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

 

 

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Vulnerability

Only through our vulnerabilities  

Can we speak of ourselves

Where no genders build language

Where no categories structure

Your reaction to my voice…..

My reaction to your voice.

Either of us can be the words

Slicing into the coolness

Of our combined angers…..

Of our singular gentleness

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

Seeing

kalemba by William Santiago
kalemba by William Santiago

My eyes can only look outward.

They seek, witness, and search

No singular thoughts of their own

Catching movement and color

Concentrating on sound sources

Sorting light and darkness

Outside binary restraints

Transmitting their way

into an inner vision

Processed with thought

Mixed with a wrinkling of the brow

A flutter of lashes, a blink.

These sights compacted

Into image decisions, imagination

Facts and fabrication

An arrangement of details

Strings of incidents

Missed, found and realized

 

So much have I entrusted

To their capabilities of capturing

Life into a collection of slides

Time squeezed into perception

Frozen cubes of memory

Distorted by the recurring frosts

Floods, and droughts

That have passed before them…yet

I am one with their innate faculty

While I’m aware

They swim in fluidity.

I am dependent upon

A constant act of focusing

 

I ask if you trust my voice

With such eyes as I have?

Can I tell you of beauty?

For my representations

Can only amount to

An anthology of my own

Seeing

 

Now, as I have before

Watch your lips move

As the sound of your story

Reaches my eyes