Carbon

We watch the night sky, safe under its lights, reading a language of the night. Our hands fumble, circle as if in orbit, landing inside each other’s magnetic field. 

We whisper to one another in a planet’s dialect, built by a syntax of suns, stanzas that play between solar winds and the ultraviolet, poetry of passion and reaction.

And upon summers like this one, many readers like us have lain and will lie in the quiet, underling quotes of hot stars in a sticky cluster, a mingling of gravity and motion. 


Even at this remote position, far out on a limb of a galaxy, we know the shape of light, its means of flicker.

We accept that light is a fallible hydrogen, a spinning of stories, fiction, changing faster than longing, where denouements appear daily and relationships serve as catharsis.

Our simple act is a holding of hands, a close reading of one another, which may last for a second or for an entire space time continuum.

Our bodies move closer, clumsy, as if forever threatens to do away with us. We touch before daylight strips away our nakedness.

That’s when I let you kiss me.

I laugh with the universe in my lips.

 

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Romancing The Drought

Rib Cage

The mountain, hip bone of earth, shoots down a dry, hot wind 

Rattles the skeleton city, held together by a series of pins and plastic cartilage.

 

We hang refrigerators, like art, In our bedroom windows 

Who rattle clumsy tunes, instrumentals, transposing the fever of a ragged daze.

 

Between sheets of sea, in our urchin shells, we carve coolness into the shape of ocean waves 

And sleep with mountain ranges wrapped around each other.

 

More photos here.

Ghost Story For The Wilderness Impaired

Slough Reflection
Timothy Lake July 2018

She’s a ghost. I know that. She brushes her fingers along my shoulders and I will look up to find her playing among the trees, pretending to be the wind. She’ll drop a pinecone or a small branch as a reminder. Then, off she goes to the deeper part of the forest where I can’t follow. She laughs. I can’t hear it, but I know she’s laughing.

This spirit of hers doesn’t frighten me. But there are times when the forest is as still as death. It’s upon these moments, in silent life, when I look behind me on the trail and shudder in my aloneness.

She returns, that’s what ghosts do, with her sound, a rustling, a stirring, a theme she buries deep inside me. Its tune reminds me that I’m also a ghost. At times, this makes me sad, to know I’m as invisible as her, but it’s her way of empowering me, to haunt. I can’t help but to be…a ghost.

I can tell you this one thing. It’s the only thing I really, really know. If you listen, you will also know you’re a ghost. Even when you’re in the middle of nowhere, look up, and see a jet leaving contrails high in the sky, above the wilderness, without making a sound.

 

 

Searing Times

Inside a burnt tree. More photos here.

I wish I could dance in this wind. But its heat wilts me, keeps a dull, slight fever about my skin. I feel it drags everything into a blur, the flora, the fauna, the restless water, the dry grass. There’s so many separate lawns being watered in the midst of this drought.

 I await the first flirt of coolness, a gift from the ocean, when the wind tugs at my hand and compassion soothes the baked streets, the overdone frenzy.

 

Frankenstein

Timothy Lake

We think the river a wild beast, amok, tilling a path in soil.

But it’s us—in another form, searching for a mate who can only be made in our own image.

 

We slow the stream, to a reservoir’s pulse, in hope to drink reflections—until the end of our days.

 

Yet, days are a slight of hand, manmade lakes, built, so we can sing to the photogenic current.

Stilled, captured in a portrait

Touched, retouched, retold