acraein

We Bought the Flood -The Books
The triangles on the skin of my hand
match the triangles I drew in the sand
they separate and recreate
and turn into all of the thoughts that I had.
My mind’s eye dilates and I evaluate
each image as it fluctuates, dissipates,

and is gone.
along with the rust and the salt.

I’ll take a ride on some lonesome planet. and let my thoughts sail like warm winds blowing east and up and out into the darkness, and light the sky, glowing northern light, shimmering in the cold brittle air.

Focus, Focus.

image: Raj Hanchanahal Photography

Hypermagic – San Fairy Ann

the tree against a setting sun is the roots of a bean plant growing against a clear plastic glass is the bristles of a brush of horse’s hair is the tip of a cattail swaying in the winds of a low-lain wetlands is natural as all talking sideways and upside down where i get a picture but not a panoramic and it’s only part told is looking though the keyhole of doors that don’t exist and smelling the rub of unpolished brass green with the age of water and grime of hands that grab one another and put things up and take things down and occasionally does things with care like a clockwork worker laying pictures all out in a row of the grandkids he never knew like a stain on the carpet doesn’t know its outline before it’s set is the birthmark on your foot that’s the shape of a duck setting on a pond of algae leaving trailing tails is the tail of a meteor shedding skin in the night sky is a backdrop of milk sewn on black velvet smooth like the white peach fuzz thick and thin alike and i never know the words you mean all doublespeak and doublethink.

Moby – 7

Birth and death coincide with one another, and today there were both. Both in the lost and found. A broken car, a lost job, and the end of one. Life is a funny thing, always cracking jokes, leering the whole way. So who says a thing lost can’t also be a birth? A lost path in these woods means a new path is tread.

I remember the quiet days of kids.
Jumping in puddles mud between my toes.
Feel the hug of red red sun on my lids.
Tin can telephone, pushed too close, cut nose.
The games we’d play with paint and with paper
I always thought life would last forever
Young full of awe, never saw it taper
Till I look back I lost all life’s fervor.
The path I took was not the one I plot.
The past filled with nothing, blind memories.
The dreams of mine were not easily got.
Fell on something not in my fantasies.
I stand and wear my pressed black two piece suit.
I do the things you think I ought to do.

image:Geert Orye