Prussian Blue

Excerpt

Not So Much

I evaded capture today
with only a handful of dust
to escape that Old Sandman Death.

Certainly, those maroon berries,
so large & luscious,
crowded on their fat stems
had something to do with it
as did the ground fog
leaving its burrow as so many boll-weevils
their crowded nests.

And there might be something to the fact
the moonlight sat
fat & confidant in the night sky
as surely
as my head rests on this pillow
and the poem invites itself
into my lair of thoughts,
much as nestlings charge the
entrance to the runway
of a tree.

I walked flat out
in an instance
as standing urine
held its own stench
and the grim splash within the pond
dead center in the wilderness
underscores the tone of this warning.

One thought encapsulates wonder
though suggestive evil hides
leaden leaves buried in lake mud
down the corner eaves of someone's
fire hydrant mind.
When you pray for someone
an Angel sits on their shoulder,
when that same someone hates you
does that Angel die of grief?

Serendipity is a flower
and those clouds
re-arranging the breeze
harbingers of forbidden things
not so much like these boulders
use hand-held scissors to open twilight
and watch this fading light ebb forth
tip-I-toe like a bird
squeezed thru an opening
in its cage.

More fragment of tree
than serpent
clothed in wet
he mirrors me
bedraggled in stone
cloak or so it seems
this cavernous ledge coven.

Is he witch's totem
swimming at yard's length
I can web reach him
startling darts of rain
cutting lagoon's edge
this sedge & eel grass dragon.

Lithuanian Dolls/Consulate Front

These eyes of dolls seem leaden stones
not canisters of the Faith
but cannon-balls engraved
in tome-like stares so much
waxen shapes, these dust cloths
& spidery webs.

Dolls with eyes stare
lidless & forlorn
such eyes are cracks
minden shapes or basement eves
hogans of the human form.
I'm interested in the priapic
silence of such dolls—their
indolent aura in time
one long amber twilight
& the results are in
the shadows have produced twins
...hazy silhouettes rough-housing
in the dark, come passing headlights
although the stampede of noises
affects nought.

Ticker-tape & collage
in quick thick barrage
these lonesome dolls
slouching half-pinned
in their stalls—
a cat transcends crouching his spine
then pelvic thrusts and tableaux change.

People are divisive, dolls less so.
the dolls know nothing of that.

If brains be gables & minds, say, the shutters
in a derelict New England Mansion
then intuition is in the
eaves & casements
the well-springs seeping into turrets & cupolas
of all other nether spaces.

These big, wide entrances are ourselves in all their splendor,
notwithstanding the Winchester Mansions
or Vanderbilt Estates where our
very personalities are laid bare
see antics give rise to attics
feed in onto themselves
where the Astor's of our alter-egos
are resplendent in rich pride of self
longing to manifest in lavish architecture
so redolent of wealth
yet see-sawing in, squabbling
their thread-bare servant quarters
where murderous passions
bare dingy walls and where stained,
yellowing wallpaper is harbinger to
further heart-felt quarrels &
what is unspeakable, gilded and more....