New Field

The couch, empty, let out a sigh. It had been a long week and this was its final shift. A man emerged, sat, stood, a woman, up, down slide along its spine. Their naked bodies hammeered the couch into a box and the box into our minds. But we weren't here for the play. We were here for the party.

Outside, Jessica stopped me and tore off her shirt. Never one for clothes I was hardly surprised until she turned to reveal her back. Battered and bruised, it oozed. She'd been used and abused. Her spine broken then fused.

Is this what it takes?
To part the real from the fakes?
I hope not; she shakes.

what if

Sometimes paint, pen, and poetry all seem to be one artistry. If that's the key for me to see I'll happily pursue the three.

but what if it's not?

The artist everyone keeps talking about

Self-Doubt bordered by delusions of grandeur. Incessant urges to paint then photograph, write then film. Rejection of societal expectations; footwear, hygiene, money. Fuck money. I'll sleep in my car. Masochistic? Broken bones remind me of life. Illusions rise and recede with each breath. The deep ones I hold an extra moment. On exhale faux bois vases holding evergreen limbs melt quickly. Remember the stars and the astronauts and the narrow space between? It was a hop while you crawled, a leap when you stood, and the faster you run the smaller they become. You're heading the wrong way on a spherical world. Stop one second and don't think. That's your problem.

fall

september brings september.

untitled

words are hurdles,
descriptions walls,
judgements oceans,
that separate

us from us

illusory

slowly

i realize that time
and speed
are:


illusions.

memory

i remember
what i've never known,
but always been.