February 2014

	February 2014 International Harvesters Partaking of your Parting — by your leave, my liege Castaway Scissored Smiles Veteran's Day Hearts of Heart Lamentations 4:15 Waxing Antithetical Flock Off Dragon Time	International Harvesters I’m not that Greenpeace guy, not a tree hugger crusader for the spotted snipe… but atrocities are mounting, the landscapes is bleeding, the planet is crying, the bees, the air - the fresh water is dying. We don’t have to do this. We don’t have to harvest our every breath. Stop the insanity… please!
Partaking of your Parting — by-your-leave, my liege The afternoon drowsed, insouciant to the little chatters the gossips racing in my mental glade, the little urgencies rising in the canopy. A calamitous evening, frenetic, a wet jabber in the wood, a bruised gray lid closing over the sky. The night hurtled in slashing, suffusing a great wound, congealing. Ash, fallen from our rose.	Castaway I wove you into my days, your sight into these markets, your ear to the song of these first morning skies, your lips to the first nectarine that rolled across my lips. We strode the bare branch walks strewn with buds from a night’s hard rain, the deep reds of April in your hair the bashful spark of May tucked just inside of your coquette’s eyes. I tucked you in my pocket, a castaway, the flap undone, to gaze into the shops with me, to feel the pressure of a rainbow’s light, to see how my eyes hold your soul in my own.	Scissored Smiles mid-morning light, wheat washed, a deliverance, crowning, breaching the ridges, buttering the valley walls. walls of birch glow white, a forest’s nerves exposed, their woody snarl glowering from the mouth of these woods, their trunks in staggered rows, prehistoric teeth in scissored smiles
Veteran' s Day I stand here, just exchanging the night, its air, its stars so familiar as salt on a well healed wound, and a night worthy of a ribald remark, of a naughty dance with you. I walk here, a veteran of these fog shrouded streets, their cold dark sheets, their caustic emptiness of you. This is a struggle long over, an armistice etched behind my eyes, my ears, the countries of my skull, a cranial martini, sipped and set upon until its spiritual liver is dead.	Hearts of Heart in arms that want to hold you love is priceless. in the canyons of the heart love runs blind, senseless, invulnerable. from the cradles that rock you love is tender and fierce. from the front lines that rock you love is bulldog tough. love is a conflict diamond fought for, treasured. love is a the final touch you know, when the surgeon’s takes you under. love is the squeeze just before you reopen your eyes. at the tattered curtain love is the hand on your hip, the flutter of wings firmly held in the small of your back. at the darkest and the brightest hour, love is their tears, their joy falling from the hearts of your own eyes.	Lamentations 4:15 There are ravens behind this sky, sinister and beady, murmurating in our dreams, supping at the ribs of the earth — pecking at its ivory underside. Grief leaves us so little light. A scudding sky of flannel neath a murky spittle of stars. It sidles and smothers, gnaws until we grimace, chews us til we cry. I’m so pleased to see you thriving and well.
Waxing Antithetical Love from you is thistles, minefields and mazes, a blade point of word s at my ribs. Love from you is a tender shelter, of pocket dreams and wishes sore with longing, welcoming me - home, completing this late autumn sky. Love from you is breath beneath my faith, a gust of reckless joy through the wilderness of my heart. Love from you is fury, gnashing, snapping, renting the cradle of my arms, dismissing me as folly, friendly fire - casual debris. Loving you is being lifted by the swell of the sea, buffed to mocha by sun - gulls, cocoa children grinning, a county, a soil that speaks into my feet. Loving you is a chemical stew savory and sane then capsicum and frenetic. Loving you is waiting to see if I’ll wince, or grin stupid - as if I owned the world. Loving you is that grin being ripped from me. Loving you is what I’ll always do, as I will water these violets or write in your light that I will always breathe. image: Visible Light © Psycheanamnesis	Flock Off God works in delirious ways. Can we stop the perversion of words and treat one another with respect. Jesus was a good man I’ve read, a radical in his day, a philosopher, an activist, a socialist Jew, a victim of bad carpentry, of tyranny, and regional fear. Can’t you just enjoy your mythos and let me control my own body and mind? My womb is not your clown car. My life is not yours to legislate or feed upon. Tend your own flock and leave me to mine.	Dragon Time Did you get it right this time? Are we third world dust? Digital enigmas, ‘The Fox and the Grapes’? Was it properly slain, enough blood let slip? Were all the words let out of their cage? All hormones well met? Dragon time comes raw with penitent teeth, comes bloody with its reason, comes gnashing at the throne of common sense. Alpha Indi is rising, churning between Capricorn and Pavo, The Peacock, ‘The Second Star of Persia’ fuming, wincing in her dark and lonely sky. The fox who longed for grapes, beholds with pain The tempting clusters were too high to gain; Grieved in his heart he forced a careless smile, And cried ,‘They’re sharp and hardly worth my while.