Walking,
Blindfolded,
Through the annals,
Feeling the walls,
And using echolocation.
The ancient texts,
Sacred incantations,
Chants of legends,
Contained in texture,
To be deciphered,
By a stylus,
Which cannot,
Transcribe.
Each pressing,
With its own,
Character.
Each batch with,
It’s own,
Flaws,
Hissing,
Popping,
Scratches,
Not even counting,
The shattered ones.
Revolutions,
Dictate,
No matter,
How convoluted,
The labyrinth,
Until it’s time,
To switch,
To the other side.
An odd, viscous concoction,
Consisting mostly of water,
Amino acids,
Sugars,
Vitamins,
And other nutrients,
Served up,
Neat,
In a queen cup.
One protein,
Royalactin,
Gives aspiring queen’s,
Political careers,
Traction.
They feast,
Learn etiquette,
Mature,
And leave,
To settle-down,
Fill power vacuums,
And form factions.
It was a bad time
to reflect
on what I should have written,
on the world’s last stack of sticky notes.
I ran my thumb over it,
to breathe life,
into my work.
Poorly-drawn, simplistic figures
walked to and fro,
and told each other
sophomoric jokes
until the cardboard showed.
“I could have mapped-out
my every action
months in advance,
or remembered to put on pants,
instead of making stick figures dance.”
I closed the flip book,
and rest it face-down on my desk
ashamed.
It’s all fun and games,
until fun and games interfere
with your daily life.
Needing a chuckle,
I opened it again
to repeat the cartoon anew.
Time well-spent, I say.
Depressions,
Tend to accrue,
Collections,
And internalize them,
Creating literal,
Littoral gray areas.
Still still,
In the sunlight-
It’s dappled surface,
Slightly evaporated.
It has no mind,
To receive,
What it holds,
But it still becomes,
A pastiche.
Upon inspection,
The surface of the murk,
Projects lurid reflections,
Where not enshrouded,
By leaves,
Or speckled,
By pebbles.
“I’d rather be sleeping,” said John, sliding hangers back and forth, trying to find an appealing shirt.
Every day he left pieces of himself behind in his bed.
And the dust mites would eat them, as dust mites are wont to do.
He slid a t-shirt over his face, smearing his skin cells into the fibers.
He has left many impacts on the things in his life, sometimes too small to even be seen.
But they meant everything to those dust mites, who lived for generations, before he’d lay himself to rest again.
Is he still John then?
The spider in the corner,
Of my dorm,
Foreigner,
Hoarder,
With web in disorder.
If I were shorter,
I’d steer clear,
And try not to vear,
Into his hunting gear.
He’s well-equipped,
Works from home,
And quite strict,
When prey roams,
Toward his crypt.
The monster,
Stands,
A stone’s throw away,
Saunters,
On silken-strands,
He’d be easy to slay,
With a magazine,
But that’s mean,
And I’d have to clean,
After.
He keeps,
His heaps,
Tidy,
And tiny,
So I’ll let him stay,
Maybe.
Diamond-plated steps,
peeling paint,
and a cardboard ruler
demonstrating the height requirement.
Pewter pistons,
hidden hinges
standing cushions,
eroded by time
and centrifugal force.
Blinking lights all around the ridges
and a long line of patrons
brandishing bracelets
soft drinks,
plush prizes
and crumpled tickets.
The ride spins,
blinking like a UFO,
ready to launch
and fly faster than light,
but it never gets off the ground.
You stumble around,
pretty dizzy,
ready for the next thrill.
“One more time?”
she says.
Your hair is mussed,
from the last six times,
she asked.
“Why not,”
you say,
while turning about face,
to stand single-file
once more.
1) Black, cracked tarmac,
Potholes dot line,
Craters on the moon.
2) Grey plastic fragments,
Torn toys, paper bags, roadkill,
Litter on the shoulder.
3) Dented divider,
Past event– tragedy?
Unnamed accident.
4) “Fuel, 16 miles”
Gas light on, alone, no signs,
Driver’s dilemma.
5) Deer crossing; beware,
Old habitat rended now,
Just passing through here.
The brittle blocks,
Seemed alien first,
Until you pulled them from the box,
Rubbed them on and smeared them in.
With some care and consideration,
And some practice and precision,
Whatever you’re working on,
Will look fuzzy and faded in.
The color binds to the blank space,
In whatever shape you’ve traced,
Wherever it’s been placed.
The mark of a good artist,
Is not the figure on the paper,
But the dark marks on their fingertips,
And passion that sometimes tapers,
But never disappears.
Keep fingerpainting,
But keep from scribble-sniveling,
How easy it is to make drivel,
How easy it was to be Picasso,
Or Van Gogh,
Or Michelangelo,
When you were little.
Matte black and monochrome,
Glassy, placid patch,
In the interplay,
Of the moonlight,
There’s a swirling spectre,
A rainbow in the asphalt.
The oil pan,
Is trying its hand,
At abstract expressionism.
The slow drip isn’t quite random,
And easier to understand,
Than the grand hand of man,
But even without command,
It’d be too harsh to say it’s bland.
My car may be,
A little bit pretentious,
But it’s not just artist-artifice,
I believe in it.
The File Pile 