August 2013

	August 2013 Wrung Twice The Last October Paracosm Only Once that Morning Comes Angel Eyes Recaptured Machines of Dream Storm Wet Dancin' On the Wall -flower Sergeant Major - Priest	Wrung Twice The post came twice, a second engine droning on the lane. A Blue Moon of mail. John was surprised. Two letters from Sarah …on a Saturday. Next, he mused, it will be a day without rain.
Deciduous man, © Frank Pucini The Last October October is nigh you can feel the ghost in the back of your eyes, how its light will scatter, memories strewn in calamities of clatter a wind rising in crispy scales. October is coming despite the page on the wall, regardless of this oppressive heat. The sparrows are gathering pecking at the glass, susurrations of shadow smothering the light.	Paracosm Our taproot holds the soil with great fists. We pump them at the fickle sky, to the music in our loins. We shake them at the thieves, the weeds, that infest our DNA. Our heart warms the distant corners of the room, lights the wick of faith in one more day. The root stirs, The heart awakens once more. The mind can only shake its reasoned head.	Lavendar and Dew, © Souiki Only Once that Morning Comes It was a morning for lilacs heavy with dew, a dawn for freckles on noses and knees. Only once this morning comes. Light bent a little extra into the corduroy shadows, when aubergine is soft claret, when collard greens are a hot mess. It was that day in August when dreams are white-bright, their harvest’s promise pregnant in your arms. Only once that morning comes.
SD, © Luisbc Angel Eyes The shot is half full of golden glisten and scotch. The man on the stage has a demon in his saxophone, crying aching to walk your skin to break your tender heart. You could walk away but it feels too good to feel her again, to see those eyes in the mirror those blues just over your shoulder eyes with a smolder for you. Inspired by Angels Eyes, © Sonny Stitt	Recaptured I sat in the sand, sifting, drizzling the grains like a child trickles moments, the now, lost in my minutes of play. I shoveled ten seconds I plowed away forty years. All the while, As the tide crept in… As the sun slid to bed… We yawned, We smiled. A day recaptured.	Machines of Dream the Gulf is a ghost frothy and gray in this new moon dark trickling ashore casually from the veins of the world no urgency or tempest stirring in these bathwater tides. my trail will be gone come dawn no one will know that my feet or my heart lingered here. I will be a breeze with a whisper a grain tossed into the wind a murmur in your machines of dream.
Storm Wet Dancin' Grant Street is sliding their crawdads in cayenne, a salty creole darlin on your breath. Landreth is jamming, bourbon’s dancing in your eyes hushpuppies fryin’ washboards thrumming rinsing out the Mississippi’s sin. Our white hope is bleeding, chorizo sweating out on a Tuesday night. We be storm-wet dancin’ port of callin’ Lousianne’s babies, slick and gleamin’ grinning to his steel guitar two cajun jitterbugs kicking juice at the moon.	On the Wall -flower blossom to the cello’s draw spit your seed as the french horn yaws the sadness in these shadows. lay your body on these strings as they soothe your sour as they pull you to crescendo dropping you to a violet’s obsequious smile.	image - Fallen Soldier Battle Cross © Joe Pingleton Sergeant Major - Priest Silas meant well at the altar amongst the pews. they all had glowing reports Silas this and Silas that. Sergeant Major Maxwell meant well at inspection at lights out they all saluted a universal Booyah! Who rocks? “You ROCK Sergeant Major Maxwell Sir!” Too many rapes Too many violations. Military - Seminary General - Cardinal Secretary - Pope Break the chain, put their bodies in hands that can hold the hearts that can harness the sin.