Salt the Earth

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Photo by Jonas Dücker

On my lips

the beginning of a name

ransacked by shadow

before its breath was drawn.

 

Sunlight scatters on the wind,

prismatic sprays of receding

ash that carry us far, far

from its expectation.

 

Distance, the stars whisper,

is measured by the sacrifice

of the named, until none

need heart, weightless and alone.

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Fae Things

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Care of Shutterstock.

On the moonstruck branch

he alights, a note pouring out

into the aether, each green year

passing into the song which nurtures.

 

Rooted in the changeling soil

he sleeps away the stiffness

of a beating heart, triumphant

in the spilling deep.

 

Autumn is a dance of mushrooms

binding oaths until midwinter

steals the complexity of life

and he must find his humors elsewhere.

Scenes on the Wind

20160727_192955There are no subways in Michigan

we write them off for Eastern fare

wind in our hair

lamenting the deathly slumber

of four-wheeled streets.

 

Meanwhile no one

listens to the rain

our souls spatter on the lakes

in the buzzing wake

of another ghostly tale.

 

The sun shines

on the creaking creep

of golden dunes

swallowing our memories year by—

imagination, drifting

 

over the gulls and with the wolves

reach for the hands that raised

skyscrapers spearing sky

alone in Detroit

longing for the city.

Never Say Never, Space Cadets

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Photo by NASA on Unsplash

Let’s take a moment to address the state of affairs which led me to take up these auspicious dares—true, the speech might yet be dubbed a pipe dream dragged up from my very seams, but in the depth of sleep I found and knew the world and hid it oh so deep. It lay somewhere past the quasar, strummed and strung out like an old sitar; a Sirius look, it held, one rendered of imperious intent but, by and large, stood nothing less than deliriously under bowed heads and thick craniums, but with none of the internal fortitude of titanium. It stood inverted to me, like the eyes of the perverted crowd looking out at me—which is to say, looking in so deep they like to think they’re taking a peep, but amidst all the scorching oxygen and vacuum flow, it’s been withered under the blow by blow until it’s nothing but a magnification of our own stratification, and the rub, well, the rub friends is that the future’s based upon a flub—that just because the light blurs out into forever, that we might endeavor to learn the word never—

Never to Cry

Never to Lie

Never to Die

When in truth there comes a time we’ll see the state we’ve set upon a dime, and find ourselves with no choice but the bow of grace, and drift away into sweet empty space.

The Great Wall

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Photo by Baher Khairy

Laid end to end

Sartre’s bones

constitute the mortar

 

of our allegorical wall

martyred concrete

filling the gap

 

between mortality and

obscurity by repetitious fame

stacking high the shadows

 

empty sockets cast

on nameless trenches, moats

long ago stormed

 

but never held;

by dusk they’ve lost the words

to ending plastic patriarchy

 

leaving them with the bleakness

bonemeal’s philosophy extends

across the consciousness of the world.

The Garden or the Flower

By Luis Camacho
Photo by Luis Camacho.

Bewilderment begot Death’s remorse

a flower, wilting in the cup of hands

flesh made against the source

as the prince, in all his

benevolence sang,

I would give for you

a garden, love, if only you should bear

those tears with silent devotion.

She looked on its gold, its promised names

of flowers not yet birthed

but as she wept she turned away

to reside among the fields:

for in that gloried cage she knew

no place for petals time had stolen

no roots in which its name might roost.

Passing Fancies

By Cam Adams
Image by Cam Adams

Today

today

is always the day we lose our way.

 

Constricted verbosity

like moss on a rolling stone

gathers

syntax

articulation

on which to fly.

 

Twerked tics

swarm characters.

 

Beyond the light

blind men hack

at their roots

focused on the shorter road

not the forest sound.

Color: the Hell you Say?

The sight of memory is gray like a morning fog;

it whistles and it rustles where it shuffles by

toward that snowy countenance we call a tunnel.

 

The sight of memory is her tanned thighs parting

to the man with scarlet hands and Rudolf nose,

there in the yellowing deck of fallen leaves

we, in grassy youth, called our home.

 

Poor woman, her own sight bitten by the pallid dog—Time.

 

I can still remember the tar behind the scream

when the ocean froth carried me away.

Rain, rain, orange in our dusk departure

from sensory deprivations rainbows left behind.

 

The sight of memory is royal in the velvet swell

of new springs, rooted in fresh earth our toes dug up

when heart and mind planted rouged foundations

against the gnawing whisper: Sienna’s a bastard color, anyway.

Ascendant Moon

Legs dangling

the dominance

of the Palace of the Moon

stirs ripples

in the night sky

our star stuff spilling

into the Milky Way

with our shoes off

dipping our toes

into cascade

of lovers’ hearts

we’re at the edge

we are the return

gilded surfaces

of molten rock

hiding

our Beginning.