Curling at the Edges

(A blast from the past. Now with full audio.)

Roiling at the seams

in browned spots

the print, smeared

still holds flecks of the image

the profile was meant to be.

 

Lower, still

the ageless quality of a tree

rising from the hunched cranial

(let us admit: too large) cavity

rooted in the faded flesh

our fingerprints

 

so gently blurred;

without a stream to drink from

it curled and devoured

the paper that gave it breath.

Perhaps, even, its branches

would die to give us this moment.

 

I have heard it called quaint,

our gentle hording

of a memory,

 

but the thoughts that resurrected

the flesh beyond those roots

was once quite dear

though without the stream

it rippled free into distortion

like the beating of a dream

 

of a drum, of a thought;

the water carried me away

one day

rootless under the surface

with nothing but the edges

of a curling notion.

Psalms She Sang

She stands with the leaves

gathered about her knees like piling waves

receding back to the rocky side of the driveway,

fingers tinted the same sacred blue as the sky.

 

Trees have bared themselves for her

and she stops her labor to watch

September’s cold flicker on their boughs,

palms open to the sky.

 

Spires tinged amethyst, reaching

for the puckered kiss which taunts

the picture of an impatient smile

black flies harrow.

 

I remember stepping off the porch

slim light trails in the rainbow mess of symbols

which sought to scream her precarious footfalls on fresh earth,

She and I, and the setting sun.

Self-Destruction

Self-Destruction

Shadow in the light

the fawning eyes to name

casting bones and scrubbing runes

not for shaman by the same

but for pretentious by its game.

Belief in self

twisted, twined, no longer paramount

a confession of the eyes

we named a pedestal of no account—

a devil’s playground at the fount.

Drifting through the gravel

the hero left to solace of the sand,

a world boxed in by seeds of its devotion

the drifting ides of foreign hand

hemmed us into falling land.

Curling at the Edges

Roiling at the seams

in browned spots

the print, smeared

still holds flecks of the image

the profile was meant to be.

 

Lower, still

the ageless quality of a tree

rising from the hunched cranial

(let us admit: too large) cavity

rooted in the faded flesh

our fingerprints

 

so gently blurred;

without a stream to drink from

it curled and devoured

the paper that gave it breath.

Perhaps, even, its branches

would die to give us this moment.

 

I have heard it called quaint,

our gentle hording

of a memory,

 

but the thoughts that resurrected

the flesh beyond those roots

was once quite dear

though without the stream

it rippled free into distortion

like the beating of a dream

 

of a drum, of a thought;

the water carried me away

one day

rootless under the surface

with nothing but the edges

of a curling notion.