Left the upper hand.

Sometimes I wish I were
left handed
or maybe it is upper handed....
A few days outside of your
graces and I see
the world keep moving
even though I am certain
it is on fire.

That slow burn eases,
at least I hope it will.
Or else I'll have to dig my
teeth out of the ashes
and remember which way
they go in.

To the edge and back, though
I know I didn't even touch it.
A glimpse into the reflections
of that cold unfrozen lake and
I turn to sludge and stone
in one shallow gulp.
I can't even talk about it.
Though not all of me is secret.

Melan de Colia

An unmovable sadness
wrapped in tight green vines
feelings of loss yet to be
experienced.
A looming knowing,
undeniable, yet
daily denied.
Uncompromising weight settling
in, in an already narrow
space.
Sometimes like heavy
blue water rising rising
towards thine neck
and sometimes stones neatly piled
upon mine fragile chest.
The brittlest bones
are the hardest to see.
The brittlest feeling is the
hardest to catch.
Eluding to unknown crashing down and
clenching fists before slumbers rest
only to awaken,
uncertain to be awake,
and forget the
impeding wave
of
dissolution,
only momentarily.
Converging upon two lines
of absolute asymmetry,
the anxious wolf tames a quiet lion.

Displaced, home is up the stairs.

Those two old hens, walk forwards and back, cackle and cryptic
moaning and groaning of the air out there.
Two hand sanded blast beats eradicate from gypsy monday mornings.
Calloused hands and chipped toenails scrape this cold tile floor.
Prying away at the finished edges.
Tanks full of petrified petrol.
Cavernous windows opening up to last centuries wishes.
Yesterdays demise invites you over for dinner.
Wraps it up in a toilet bowl drown fest.
Awaken. Immediately. it is ok.
Warm that pie for your breakfast.

Ripshore purge, seaweed blue

Portuguese women never looked so small.

Hang the rattail near the stall.

Leeches set out on the grand gala table.

Nosebleeds and Nosegrinds for a mere fifty cents.

Calculators tell the futures of numbers.

Folklore for children to make their tall tales taller.

Shapeshift the avalon, the audubon will follow.

Genius falls at the feet of the bereft.

Cascade the carnivale for cannibals with cannonballs.

Soups on.

Fancy that.

Copycats who copyright do nothing short but rot like us all.

This contagion of 'cool' is catching at best, like a pox.

A meadow that meddles in others affairs grows the oddest blooms.

Lake. Lane. Late.

fortunate
innocent
led by smoke in darkness
clouds encompass
the frailty of thoughts
a dance through skinny
tree lined lanes
dirt beneath feet
compacted and dry
from repetitious ritual
moon beneath mountain
your reflection atop
the volcanic lake

Goodbye complete thought.

Welcome to your introduction.
Please be seated.
Put on the blindfold.
Clear your mind.
Release your memory.
No more thoughts, now.
Good, all set then.

FINDS:

THIS WAY AND THAT
GUTS SPILLING
ALL OVER THE PLACE
CAN'T CATCH THEM FAST ENOUGH

CAN'T CONNECT THE WORD
TO THE THOUGHT.
CAN'T BREATHE THE RIGHT BREATH.

A SELF EXPRESSION
SPEWING BAGGAGE
CLAIM BOY.

FLIGHT TO NOWHERE
FROM NINE TO FIVE.
RUGGED WHINE OF
CARDIOVASCULAR PROJECTILE.

COMMONPLACE CONDESCENDING
ELEVATOR RIDES
TO UNCOMFORTABLE
COMFORT LEVEL SIX.

SQUARE IN THE MOUTH.
FANCY.
LIPSTICKED LIPS
POURING MUCK FROM THE MIND.

SOGGY THOUGHT PROCESS DROWNING
THE PREVIOUSLY ENJOYED.

MEATSTICK MOMENT.

ARTIFICIAL HAPPY FACE.
DESTROYING THE CONCEPT TO IGNORE.
SIX FLOORS UP TO NINE TO FIVE.
ELEVATOR CON.
DESCENDS DOWN.