Monthly Archives: October 2013

In nothing, but books

I hear the voices, when you crack the spine
from page to page, the clouds hold out the blue
of skies that start as clear to him as you.
In novels written out and underlined,

Author dreams come spilling forth to grow
stories from the soul to please her whim
from seeds her index finger plants for him
in different climes, contrary row-by-row.

A hero’s man, no less a vagabond
the mistress wholely anxious in her soothe
neither seeking love or much ado;
yet, the words conspire to spur them on.

and love peeks in, then crawls out from its shell
with tales of kings and queens and breaking spells.


heartfelt, kind words,
warm as soup,
is it wrong to want it in a mug
instead of a bowl?

Whether to go left or right instead of up,
down in error of back.
or crab crawl, in lock step
for a beautiful formation
cooked down from the least combination
of ingredients,
ladled out of your mind.

conclude with the oyster crackers from a
cellophane packet that you crinkled
and tossed away.

in that way, you can travel
and warm your hands in the cold
sipping as you need it,
and walking slow,
the people around you
ascend the streets.


The concept
is really simple, where
the addition of them
opens a language that
otherwise stumbles in silence,
As a simple “why ?”
infuses the sunlight and breeze
to rattle the trees in reply.

Yet without sound,
with eyes alone,
that creates a chasm in its invocation.
and, just as quickened,
closes a gap in response
between lovers,
with an embrace,
but no words,
and silence fulfilled.


Shimmered metal,
-as curiousity-
sets into motion,
agitates the dust
and ascends a mountain
because challenge told it to.

a distant voice inspired
a click and whirr,
to go and meet the mountain
on a singular path,
once side winding then inclined.
ever moving, but when complete,
and turned to face
the horizon of red, a being might stand in triumph
-arms raised-
and shout for hills to cry out
with sound!

waves that intrude
upon the desolate solitude
separated by 34 million miles
of loneliness – a vacuous truth.

it blinks.


I’ve noticed that the
majority of visitors
to my blog have no real
place to call home in this universe,
this internet.
-they are phantom and leave no trail-
perhaps they move
from place to place
just looking for rest.

I see the bedding areas
that deer make, but I never see them
actually there,
just crushed ryegrass and swamp oats
pressed in ovals.