A wet watercolor brush paints long sad images soaking into my skin,
coloring me dark shades of wonder. Face to knees, I ball sees nothing but blue shadows.
Final Cue Call
I stand naked on a stage of other actors.
Pointed jeers from single fingered hands…laughing emotions pushed forth to deeply penetrate my new skin.
Frozen in terror I act no more.
Curl over hiding private parts.
Eyes widely seeing twisted smile mouths.
Teeth sharply biting through self respect.
The dance of life has spun closed.
Sexual acts are film projections on blue skin, from blue movies, killing the final Dandelion sprout.
Seeds scatter white fluff into caves of dark hot wonder walls.
Other actors act their many lines.
My line, writ small, disappears below. . . .
Skip all the written stuff. Read only from the bottom of the page.
Tell me what line I need to read before the final cue call.
But we can frack them all otter here and live our lives in empty space.
The blockhouse views to the south
Understood as coming from the hearts
of workers. . .
High, but not like today.
Walk out on swaying beams Of steel
To help drive the human cattle
toward…cripple bandits, or . . .
is this the view from the bunker that shoots down our civilization, because we need to be bigger than the river that feeds moisture to our soft bellies. Bigger than the gods that brought down Greece. Bigger than the Christ.
Arm wrestling with god is for Popeye.
and the Gingerbread man set out to look for his god.
The sun is at my back…no matter.
Click Moves on the Tracking Walk
Because the Connecticut tracks point west, winding alongside the dust stream with arrowheads and moccasins.
Follow the Shadow People.
at packed sand.
at wolf tracks. . .
Or maybe a Raven bird pretending to be the butcher in the valley.
bird in the Draw.
Sharpens her beak on the red whetstones.
To slice a bit of ham for the wolf to follow.
And I wonder how it will all turn out if I just spin quickly into the sun
and catch them both laughing. . .
and sharpening (their wit) for to inherit the Earth.
Still havin’ fun
In the wind
WE be the Big Dogs.
butt it’s cold.
A photographer’s kitchen.
Dark as the devil’s den.
Pulling away the light.
Away from the capture
M E D I U M.
A spiral staircase,
an electric escalator
of tiny electrons
I N T E R F A C E.
A soft brush of light
Your retina rods
like Kansas wheat
storm that drives