Opal Pool

Photo by Elan Mudrow
Photo by Elan Mudrow

The roads are so young

Where old mines have been forgotten.

They stumble through the forest

Uneven, full of ruts, washouts.

Men have come with tools

Left them, returned with better.

Implements that shine silver

Rust resistant, until rains never stop.

The goal is to cut clean, to sprinkle

Shaped earth, decorating the contours

Of river, pools, and growth.

We, the ones, who yell along trails

Echoing off ancient volcanic movements

Slip five dollars

Inside an envelope–

license plate number–

Scrawled in human–

Bleached white envelopes–

Connect with the eerie reflection

Of how we carve, paint, sing, make roads–

And yes, the art of the outhouse.

The parking lot must be made bigger

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Awake

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Tuned into the silent bloom

Of thought….. caught

Inside an act of noise

Inside the caress of the orchid

Inside the rejection of the hyacinth

Lovers’ insomnia, a midnight language

Speaks to us in a dead lip sync,

Which is a haunting by voice

A death that communicates

Where only shapes speak……ghosts

For they know us by our lives,……however…

The living isn’t allowed to know ghosts

For our fleshy hearts are tethered to a whirl

External to the internal and out again

Only to be knocked down in the midst

Of clocks, mistuned, marked by the soft grasp

Of the unsteady continuum, linear kissing

Perhaps that was our mistake…for

Cruel are the stars, planets are dumb

We are shots through blackness

Cylindrical tubes of blood and bone

protected by a thin celluloid

A playback of memories

All sleep vanishes