Refraction

The window lets in the air riding down the heavy worn coast
Salt trapped in the membranes, the sandy berms, the tall grasses
Transplanted reefs, underwater worlds, rubber tire fantasies
Running my fingers along the bottom
My hands cut on sharp edges, dirty shells scratching all over
Where there once was, is no longer the same ever after


Split a thousand sides down, time line
River rolling roller coaster, grind
Beware the control of tides
Meant to be wild seafarers,
Retract these holy nets, sifting through the debris
floating out there in heaven


Hands upturned to the glimmer near the surface
Cold friends of whale-grazers, seaweed snakes, micro-whatevers
Kicking desperately on empty density, vast nothingness
Unknown, the ties wrapped around broken tree blooms
Holding on as to not drown down
Where no light bounces through anything refracted

Gold Lines

Stage

A heavy footfall on an empty stage
the canvas blank for the taking
sunken rope twisting round the grips
A linear tale told in the remembering

Gusts of stale air sinking slowly down
the lights now, the lights reflect off the plumes
and in the dusty, cobwebbed haze

a voice projected to the rafters
to the gods and the sinners who will hear
Token affections and dime-spun phrases
separate singularly between bleeding eyes
swords that will draw a picture perfect scene

Climb now, the anthill
Reach again, for the trees
The hare is hiding, and mother is hunting
for her babies, starving and blind

Bound by the stage, the universe intact
in imagination in sacrifice
the hands come dusting and the curtain drawn
with weeping flowers flying through the air

A drama unfolds in feigned reality
The backdrop a ruse
All the happy pretenders.
The stage, a plot to bury us under.

Bricolage Collage

Fury

six thousand jagged pieces
splintered
throbbing, robbing

the third eye
triangulating
the tree's roots spreading
underground round

slide down
the mountainside
make a mirror a magic tide

lift the skin until it
snaps back again

hear a familiar voice
on the invisible line
a crosshatch pattern in time

the gristle and grime
all the holy men have gone
to sleep

and in the shadows lurking
a silver tune bellows below
murmur in the chest

and the rest
a story for another day

burning the cinders
the fury and flame

pink black and braille

One after the other

The field is long enough to disappear
into the distance reaching the illusion of
the horizon, a golden hue

the sunlight paints the reeds
and hay wound tightly
is scattered across the land
one after the other

a splintered beam hangs off
the broken wooden fence in
need of mending
or the gentle strokes
of fresh paint

plowing through the thicket
feet stomping down footprints
in the soft upturned soil

heaving breath shooting out
under the pressure
move faster

all fall down in the fields
a chameleon's head turned
towards the heavens

eyes closing now
with another head
resting against
a chest

flying together towards the constellations