones –

Singing ash and elm boarded up covered bridges on the broken side dirt roads.

Cold ice baby blue bodies of water

Surrounded by brown paper mountains, all

Legendary but-meaningless without keys to open

Our car doors. Nature’s perceptive parents just know when to leave.

Seeing the horror films on the backdrops of snow caps

We’re screaming in terror at mouth of the forest.

Opening wide its fangs showing the sharp firs

Shredding my skin on my way down and a swipe of a long branch,

Bark brown burly beasts ate me whole, swallowing me back in the throat of the past.

Disgusted by my taste I’m spit out and disappointed

Tumbling in the blackness, the inconsequential creation of myself

Pieces of who I wanted me to see and warning what you may notice:

In mirrors I’d become larger than I appeared.

This moment – now – burnt by fire

Burnt up and afraid time knocks down our front door.

Standing there looking at us it sends up red flares

Hot and melting pin-sharp icicles from the eaves

Coldly stabbing as only water can – cold for an instant and gone,

Alive without reason. I rename myself something simple, biblical: Ruth or Rebecca.

Snake my name in the sands as long as the Mississippi or short as the Nile.

Name me Superior or after another lake

Yet besides water tricking the ground into moving away afraid lakes

Simply wait for the rain.

But in my digression

I must admit my remission…

…for then

Bullies can spit me out

Like grizzle from a

Buzzards beak for they’ve

A taste for carcasses

And a parents’ outdated tastes yet

Salivate for the stench of the dead.

II.

Is life that much better now? Naming myself with forgiveness and gratitude: Grace drowns in the rain. While wind shakes my bones in the winter storms’ leafless branches, I tremble from deep inside my trunk, inside of me.

Masked Avengers

Cleaved cleft chins, white teeth, braces, pink watermelon lipgloss, and beards all seem ridiculous these days. Behind a mask there’s no way to shine a smile of gratitude to a shop clerk or for someone’s kindness in holding open a door. We look plastic in polarized soundless shock. The cranes fly overhead in t-formations migrating from and to places I never studied and to think about it those birds I knew, birds where I’ve been basking in year’s outside. We live in the same warmth that those millions of million year old northerners calved their ill suited families to drag suitcases behind them. Straining and scraping down all the front porch stairs while waiving goodbye wearing dry dirt colored corduroys and flag striped mock tops. Masking the sounds of the dead floorboards as winter draws nearer, I cracked my knuckles on hands divided by savage time.

Magic Love

Love, one magic number counts four letters of chance and change, positive to negative on your life line a test handed in and then passed and rearranged.

Love, a perfect prism’s reign of color – incarnadine and rosy – lies like a white rabbit’s eyes they follow you. Upstairs, a curtain’s drawn open to a magician who hides up inside his sleeve dark tricks though at first sight you still watch him closely.

Love, lives in a magic city. A filthy town, where you arrived this afternoon, driving deserted sand hill lined roads, the landscape finally yields to billboards on which you read that in the suburbs no ones home or even sleeping.

Love curls like a lazy house cat. Striped and fat it’s mind wanders to windows sleepy and teased by birds and other moving targets.

Love runs faster than a sports car. Shining, topless, windy hair whips your at your cheek – it wasn’t meant to breakdown when you need the ride the most and leaving you in solitude its engine sounds like goodbye.

Love sails with you upon a magic carpet from far away it stops and awakens you from silken dreams. Burgundy and bubbly flows through you and turns your inside out from smiles to screams of pain.

Love, the story playing in a cool dark theater. The wife died at the end the husband writes, couldn’t it be me not her? Then he wipes his eyes and instead with deep regret, throws out his pen and just asks why?