July 2013

	July 2013 Enveloped Indelible The Specters of Avalon Rabbit Run Pistachio Sky Lower Power Stillborn Crescendo Indispensible Comrade Dawson	Enveloped I left an envelope once. I slipped it half way under the door. no one ever took it no one read my fears. In a few days I drew it back. relieved, I opened the door. No one laughed, no one held my hand, no one said ‘there there, now’ but then I lived alone.
Indelible Our journey has been ink, and cunning linguistics. My words, your journal, maps of the mind, of Mars your skin, stains from my tongue, my indelible dreams.	The Specters of Avalon Would we fall in love now with your arms so empty the erosion of your faith so deep with light crawling under the rug winter pulling you inexorably to your knees? Would you want to hold that future now where each shadow lies stone-toed cold each avenue dead-ending wind puling from the moors passion stillborn in maybes and dreams? Would you hold me as we drown in our feeble means and sallow light, our beacon a blink of milk to their cataract hearts in the streets, to the specters of Avalon? Where once there was a splendor where it only could rain after sundown and by eight, the morning fog must disappear where legal limits guard the snowfall …in Camelot - would we?	Rabbit Run Bunnies hide beneath your chair … witnesses to your missing ashamed feigning blindness to you being here those dusty vagrants that gathered round your shoes. I tossed them out last Tuesday. Blessings! How the hutches squealed.
Pistachio Sky I stood in the meadow looking for you again… I don’t know why. the sky broke its’ tempest pistachio over robes of brown monk. mist lifts its fickle feet swirling through the star-feathers clinging to the fountain grass, conception for births left to die. barren canals familiar lands to me. Image: Pistachio Sky - © Scott N. Loveall, 2013	Lower Power I’ve a friend in trouble hungering addicted craving ancient bliss. fallen from the path of the beam. I feel guilty for advising her way, I’ve not had that infinite thirst. I’ve not lived the insanity of a brain blood war. Twelve step is for the drowning, an elastic snap, a reset slap for divine believers. when it works for you… bless! What does the atheist to do?	Stillborn One day it will come to silence between us a heaviness unbearable a pregnancy conceived that wants to explode. One day I know the curtains must fall and the light will be quenched pinched out from the moors. and my heart will go blind stillborn.
Crescendo Life is an orchestra of strings well drawn… plucked as intended by note, by chord, both true and off key it is holes plugged at just the right time, in a sequence that matters, or doesn't... to someone. Life is our sticks and the membranes we beat upon, of cymbals gnashing, smacking their brass lips. Life is jazz, the unintended. the predictable is scorned, the pious composer set on its sanctimonious ear.	Indispensible Some days… I need to put the lens cap on, to stop watching. It’s harder to write when I’m ‘seeing’. Some days… I need to scald my tongue, to stop the yammer. It’s hard to listen when I”m ‘droning on’, my peace… static in the drivel. Some days… I need you like a mighty shit, a missing parcel of oxygen, precious skin of my heart, its nerves too long exposed. Some days as most days you are indispensable.	Comrade Dawson Just as he was a belching truck of bourbon and Luckies a bald tilting shamble glancing off storefront facades Schiller Avenue to Behrwald, two corners from The Shady Rest, eight more houses to stagger to make it “back to the ship” back to the bunk gotta make morning mess, back to hunting Japs Just as he was a falling star snared in a greasy quilt jacket his prize winning ink left in the quill, the well, both bottles. Just as he was the florid face eyes bright with dialogue the fever of beliefs of learning, of ideas. He taught me the halogens at 6 chess at 7 he gave up on me at 8. The Minutemen bored me. Communism was just more church without the church, without Baseball or Beatles. Just as he was the great exhalations the bellows of voice and smoke the great truck slipped away on afternoon California? But what about… gone when I asked about the 45 in the attic gone and I had learned the Queen’s Gambit gone when I wanted to know about Japs, and the poems I had found in his boot locker under the Bircher flyers that day I believed he was human that weird psycho Sun. in July. “As you were sailor.”