September 24, 2014

the slow mint crawl of Mabon...

digital art by Catrin Welz-Stein ©

the apple was in the foyer

this nymph had guile
and uncertainty
for eyes

she was why
was dreaming again

the feed crop kept pouring
from the silo store
raining singularity streams
torrential grains pushed tame
forcing rock faces
high sided on a river valley
to cut their hair where
eroded names lock wet clay
pressure time with the way
wind moves things
in slow eventualities

I bellowed, nickered 
and squealed circles 
penning words, I spoke 
inside the quiet
of my incoherent 

I say things to myself

"damn, she's hot, 
how much distraction
is enough to make me forget 
how long had I been like this
where did I come from
how did I get here
am I the only one
who sees lucidly 
between white noise 
and particulates”

what brings haze
to cover my old house
my blushed disrepair 
and haints standing by me
the streets here are
a decidedly wayward cause
the gated community crowd
eternally wish for vaccines

I knew better than
to hold things so close
which is probably why
I went mad
every bovine, equine
and porcine fable
every reconstruction
and assertion of wild
every necessity mortar,
hoard and brick-mimic
every civilization ever
in a lurch forward
could destine 
as its’ modernity

“don’t you mean lunch, sir?”

“no”, I say, smiling at the youngling

“today, is workweek burnout day
and everyone is vegetarian,
the delicatessens are closed
and a national bread and water
holiday has been declared,
parade wide wheel turns
and blackboards stretch
will wear us with dust
give semblance to regularity
we’ll know how much chaos
trips our trigger wires
sends us to places
with things we never
expected to possess”

 “you mean like endless
pumpkin spice things
to bleat an indication
of Autumn to all us massed
with our asses firmly planted
in a comfortable version
of a settled for life, sir?”


the youngling’s got it, I laugh
chortling and snorting
pushing the cut angel light
away from my eyes
as I wind the why
of myself further inside
this fantasy taste of her, I have
feasting on what seed she might be
beneath the flesh, blood and bone 
my square, compass and clock 
were building toward today