March 2013

	March 2013 After Hours Faint Expectations Transformation Skeins Spoiled Sports Bona Fides Folly First Humors Shaken not Stirred Behind Curtain #3	After Hours After hours we danced blood-burnt singed in sin with the wine of Valencia’s sun. After hours the music was a naughty Spanish lark sultry treble hips, crimson alto lips coaxing us home.
Faint Expectations Miss Havisham would have watched us here from behind such curtains a figure eight of grey taffeta of faintly yellowed lace. It is that sort of path that sort of setting where times might merge clouds a stormy marble stew the moors not far headstones askew behind this mottled church. No parasol nor kick pleated skirts, no high waisted trousers, neither vest nor street wounded tweed, just your blended cotton and jeans my chambray and khakis snapping to, on a chilled on shore breeze. I might have crossed the times had we years to spare, had my heart the currency.	Transformation Harsh whispers ride the wind, coarse hooligans grousing through bright budding trees. great heaves shake the canopy like a great quilt snapped of its winter’s dust, as a dew soaked cur shuddering her laden fur spattering the air with spittle, bright eager barks, and ten thousand sparkles of spring.	© Scott N. Loveall, 2012 Skeins All of us live some life of salvage. flotsam towed ashore, seasons pulled from the sea. We imprint, torn and mounted, bright moments from pages of the sky. All of us endure the hand we are dealt, each heart that bleeds, each flame that sears our wounds, each diamond that blinds us with laughter and love, each spade that will slowly turn under our days. all of us live as breaths of our kindred, entangled from their myriad skeins. each woven from threads in their graves.
Spoiled Sports How’s the ole gal this birthday round, chipper and clean, all shiny and new? It New Years for you time to pluff the feathers put on your leathers zip a wee bit of the finery on. Joan River’s would be proud. Splurge this year… come on new brakes on the wheelchair? get you some of dem Jay-Z spokes, a new Rand Paul toupee? Come on… I’ll chip in. what fun you’ll have at Walmart, goosing the stockers and two-bong trailer moms. I’d be wicked if I were you. Senior vigilantes tugging down Colt, Viagras, and twice cut coke. I’d be boasting the most heinous sagged-out tattoo, the champion at chicken flap, the King and Queen of Waddle. Come on Britney? I know you can Do it Again! It only 2033	Bona Fides As scrimshaw… whittles and scrawls scribble into our bones etches and nicks heartbreaks and ticks are all the hugs written down in microscopic braille on this document we leave? was there a sliver cleaved away, some notch recorded every time I craved you, each moment you cried? is our record, our scrivened word, our time and love writ upon in boney cliffs, notched plains? are we Rushmores, riddled canyons? is that how we know our worth? such evidence we hang these sacks of flesh upon. when the magnesium goes, when the calcium has leeched, and hips give way with such fierce, incredible fire? just a pile of bones in the end? ask the catacombs of Paris ask the Khmer Rouge scrim that on your ivory!	Folly skies wept to the vast plains of the sea chiral tears of silver to a grey-green morass a roiling patina washed free. I felt cleansed in the moment my skin stinging my heart free of its grime as if I had left you chained to the tempest rinsed of my mind. foolishness of course, it’s folly to believe one can shower off remorse.
© Shutterstock First Humors Lemon rinsed through my stand of birch pale yellow zebras, proud groves amongst the common elm. The river has begun its chuckle pushing over the ice, winter’s scale loosed, his illusive tourmaline skin a star riot of rising sun.	Shaken not Stirred I watch their words tumble from dusty tongues, mundane and passive obsequious and drab an obtuse lemon, polygonal puckers clad in rhombus grey. trivial to the fray of life, the tyranny of liberty, the salacious splash of love, the acidic burn of loss. I read few measures of pulse, no sensory conjecture. no Keats, no Longfellow. I want to shake their Dickens, find Neruda humming… grinning in their morning fog. stirring their ink in the well of her muslin skirts, telling of her dreams as she painted the Chilean moors. I want to find their words standing again on a finely honed edge.	Behind Curtain #3 @billion+.3 #Rapes 6, 9, 11 years old - in a well left to rot. Chaddi riots for women’s respect. Headline New Delhi: “Turmoils for Tech Support”. We are having the bomb my friend, do you? We will have our way with you!” Mars? India is talking Mars - not of toilets or civility? Press 1 for Sex Press 2 for Sewage Press 3 for Boom Hello, my name is Lou, I have a penis and a bomb. How may I be helping you? India… my troubled friend what has happened to you?