Groping
An ink stain appeared on the sand,
as if a cuttlefish was spitting fear;
the stain grew swallowed rocks,
wrote pages on the sea, opened
an immense ink pot where seagulls, boats,
deck chairs, umbrellas and the same sun sank.
It then burst and concealed us in blackness.
We grope in the dark, brush our sticky hair
looking in a blind mirror,
"and make a welcome of indifference". *
T. S. Eliot ( From the Waste Land)
Waiting for the guests to arrive
The entrance to the exhibition
The Exhibition room
A bit closer to the panels. There were four with images front and back, and additional two smaller panels.
A small selection of what the buffet offered
Because of the seismic waves
we hide now in fragments'humming
vibrations, watch the street lights pulsing
along the night's backbone, wait.
Wait for the crust on faces to crack,
reveal what's rotten behind
our painted eyes, wait
for the new murder-into-days to begin.
Harder than Dying
She was there, lying under a veil of sand
sprayed by wind brushes; her mouth dry,
her body, a bony hourglass.
I knelt and dug deep, reached dune roots,
palmed water from a tiny pool, poured
drops to soothe her thirst.
But she refused to drink; I lay down,
close to her -- on her skin, sinking and expanding
in a transparent lake, I saw a reflected oasis
waiting.
I wrote this for NaPo, but I am growing fond of it and will work on it. Also grateful to Vicente Huidrobo whose chant IV I imitated.
Winter-Summer Chant
There is no time to lose
it's the time of the monobird
that joins disjointed distances
birding the bird flies
at the horiland of the scapezon
the robday of inlight
comes close
crosses the ninghtindark in galeness
look as it comes
the robired
the nightinbrown
the robichild
the nightingal
the robiwind
the nightinbreeze
the robirhyme
the nightinfree
The robiwinter mourns his twiddle-oo-twiddle
withdraws his red chest
buries it in the warm nest
far from the orgiastic xmas sylphids
and then comes the nightinsummer
cocking her head
blotting phone lines and twigs
with long melodious notes
sunsets stir and stretch their blushing faces
over treetops burning with fever
Yet we prefer the robingale
his beloved child the robinsquall
her skin of tears the nightinplea
her nectar throat the nightingigolo
the nightinrogalebin
Michael Kimball, gifted novelist, published his third novel.BR
Congratulations, Michael; proud to call you friend. BR
Below, the interesting and well created book trailer made by Luca Dipierro and Rachel Bradley, of Black RArrow Studio.
Daylight Saving Time
Early this morning darkness stirred and released
her first edition of the weather's new policy ---
birds move to new locations riding
the longer spikes of light; winds cool
down to give room to violet-scented breeze;
late opening hour for stars
(They'll gasp longing for the night tide).
Ghosts will be imprisoned and guarded
by dreams -- with their shields
forged and strengthened by sun's hammers,
they will protect us
when the night's round mouth gnaws
consciousness into a black puddle.
