Weeds reaching and clinging
as mud is divided
and chopped up
into chunky canal bottom lines.
It’s like a tractor
toiling the fields,
except it’s not,
it’s underwater
and more serious.
More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
The sun sets over the Atlantic ocean
it all depends on your point of view
no matter how many bibles you thump
top secret documents cannot be
refuge for botched clandestine acts
before this war there were wars
before this lie there were lies
history is full of unfamiliar people
selling us lies sending us to wars
when truth is known no surprise
the revolution will not be televised.
Captivity is slowly encroaching
into territory unknown
sand and quicksilver
slither into new dominion
unknown
Captivity helps to murder your own freedom
as waif-like leaves flutter
Breathing an inheritance
Living, existence
captivity erodes all wishes, drowns sorrows.
I willed your wound
to heal itself
in passing days,
petitioning
each silent exhalation
to rid you a little
of your hot grief,
to be swiftly slain
in cooling air
but you seemed
to inhale it again
in scalding gasps,
hour after solitary hour,
until it burned in you,
a bright phosphorous
rooting into flesh
and there was no way
I could push aside
the air and wind
and still
your gathering hurt.
I have no original thoughts in my head
even that idea is something that I read
I plagiarize from every possible source
favoring mostly the obscure of course
I never grow tired of being admired
without an original thought in my head
I can’t recall what it was that I said.
I love linen
Lemonade even more
Hot day in the city
It beholds all that summer is
Languid and humid
With a gentle breeze to cool
The wrinkles complete the story
Move slow
Wear shades
Float
The river never said
keep open floodgates,
waves
dwellings and inner caves
I am a trap
voice of consummation
The river never said,
waves eat me
caves trespass me
my paths wounded
so well hounded
by men in dens of fantasy
the love of rhapsody
water lapping
waves overlapping
fish swimming
headless motion,
lacking direction
The river said:
beat me into pulp of
serfdom
voiceless kingdom.
some journals pay
with contrib copies
— a whole slew
of lambent art
covers and typeface
baby punch
Dali designs
some ask love
of the craft pittance
I’ve shelled a
few times to
further the starved
cause,
compare apples
to oranges,
pass around
at writers guild
meetings
some journals
only
blow PDF kisses
— printer ink
and Post Master
the beast
with two backs
More at http://wlc-wlcblog.blogspot.com/.
Past midnight and in my book the story takes flight
The characters have all found their seats, checked
Their luggage, stowed their carry-ons overhead
And are settling in, this is the red-eye, non-stop
Coast to coast, crossing time zones, flying so high
This late that no one can hear it or see it, but it’s
There, going where the pilot wants, the author
Imagined so much, brought them all on board, and
I’m along for the ride, a stowaway hidden away in
The luggage or wheel well, a bit cramped, crowded
By their baggage, eavesdropping when I can get
Close enough, feeling their lives go on around me
I want to be a bit player in all this, a flat character
Perhaps, a piece of the plot, assuming a role beyond
Just sitting here so late I’m way too tired to sleep.
The old man looks at his hands,
rubbing the back of one hand,
with the other,
reaching out for his beer,
he brings the foamy drink to his lips,
in the bar’s mirror,
our eyes meet,
feeling vulnerable,
I look away,
only in this bar to drink in solitude,
trying to get a grip on who I am,
and what I have become,
lost,
I drain the whiskey in silence,
the discovery already made.