The Northern Path

Return to the place of divergence.

An unconscious man poured out on the floorboards.

In each conversation, when we speak of travel, he tells of a road in the north.

“At first it seems common. . . If there are gentle hills, these sidle by like lambs toward a clover. Never a curve ahead.

But the dark earth pulses. . . ley-lines strung loosely on telephone poles. Sometimes we balance on them and feel ourselves pushed along above the thick, oak branches. When clouds shadow the path, young ivy creeps along its edges.

Dark, square sedans hurtle along the length. Every exit swings on hooks, they rotate on their racks like gates in a pinball machine.

Once your feet have taken a single running step on its surface, once you hurtle forward, once you send the wind retreating to the parcel (still in the hands of careless men), thoughts of flight seem vulgar.”

The mud mixed for golems
forms delicate ankles,
while icons are channeled
‘neath bright, colored light.

but not all is forgone,
ignore us at peril…

The reaches of bathtubs,
with snips of old ribbons
(glance there for water
and hypnotic reflections)
A puncture forgiven, now
struggle past slats
to blue-tinted glass.

A point to the cottoned,
she pulls comprehension
through in zig-zag and tacking
that threatens to slip, but…

when the stitches recede,
the frayed tears in her sleeves
creep up toward closed eyes
to gorge on despond

Onomatopoeia
growl? no! grr? wait! squeak? ahhh!
frustrated your schema
redefine the data

Stop and Pop Ephedrin
and go go go cingulum
Lips-wide-op en-gate-one
bibo gradale malum

Trite Alliteration
Justice Carroll frowns on
somnambulistic fun
far safer with a gun

The Sub-pedestrian bilge-fills
but finished glad, with cold-chills
a peer review’s the best thrill
so flirt and spread the good will

Torn about like plastic bags,
that carried all our coins
They buy their retribution
in masks of vigilance.
“You dare to doubt our goals?”

Bent about like cordons,
secure in their position,
They try malum in se.
“Taboo,” the cry, “such judgments!
(of) hungry violation.”

Spun about like wind-socks,
clutching every handbill
to grasp a quick solution
for every passing grief
“Don’t call me a fascist…”

Their inset tongues slaver-
drip ichor from folds
of silk-linen.
Raving for that cowhide-
lined parcel.

Next fashion the turnstiles
that taxi down runways,
carve roads for the bylaws,
draft bills for the bluejays.

And row with the sailors
who sing so succinct
the barnacle shanties
from ballads, distinct.