Streaming scarring crystal paintings
Bleed along the frosted panes.
Heartbeat pulsing, teary starings
Watch while wishing for his gaze.
Fingers stroking screen-glow pulses
Numbly never touching flesh.
Ice lines painting outside crying;
Inside: freezing living hearts.
A mick, a muck
A garbage truck.
Why change to come so soon?
You used to come ’round two o’clock
But now you come before the sun is even up!
Who will love you, when you’re empty;
A stranger sitting, all alone?
Whose anxious faces keep appearing;
Some of whom have your blue eyes?
What hands will gently still your shaking,
With fingers just like yours?
What voices will tell nighttime stories
As you nap away the days?
Who will sing your childhood songs
In sweet, soprano tones?
Who will come, when days are past
And only night awaits you?
We will love you, Grandma, Dear;
We’ll hold, and tell and sing.
We’ll care for you, though you’re not here,
While you go to sleep.
If I had a mindful, thinking mind
I’d know the feeling, analyzing,
Thought-processing, wakeful mem’ry-find.
I’d not wonder, in drooling hazing,
What that tragedy, Algernon, had
And if rodentia enjoy mazing.
Instead, here stands a gray-matter man.
His name is Mental Impasse, of course.
There’s his face-glare; there his stoic stand.
I kneel in abject, absent pleading;
Begging him, my boot-toed gatekeeper
For a whiff, glance; or head-bump reading.
But Mental Impasse will not be swayed,
Will not glance down, nor favor bribings.
How then, will mindflow artworks be made?
Expressionless, he stiffly guards me:
Shadowed thought-lights dance beyond his frame.
My feeble entreats shan’t make him see.
Find me; fold me;
Box me away.
I’ve shrunk; he’s grown
-Who’s to say?
Write that; tape that;
Label that box.
I’ll tell; you’ll read
Of suits and socks.
Fill this; close this;
Set this there.
I’m stored; I’m saved
For another wear?
Hand me down; Land me down;
Gift me once more.
Open me; unfold these
Wear till I’m wore.
Are you in there? In
side the echo of
sedgewater walls amplifying
I can’t stop the
SHOUTING! SHOUTING! SHOUTING!
queries of noise
I came here to get away;
to not hear you
Else, I’d be outside
in the garden, in the sunlight
blissfully thinking nothing
happily feeling nothing
But a different nothing:
an actual not-a-thing
stand. alone. happiness.
empty echoing walls
out of the way
When do you whisper these well-formed words,
The thought-strung wishes your mind made?
They’ve been dancing round a life-numbed brain
Awaiting a chance to alight.
Why won’t you hear their fluttering feelings,
Their pleadings, in soft-spoken thoughtspeak?
Why turn an eager mental ear-hear
To angry-loud worldshout wailing?
Who else will gather these bent-broken fairies,
Wearying, slowing; near-dropping?
Their language extinct, their toe-dust unsparkled
Your brainstem a graveyard of art.
The morning is frosty; the air so chill.
But, ’tisn’t winter that makes my heart still.
As I lay warming in blankets’ embrace,
One thing will get me to leave this soft place.
Hark! Hear the fragrant beau’s noisy approach:
He squeaks as he rolls his big, stinky coach!
I rush down the stairs; I dress for outside.
I must get there soon! I lengthen my stride.
Quickly now! Line up the cans by the road!
They ought to be decent, for their bethrothed.
He’s nearly here -at the end of the street.
I’ve made my offer and now must retreat.
Back inside for me, still in my p.j.’s
Till we meet, my love, in seven more days.
Someday, soonday my detachment from familiarity will send me soaring, burning, melting
Painting lightscape brushstrokes on empty air-void blackness:
A fantastic farewell sky-faint; a final, fiery death-stunt
For unknown, sight-blessed audience.
Up, from sparkling sprinkle-glittered hills,
Glowing backlit forms will gasp in distant, wondered silence –
My dying skydance, reflecting glints of living fellows;
Laughing, pointing limbs following my curtain-call bow.
Frosted pine-pinnacles will point, in vain,
Where once I sat, aglow, forever and a million years
Before the laughing, lasting exhalations mouth their frozen, “Wow;”
Their million dream-thoughts floating sky-high, tailing me forever.
Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Entry
My name is cheeks, or cheers, or cheese.
It depends upon my “smart” phone’s mood,
Fat-fing’ring on its tiny screen,
Its bumbling guess at my next move.
I’m riding, now, about boys to techs.
No: writing, voice, and text, you phone!
Hands-free dictating needs many checks;
Else, I send a nonsense palindrome.
So nearly, annoyingly helpful,
Rests snugly in uncanny valley –
‘Twixt time-saving and straight-up stressful.