Voices On A Screen

There are Other voices, which you are part of, yet separate

Those Other voices are filled within you, with their weight of coarse speech and their calluses that form upon your whispers, where empathy is a gesture gained and lost at the tip of fingers. Forgiveness is a motion of the air.

Those voices have years rubbed into you, your stripped throat rests for breath, transcriptions of your representation are tumbles, veering, slips of the tongue, loose like clay, then formed, dried, solid.

Those Other voices are differing tones of speech, a music, singing is flesh. They dance in the dissonance of tomorrow’s word search. Key words twist. Fonts waltz in the shape of the living. You are printed, faxed, fallen, risen within voices, as you chant, now, in front of me.

They move, they are moved, they have been moving, we become consonant

.

 

Advertisements

I Used To Swim The River

Columbia River Gorge, December 2017

I remember swimming against your current, only to find myself stuck, muscles not strong enough to make progress. I learned to swim with you.

I remember heading for your deepest channels, where the big ships travel, catching large wakes. Your cautions were always whispers. I learned to hear you.

I remember bumping into sandbars, frightened, thinking I had swum into a sea lion. You let me feel the gritty sand in my hands and upon realizing what it was, I stood upon those sandbars, acting like I was walking on water. No one noticed, except for you and me.

I’ve lain upon your shores in the heat, where your gritty beach stung my bare feet. I searched for the softest sand and a tall shrub to shade myself. Overheated, your kiss, a cooling, minute wade.

I sang songs about you as a child, taught to me in schools smelling of waxed floors. Songs of commerce, soul, and lives. Those melodies still swirl about you and me, as do their themes.

You’ve seen me reflect upon you with lover’s eyes from on top the gorge. Countless reflections. Your expression is so vast, few grasp its content. Yet, you and I know, all who look will reflect.

 

 

 I’m sorry our dust has been kicked up high and settles down inside you. I no longer swim. I hope you can forgive me.

Kiss (Portrait 11)

The streets at night shimmer under the emerging, movement of streetlights. It’s the tree limbs that cause their action. Above them, wires stretch into an evolution of light and dark.

Of course, that’s where we kiss. Where else? And it’s a damn good smooch. One of those that fits like two pieces of a puzzle, like it’s meant to be.

That’s when I hear you say, “These streets are like our bones, drawn to one another, making a map, an illuminated grid.” You get a scared-like look on your face, as if you said something weird. You did, but I like it.

Then chaos……… the shots ring out. I’ve heard them all my life. Some people live their lives to be snipers. But this bullet is no different than the others, hitting me in the head, the heart as well. I know what they’re made out of, nothing but misdirection…….yet…still…..tonight……..part of me lies dead on these living streets.

We’re looking at the body, my body. I don’t deny I’ve been hurt….hurt for good. I carry my death around. Always have……… I say, “Bury the body.” We dig deep. Our purpose is ……no one will find out this dimension is a drive-by shooting, quick, violent, darker than irony, lighter than a paradox. For tonight, we kiss in the streets.

I kiss you again when the gunfire is but smoke and I swear the streets turn luminescent. Bullets are cold compared to us. I feel as if I will climb the streetlights to string wires. When the sun rises, I will invent phosphorescence. Tomorrow night, we will kiss in the streets.

Cerealized

Cerealized

We stretch what is real

Until it fits the way we feel

If we don’t think it’s right

We’ll let it soak overnight

Where dreams of our wishes

Are full of strange dishes

Then, in the morning we awake

To find reality can’t be faked

So, it’s back to the top we go

We’re artists, didn’t you know?  

 

 

Page Turner

Breaking Confinement

 

Ask a poet for a page turner,

She’ll offer you a page

That can’t be turned

 

We tend to view life as  linear , as a series of events. Like art, it has depth.

 

Your happiness is a craft that travels within no time restriction.

Your sadness is only one measurement among an infinity of calculations.

When looking at life or art, there’s more to it, 

Than the appraisal of time.