October 2012

	October 2012 A Tapioca Dream bitterroots Each Night I Hold You Two Heathens We A Saunter on Mars Echoes of the Sweetest Light Urban Still Life Vampiric Breeze At the Teat of Summer's Grave The Slake of Night	A Tapioca Dream Light arrives, oozing etheric, as a gentle spirit of creamy mist, as a cloud might rise around a frigid tropical drink, a lifting periwinkle steam, a ghostly tapioca dream. This is as oxygen to iron, light to spirit, grains shifting whining spectral pining, plaintive trickles of longing deep in the evermore, tumbling into the ‘neath, into the cold salty breath of the sea as it schemes.
Bitterroot Mountains, © Christopher Cauble bitterroots primitive teeth uprooted raw, their nerves exposed to the appetite of stars. intimidating massive, deadly granite, crypts of onyx despair glistening with anger, silent power ice great scabs of Terra’s wounds, walls of her sorrows rows of broken dreams uplifted for healing to the lips of the sun.	Each Night I Hold You each night that I hold you our words our deeds are alive on my temples, dancing the dreams and the hearts on our sleeves. each night I hold you is dearer than the night before. your balance is my harmony the little joys I can give you are what keeps me sane. in the heart of my day there is a hum a chord a harmonic deep in my strings a melody sometimes a madrigal singing in these lonely bones.	Two Heathens We tipped to the midnight grape… painted from the window’s light, bloody, primitive. war painted, prancing, pregnant with Apache dawn, two heathens we. pumas grinning, kneading, fat-cat purring simpering as the lemonade light disconnects the freckles, runs down our shoulders, crossing the canyons of urgency, their violet shadows echoing sonorous growls, ghosts cries of whimpers of thunderous sighs. two heathens we… Mmmmmm!
PHOENIX LANDING SITE, © Kees Veenenbos A Saunter on Mars I walk this russet planet towards an arc of slivered turquoise and a cold sallow sun. the air is cellophane, a crispy clear almost rigid with cold. my footfalls are virgin striated treads on paprika and blood powdered plains. He is regal in his redness. defiant, stark, an oxidized satin spread on a table of redwood. persimmons and apricot In each crater and bowl. Olympus Mons rises in grandeur piercing the hematite sky. tasting the blackness of space its basalt tongues lapping at the cold milk of stars.	Echoes of the Sweetest Light ‘tis the journey north, the push into the prairie. it is the twice heated tuna plate, the saucer with the cup of reheated second rate Joe. it is the cross to Manitoba from the whisker to the desolate winter wheat it is the passage from ravenous from the dreams in your arms, the bliss in your bed, to the chafe of your thighs at my cheek. expectations an Illusion, two calendars of wist crammed into a sandwich of delicious August afternoons. the moments surreal, the embers infinitely precious. ‘tis the journey north, the days of pulling away. my loins barren, and my arms without you. my heart full of longing, of good mornings never said, of dawns never shared. echoes of the sweetest light.	ABSTRACT NEON LIGHTS © Rob Cartwright Urban Still Life four A.M. and the streets are just clicks. walk signs and signals wack-snack-brrring up the canyons reds and greens snicking to no one slimes of neon in the gutters gleaming in the remnants of a late August rain. my steps are phantoms, quiet as the scream of a mime. their passage but a shadow. one of millions, daring to stir these canvas oils of light. these remnants of a late August rain.
Vampiric Breeze So much blood has run into this soil it must be high in iron …in anguish. Is this Gettysburg? Soweto? Is this Rwanda, Somalia, Sudan, Bosnia, Chicago, Aleppo? we kill for such foolishness… petty prides and ego but mostly power …in the name of some god - for its perfume the cloak of its legitimacy so much blood so many teachers, doctors, philosophers, mothers decades of dreams love equations micro-surgery techniques epiphanies eureka!s lost… so much blood in the dust of this vampiric breeze.	At the Teat of Summer’s Grave I looked up into the failing light through the elm and jailbird birch, their canopies a web of patchwork gnarls and knobby fingers scrabbling for a handle, clasping in vain against the scrabble blue of this Idaho sky. the day is slipping under, its light pinched, caught in autumns trance, too feeble to resist the somber caress of the gloaming night, or the heartless eyes of winter’s stars. the wind is gnawing, this Bitterroot ridge. spitting quartz and menace snarling from the passes, a thready whine riding a sonorous growl. the light bows low, humbled… for a New York minute at the teat of summer’s grave.	The Slake of Night These mounts extend like ossified waves, shrouded serpents aligned, sepia, copper, cinnamon stirred, bubbling to a Brown Betty crisp. Indigo unravels its cloak of cold starry peace, a salve to these simmering lands their fire soothed, its curried tomato and turmeric cliffs, quenched by this night’s dark ale.