IMPOSSIBLE
Sand filled balloons soar in
joyous sky, wired to my shy
heart. Bobbing wetly, tugging,
tugging, at the treble hooks that
hold them fast, tearing the red muscle,
not yet free, but still soaring.
POTENTIAL
Waves slap gently against dented
hull, moored in morning mist.
No passengers await, no anticipation.
Oar locks rusty from disuse. The oars,
themselves, dried and splintered, uncertain
to their usefulness. Still, the swelling tide beckons,
straining the tethers, coaxing and promising thrills,
like yesterday, or last week, or,
when was it?
STRANGER
Frosted hair and alabaster neck,
I only see her from the back, while memories
crash on the shore of my past. It is
not you, but what would I do if it were?
Smile and nod or stammer awkwardly?
Today I'm glad it's not you, but someday,
someday...
KNOWLEDGE
Slowly learning not to try and fix things,
could I be growing up? Foolish in my shining
armor and atop my steed, I never have the answers,
only ideas best kept to myself, unless, of course, I
want a strong rebuke. So I exchange my mail for burlap,
and sit, and watch, a reluctant bystander.
TORN
Stay away for I can not bear
to see your white-blue eyes, or
feel your petal soft skin, or
hear your soft breathing in the night, nor
taste your sweet lips, or smell your
perfume on my pillow. Oh!
Don't go!
I long for your weight on my chest,
Your breath in my ear, your song
on my lips, your nectar in my mouth.
Stay, no,
Go. No,
stay.
BASILICA
Valley in the spring, ancient monument, stretched
out before us, muddy river of life, your road,
beckons us to your sanctuary. Twiggy treetops
from high above, spires, and flying buttresses
of fresh buds, green and rust, yellow and white, bid
us serenity and peace. Your congregation;
white tail, vulture, bald eagle, and hawk,
precedes us, no hypocrisy in their presence,
sure of foot where we are not. In dim light,
hushed rustling, and trickling stream flow
over mossy timber pew, and stony pulpit,
voices speaking truth, and we carry the sermon
in our hearts, until we can return.
TURTLE-MAN
What sense to make of love,
the boldest of any emotion?
Extended and risked, and oft rebuked,
slower to emerge each time. A tortoise,
withdrawn yet steady, self-contained
and sure, cautious; not wanting to
spin again on it's back, clipped by
fate, in the desert, east of eden.
REST STOP
Halfway to Saranac, we pile out, the
yellow Chevy rises, as it's shocks
sigh and stretch. To young to mutter,
"Goddamn it's hot", but watching the
Velveeta, from my sandwich, slide,
a wet orange smear, down the rest stop
sign, my shirt plastered against
my scrawny ribs in the thick wind.
WORDSMITH
He uses words as tools,
shaping, twisting and turning.
Irritatingly picking at others semantics,
A royal pain in the ass, but he's right of course,
distilling meaning to it's most basic, to truth
as he blinks slowly and asks, "What is truth?"
He'll run you down a path to the wall he has
Constructed, watching smugly as you smack into it,
despite your best intentions.
INSIDE-OUT
Formally trying to fill self with other,
a lamprey, sucking life sustaining myself.
A host long gone, and the realization
I can feed myself, a banquet for a sated partner
HILL AND MAIN
Jet black hair, slick and
pony-tailed, narrow brown chests
framed by tight white tank-tops,
they gather at the corner, sipping
Corona's, and shouting at passing cars,
"Chica's!"
NEW NEIGHBORS
Twelve pairs of boots in the hall,
outside a one bedroom apartment,
the smell of burnt tamales, and
the chirp of a smoke detector requesting
batteries for the second straight week.
Six dull cars added to the lot, the swarm
has descended, trying to scratch a living,
and I ignorantly judge.
DECOMMISIONED
Immense at her moorings, enormous,
guns long silent. Yet the echo's still remain,
of shouted orders, and terrified screams, the
air thick with the sea-air, acrid smoke, sharp piss,
and coppery blood of the men who lived, loved,
fought, and died here. Holding the hand-rails,
with measured step and wet eyes, the white-haired men,
with blue caps, and windbreakers, remember,
and are tolerant of pasty-legged tourists, with
loud shirts and expensive cameras, and no idea.
SLEEP
Silence roars at daybreak
when emerging light glints
on dewy glitter. Decorations
for the green robe, over the hill's
shoulders, a giant in repose,
not waking in our time.
INQUISITIVE
Squatting at waters edge,
eyes squinting in the light,
she waits, dip net in hand,
patiently waiting for a new
specimen. Fish and frog,
pollywog and newt, she
loves them all, her tiny
wet-eyed babies.
OBITUARY
The obit read:
His Name; Owned Thoroughbreds.
immortalized on paper, he had horsies.
Defined by possessions, or occupation,
not by love, the surviving family,
an afterthought. I wonder if he wrote his own?
What would yours say?
HUMIDITY
Hot summer days,
of tomatoes like ornaments,
on the vine hanging. Viscous
air in the still night, no reprieve
despite the screens. A TV drones
a room away, while I drift on a sweaty
cloud, awaiting unconsciousness.
DIVING PRACTICE
The smell of chlorine never fails
to hammer me back to practice.
Blocking out the coach's whistle,
attempting some new trick. A machine,
flying free, twisting, contorting, knowing
immediately, success or failure, over
and over, again.
TEST-TUBE JESUS
Dare we force the second coming?
A bit of DNA from the shroud, the sequence
close to mastered. Jesus as a test-tube baby,
the ultimate immaculate conception. Who
will pray to a test-tube Jesus? Can a cloned Jesus
offer salvation? Our father who art in the lab, hollowed
be our name.
Email: dpo@davidoffutt.com
