Seattle Festival
Drops cascade towards earth’s door
pelting me with lapping kisses
fireworks upon my skin
cutting with a frozen edge
leaving a memory of warmth
those tiny touches
slow my assault little
pumping ahead
Steam courses out of sewer vents
and tarred roads
wrapping and spinning
hinting at bog and decay
old flesh and rotting food
human odor and manmade debris.
Purple clouds bedeck the sky
a royal curtain
movie closed for the night
unless you pay the admission
that glance, pauses me
just a moment
Plum envelops me
refracted light tricks me
my destination is unknown
only never 2 steps behind me
Looking back is like looking forward
like looking up
closed unless you want to pay the admission
currently I’m broke
so I just keep walking
hoping to find a way to sneak in
theater hop
go in through the exit
slip past the ushers
watch the drive in from afar
just to see the midnight showing
of the
Movie Madness.
Myths of spirit and bone
Little brother
sitting on the twig
black as jet with hints of moonlight
cawing your corvidae song
“The stories I can tell
if only you would stop to listen
tales of days past
Adventures honed by me
Oh the stories I can tell.”
Wings take flight
the message still echoes
people continue their passage
a child will look up, a glimmer
a spark of understanding
hearing the true voice and not the brazen call
But the whole continues
and stories are held
for a time
when man will look to see the truth
looking beyond the veil
searching for wisdom
giving little brother his due
instead of rock and bullet
Time continues.
Crows laugh and cry
their hoarseness making it hard to the tell the difference
the stories will run true
as long as the messengers remember
and there is a story to tell
for a spring can’t provide until forever.
The Rainbow Connection FuseBox
I remove the eye mask
makeup slowly running
exertion lines of sweat blurring
solid lines.
The image in the mirror
is a mad combination
Of myself, the hidden desire, and an amalgam of the two
creating a spectrum of self
while stepping from the dyadic system
where I am found, a new self.
Thinking back
I started to die when the first dollop of grease
touched my forehead
Once I was buried underneath, I became undead reborn
Me from the abyss
some exotic new “thing”
without name, and without substance
a ghost of everything, yet separate
not truly of this world, a castoff of my dreams.
As sweat continues darkening the porcelain bowl
swirling swamp, granules of paint lying heavy near the open drain
a whirl sucking the light and liquid down in a satisfied gulp
I’m racing
Heart straining through my ribs,
Bones making impressions against its muscle tissue
protective yet forceful
wrapping with care and delicacy
a wild beast, berating its prison
beads have become streams down my face
Erasing what I had been, creating a distorted member
unholy birth, hating life
Freakish mess
swamp expands to a pond, water is stagnating as it fills
I can’t take more
breaking apart
a jigsaw puzzle hitting the ground
pieces jammed into crevices, pieces lost
try to get away
shattered image
nothing comes out, just dry heaves
racking body
undulating
heart is exploding
puddles collect underneath him
water drips from the sink, dark water
I cry, he cries
the coin flips
heads or tails
What happens when it is neither, anymore,
like me?
When the sides are erased
the metal half melted
barely there
Except in presence.
Craft holiday Gifts Unbeknownst
Skimming through the scrapbook
the little girl sees
her father
evolve and change
grow and dissemble
reconstructed and prosper
across the eras
his eyes mirror hope
in one
a tassel waves next to cheek
white teeth biting through the smile
and another
hope has ceased to be friendly
they aren’t on talking terms
a grimace of distaste
color his cheeks
and there is no reflection
in the eyes
they seem to be nothing
void of any spark of emotion
negative or positive
just a shell
standing, moving, contemplating
negative or positive
However its all routine
The photography show is topical graph of his journey
a few times he’s breathing hard, but he has climbs a peak
while in others he is down in the valley
valley so low
the wind does blow
never taking heed
Daddy keep going
crawling, walking, even occasionally
to each new adventure
its through these pictures
I know my father
nothing more than a ghost
living in the world
he threw away all ties
in his pursuit of dreams
we were left on the curb
right next to the pine green dumpster
to be taken away
We don’t talk much about him
Momma and I
we speak without words
its best that way
reduces the pain
but we look at the pictures
and think alike
Wondering where he is
Who is he
And how is doing?
So I’m gonna make my own scrapbook
for the day
that Daddy wants to see
all the hills I climbed
and dreams I’ve captured
but most of all
that I’ve left no one behind.