"I still get a thrill when I see a chipmunk
falling out of a chestnut tree, hoodwinked by life."
More Perihelion:
BobSward's Writer's Friendship Series
Aquick list to poets featured in this issue:
On the Anniversary of Your Death
[spoken]
Of phosphorous and lightning,
[sung]
Follow the screw-worm into the navel,
of God's Braille blessing,
of slanted whispers, of open
sores, of flowers opening,
of driving backwards, of breathing
blood, of driving bloody
in slippers, in slipshod,
in standing apart, of night
dropped, backdropped
night, of shame of
standing apart, of parting
never and always.
tug typhus from a wound using words
fallen into ink. How many horses go mad
from endless circularity, how many detours
on the road to never-ending? From the navel
springs a fig tree, nurturing numerologically.
Betrayal atop betrayal, two cameras
pointed at one another, infinite gaze.
Make it f-stop. Make the mirror-game
the real game, no game, game enough.
Endless circularity, thought thick as
an angel's hair, braid, cloth of always.
_______________________________________________________________
Trusted Messenger
A brain sliced in half
A house is a gallows,
Spiral forth, naked, blind. _______________________________________________________________
Graffiti
I live in the jungle at the edge of civilization.
gym near the hedgerow of realization;
my martinis, or, conversely, I goad
like, “I love the hubbub of a summer day,
I still get a thrill when I see a chipmunk
Though I’m disgusted with it myself.
as it used to. Take the painted desert:
eons to scrub away the wall-
crayoned like sorrowful trinkets
Where is truth? I’ll tell you:
for the rights of vines and weeds,
paper hats; truth is the man
along the seaway for the raised skirts
truth is the child who rides to town
for all things loathsome and abhorrent,
my winch-and-pulley, my wild, everlasting,
before collapsing, a crooked thatch
releasing sweet contagion into the air, _______________________________________________________________
and observed from above
resembles a drawing
of a tree.
a curse a hymnal.
Well, not quite. . . I live at the jungle-
that is, I have a goat that shakes
my shook-up friend, Martin, with phrases
the elixir of a widow in white stockings.”
falling out of a chestnut tree, hoodwinked by life.
Nature just doesn’t come as naturally
it would require a crew of journeymen
scrawl, the peacocks and milkweed
along the skyway––
truth is the woman who stands up
of birthday-boys stupefied beneath
who misinterprets the windy shoals
of the virgins of Santa Lucia;
on a fly-infested donkey, confessing his love
saying, “aha, there you are, my little Eskimo,
hydrogen-bombing genius of a simian,”
of tangled ivy, blossoms opening like wounds,
the jungle at the ledge of articulation.