A distant reflection cast with classicist leanings.
I wanted to borrow that woman's eyes for a moment:
viaticum for vestige.
I am staring at you from across this page.
I am a cyclops with two eyes.
The "Cy" in "Cy Young" stands for "Cyclone."
I am a cyclone with two eyes.
The Alphabet, in clusters, is jumbled in my gums.
"On the double, let's go!"
I see my great aunt sitting on the front porch fanning herself with long bony fingers.
I still daydream of dozing off in a field of cotton.
Every piece of cotton, like tiny cumulus clouds hovering inches above the earth.
I must remind you that this poem is for you.
This poem is a well-fed ox.
How strange to see wood that would not burn.
Old habits are kept like sunscreen that gets skin-deep;
a re-charging of the body, as fresh as islands of green.
I watched a yellow butterfly flutter majestically over the top of a red car.
Visions, stretched like dough.
Is anything ever actually 100%?
Too sudden our time slips away, like slashing off the heads of flowers.
An oyster choking on its pearl.
I could give you my knees.
I want you to stand tall.
I want you to hand me your arms as we witness the alpenglow sweep over the city,
like the tolling of a bell speaking of the passage of time.
The fervor of violence coupled with a thrust & counterthrust of the hearts of Men, thirsting.
Spiritual throats swallowing all of the sorrow from their Tumultuous Whole.
If our little lives are "rounded with sleep" why then do I keep awake like a giant colonnade?
A frenzy to be so alive like moods of Bach?
I attempt to live in two worlds at once; each interpenetrating the other.
To turn a new leaf will be glossed at will.
To tear a photograph out of mid-air.
A work that is fragile & too quickly forgotten.