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…

Joe, the friend of Joe
tells him sad discounts
rings him for boxing
but can he just pack up,
and face the small kittens?
Never clip can has

He can’t everlast puck
a trickster of drill bits
cascades dentist trousers
for mutual EXP. DATE
like Ultra 4 driver, the head
turns and divots, aghast

Btw… I fail at weekly menus. That and laundry scheduling. But we get by… and she forgives my shortcomings.

I have a snippet…

rewinding in segments
the lever gives us pause
for bold play in the pastimes
for warding off thoughts

mem-a-random to find
mem-o-rise to forget
and integrate confusion
a tao of loss

*****************

Where pin-tips delve
and shovels club;
dance is a cypher
and songs are finance.

In unconscious,
left-hands unknowing
reach for the catskills
in folds of the mind

Arrest in an aria
a ransom of breath.
The runnel Seclusion’s
dark, muttering mouth

Flash/wheels/books/tunnels
compressed retinae;
eyes shiver, vision,
and beg to awake

Clocks and keys, jaws and teeth
Thirteen round the rope make wreaths…
of mistletoe, and birdlime grip
to hold or strangle, take your pick

I, alchemist, drown in my solutions.

————-

Trapped

Pen-tip stabbing, carving thoughts…
the floor ablaze in swampgas visions
and fox-fire crawling down my neck.
All eyes seeing, from Argus spawned
dark and silent, mouths agape…
and piteous spectres beg in doorways
but ’tis no letter, no invitation
It is a passion, inked with despond
they might come, but I must stay.
Yet, let this attest to her my heart…

gentle, so not to fester

ash remnants, at least,

bear some gentle comforts…

soft or coarse

they may be touched

without repulsion

water rots what it does not

wash away, sparing oblivion…

but it is no mercy.

there are dead things on the waves…

So, raven…

how can you smell an olive branch

in this cold, vulgar mess?

fragments gone or turned to black

or bloated carcass still intact?

a question gone to ground…