Elan Mudrow
Smidgens
Mnemosyne
Her arm, a light porcelain, marbled with a series of veins and arteries. Sometimes she thinks she’s cold, a stone. She takes a sacred bath, a bit too warm for many, candles burning messages into her sweat, to see through the cold, if she wants to. She knows that spheres from the furthest reaches are born from heat, sandwiched inside a cold vacuum. Our sun maybe different. No one knows for sure, it plays pranks on us. Fires look the same but are built of independent flames. Words are there and she wonders if they’re written or spoken, both? Thamus listens to her and will never forget her. Thoth writes her notes down in secret. Neither are good students of love.
I touch her arm, press lightly and gaze at the indents I make.
(Prairie falcon feather. Image taken where it was found. Click to enlarge.)
Dab Of Warmth
There are mild spots between winter’s beating of grayness
Where breaths, in ease, are breathed…gloves are placed in pockets or lost on streets of snow
Mixed in that scattered brown batter of orphaned leaves.
The sun appears as a stranger, speaking a forgotten tongue, yet familiar tone
Trying to place a lull on the ceaseless movement of cars slicing through premature melt
Inviting the city to meditate between weather systems.
Only the north wind, that magician, retains a fierce spell, stinging lips of a spring kisser…
Who…hushed…awaits the requite of warmth.
Undercurrents
How leaves lie around his house…placed, as if in a certain order.
How the sky is colorless above his roof, matching the freeways.
The only chance for him to see color and chaos is the sea
But the ocean is forbidden inland, its heavy hand sits off shore.
So, waves curl upon themselves, tucking him inside his room
Where his body…a frequency, has a levy built around it
Softening the sound of clearness, roughening his outer crust
Into manipulations so silent even he doesn’t know their tide tables.
How the house deflects rain, black and white upon impact.
How leaves are secretly switched without regard to the trees.
The only chance for him to have depth is found in the forest
But today it’s a dull red, dried blood, a dust-filled breath.
The trail… overgrown, hushes thoughts, especially his own.
He can’t hear himself, so he can’t hear others, deaf leaf.
He fumbles amongst mud puddles, hunting his reflection
But he can only see his river as a frozen image, devoid of moisture.
How his house fights the sky, but clouds repeat soft rhythms.
How the wind knocks ceaselessly on his door, he cannot hear it.
(Click on image to enlarge-Underneath Lower South Falls, Silver Falls State Park)
Openness
Shining from its source, from out a promising window.
Birds fly into the glass.
(Trust can’t be a construct, it’s wild.)
Resonate
Click on image to enlarge.
Taken at Cattus Island County Park, N.J. in November 2018.
Thinglewart
So true, so true Thinglewart is blue
And who knew, who knew, what to do?
For Thinglewart is a preposterous pest
Indeed he wears a stiff, starched vest
No stretchy, stretch for Thinglewart ever
Just keeps on shoveling shit ‘til never
‘Til the sky turns puke and poops all over
‘Til rain’s cut short by a stinky gas mower
He once lived in the Kingdom of Koove
Where ladies and parasites wiggled and moved
There Queen Wishuwell offered him a job
Collecting mumbleweeds whole or by the gob
But he refused and said he would rather scratch dirt
For Lady Whatmethink wanted it for her skirt
So off to the high Dirtclod mountains he went
Until he gathered enough soil like a knocky-head gent
When the night started to dim and blinky blink
Thinglewart returned looking for Whatmethink
But she had ran off with a cute sewer rat
Who promised eons of unwashed chitchat
So Thinglewart sits silent, nose to the road
Where frogs dance and imitate horned toads
Cursing at cars, fucks, and trucks plus more
Thinglewart has become grim as the pink moors
Then a spy named Fry just happened to walk by
Overheard Thinglewart, sigh, sigh and sigh
Asked Thinglewart to join the secret Snoots
About love and dirt they didn’t give a hoot
So Thinglewart thought this a pretty good deal
Off he followed Fry to a hideout called Spiel
There he took the oath of the sacred Snootology
Then they celebrated, underneath the topology
Fry toasted sad Thinglewart with rare weasel juice
Thinglewart began to cry like a baby grass moose
The Snoots had a scheme all wrapped in evilness
Was named by Fry the Great Unexpectedness
To get rid of Queen Wishuwell was the big plan
And her icky boyfriend named Sir Gurr Fryingpan
They would attack when the moon went Buffoon
Yellow and swirly with wrinkles like a prune
Only by darkness would they inchy, slip, slip
To give Sir Gurr and Wishuwell hurty fat lips
But Thinglewart had a soft place in his noggin
The queen had been nice and a little bit awesome
He snuck through the muck, back to the Koove
Finding Gurr and Wishuwell dancing to a groove
He tried to tell them, but they were in no mood
Sir Gurr accused him of being a crude rude dude
Thinglewart was jailed in the tower called Fuzz
For Sir Gurr was a meany, that’s what he does.
So true, so true Thinglewart is blue
And who knew, who knew, what to do?
For Thinglewart is a preposterous pest
Indeed he wears a stiff, starched vest
No stretchy, stretch for Thinglewart ever
Just keeps on shoveling shit ‘til never
‘Til the sky turns puke and poops all over
‘Til rain’s cut short by a stinky gas mower
Chapter Two
Thinglewart’ s not alone in the tower
He’s inside with Sir Blastingcap Chowder
Chowder had worked to get out of tower
Diligent, built foam wings hour by hour
He built sets of cute fuzzy arms for two
Jumped out the window, floating up, it’s true.
Thinglewart attached the other set to his arms
Chowder floated, he couldn’t come to harm
But as soon as he jumped Thinglewart fell
Very slowly, like a flying giant gazelle
Chowder bumped into a sweeping loon
She swatted him with her feather broom
Foam slipped off Chowder’s skinny arms
He started to tumble, Thinglewart was alarmed
Chowder fell smack dab back into the tower
Bouncing off layers of foam, laughing, not even sour
To be continued? Well, we’ll see
Thinglewart’s a bit private you see
He doesn’t like unnecessary chatter
He says it’s not good for the bladder
He only talks after a wee bit of juice
Then his tongue, it comes loose.
Circuit Tree
Daily images uploaded on Instagram. Follow @undeciduous on Instagram.
Flection
With each leaf a face of dryer future falls reflects the prolonged fixing and fiddling of limb and ground.
I step cautiously, hearing you beneath my shoe. Upon your spine, I search for strength.
Your breath crumples with a sound of what was and is to come; an aging, mingled with every smaller wobble of the globe.
Lovers never smile when they have fallen ,always look for spring as redemption until the rain disappears.
Wind carries your face adrift. Dust is never far.
If my blood could wake you, I would let you suckle my salty oil until bees’ lips turned red.
If my wet mouth quenched you, I would kiss you with sugar saliva until your skin revives.
But there’s so many who fell like me.
I can’t caress the world back to fresh buds or even hold it safe within my drying veins.
Flowers run rampant in the meadow. Beetles and caterpillars hang on for life.
I swear the swiftness of the planet’s spin sends petals flying.
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