harvest

Harvest maize, corn. Farm life fall. Surplus of ingredients. Plants – fruits and vegetables. A silo full of grain with the strength to kill someone – I’ve seen Witness. Recall and remember dried grasses, slash and burn. Ancient history textbooks that must be all wrong and forgotten by now. Some Animorphs villian from YA science-fiction that scared me, just a little as a kid. Pull strong roots out of the dirt and mop the sweat off your brow. Cycling, bicycle pedaling. Pushing forward now and standing, so I no longer touch the seat. Impatient and wanting to catch up. Street skates by me now like watercolors in full motion. Bicycle ride through paintings. Plantains. Words adding to dictionaries all the time. Result of sunshine, rain, and nutrients the soil provides. This land was built on blood and struggle. How does one atone in this world for sins committed 300 years ago or more? Overall straps. Over-stressed denim. Where’s the clarity? I want it and need to happen with a snap of magician’s fingers. When will the doubt stop? Growth of middles and chocolate cake. I’m not liking the way I see it now. Distorted image.

vase

Bluish hourglass with open top. Put some fresh-cut flowers in there, or leave it open. The craft of this pottery project – Wet clay, two hands, a kiln, a dream, glaze and paint. The fire smooths and purifies. Dancing outwardly, stillness inside. Stillness outwardly, ricochet pinball machine inside. Bells and whistles and neon screens. The noise and the solace of being lost in some activity that is here and now and perhaps has no meaning. Vase on the coffee table . These things can be built and they can break. Sobbing, the sound emblazoned in memories of haunted objects in a home. I will need to find a new way. Down spiral wooden staircases that lead to empty wine cellars and old black and white movies with Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman. Was the world ever right? Does history just smooth everything over – like glaze and kiln? Panic attacks in little cycles. Little amplitudes, waveforms, wave patterns. Scared to look. When the big to bubble I wish them away, but that genie has long gone. Adored photos on walls. Fixer-upper house. I can still feel the grooves in the old hexagonal tile, the creak of the tan linoleum floor. Splashing lifesource. Ships in bottles setting sail to nowhere. Please let these eyeglasses be the one. Please let this just be an adjustment period. Impatience and anxiety make for a miserable cocktail. Sterility, hospital bed and gown. Totally cancelled out by whatever they’re serving for dinner on this floor. Reminiscent of convalescence and nursing homes. Shatter, break, and crack – A million pieces scattered and now we have to gather them all up, mourn this lost piece of art. It was accidental with universal purpose. Sometimes we move too quick for our own good. Get caught in emotion, talking with our hands, moving our bodies too freely. Look what can happen. Spin and smash like I’m the Hulk, or Donkey Kong.

cost

Cost-effective stock market price charts, red and green like Christmas Italian flags. Dopamine exile, Frankenstein silhouettes. Baby lace trophy, booties to boot. Escape artist drags eloquence through the mud and dirt, old 1935 squad car, living off potatoes poorly. Simple syrup, cabbage patch, seeds to grow into fantastical shapes, but this ain’t no Jack and the Beanstalk. Riches buried in the desert, breaking bad gluttony, greed. Menace, like blood dripping from the teeth of some villain, vampire, regret, rejecting it. Anesthetized time, stands still and becomes forgetful of all linear rules. Open, bright expanse. Heart beats. Sisko waits. Acid trip timeline bending to wills of gods and fates. This yin and yang balance and what lies beyond. I have lost my way. The thread has slipped between my fingers and I am no Perseus or Theseus. I have despaired in the labyrinth. Latching on like leeches to anyone who comes close, getting clingy and attached for fear this moment will change, for fear I will never see them again. Can’t make the choice. Scales in flux forever. Rules of gravity ever-changing.

cotton

We have tamed a wild weed in the South. It grows here and nowhere else (maybe). There is a blood history behind it. Drenched in cash and profit and exploitation of human beings and their rights. Hot, humid summers – How many passed under the aversion of God’s gaze? Dry, cotton mouth. Dehydrated water supply. It’s all just air around me now. Expired breath, ghost mist. Fog on a mysterious morning where I drop my knees and thank God in fear; For fear if I don’t, I too will not be spared, I too await the blade of an axe from the angel of Death; Jump off the mountain, or be somewhere at the wrong place, at the wrong time. The opposite of luck: Unfortunate circumstance. What becomes common place smooth fabric, has a long journey ahead. There is a method and a process. Plantation that has history we must reckon with, must acknowledge, must accept guilt and complicity. Vultures caw hollow, searching for the remains of the missing. Missing memories, lost in some black hole of Alzheimer’s Disease, some black hole of dementia. They circle and spiral inside. Perhaps their outlines remain, but the coloring book remains devoid of color. The smell of manure, fresh mulch. Earthy tones and senses. If I were a child in the field, I would want to hide in the shade of a tall stalk, or the shade of my mother, so I could sleep in the heat and stay tucked away out of trouble, and not be afraid of bugs so that when a little fly lands on my arm, I will barely notice and not spoil my calm quiet. The wind doesn’t blow, doesn’t answer calls. There’s just the answering service, and if there is an emergency, just run. And keep running; Make the wind move for you. Kick up your bare feet and cuffed jeans. Kind of run where you stick out your stomach and hips and just bolt, just go for it. Leaves on trees get rustled as you brush past. Heavy breaths and pants until you can no longer take it anymore, slowing down to a stop bent over, hands on thighs, leaning forward. Gasping.

vicious

Sid Vicious lives on in oceans of punk rock daydreams in our heads. Bass guitars blaring rudely through distorted sound effects, melodramatic posturing and aggressive movement dawns on stages whose floorboards creak at every stomp of sneaker. Sweat beads like a broken necklace whose string cannot find its clasp on the other end. A string of pearls hit the ground like rain. Beer become warm from the stage lights and sold out crowd. A scream heard from off-mic. I want to hear the guitars in my ears again, reverberations. The buzz coming up from the floor and spreading throughout us all. Harmonic togetherness in concert wholeness, oneness. Buddha with the brickface. What I wouldn’t do for an overpriced beer and a night out, a reminder that I too am alive and in this moment. Am feeling these emotions, or have felt them, have claimed and laid ownership to them. This world is traumatic and cruel. I do not want to live as a skeleton when I have not yet decomposed. Compass points North inside; one true thing. Light bulbs flicker on and cascade, like carnival, Jersey Shore boardwalk.