On the balcony, quadcopter drones
are hovering with the doves.
Occasionally a pigeon spatters
them with guano.
I breathe and hear
the thrumming of the armatures
spinning in their casings,
their music becoming solid
and returning to the motors.
Hidden behind my childhood walls,
the old familiar actors still grasp and terrify
in midnight sessions, replayed in flickering
black and white.
I hop my pen across the desk and imitate a bird,
write a note to Bela, Help me please,
I’m trapped inside a gravity well.
Bela in her flight suit whispers in my ear,
explains the future course of time.
Once the sea was in the sky,
it became too heavy and fell,
reshaped itself to a clouded circulation,
but soon enough
it will rise again.
Houses will turn to dust, thoughts to vacuum,
children, echoes in the streets,
we’ll be compressed in carboniferous layers,
deep sedimentary strata of a new luciferent era.
And when the glow of life has guttered,
when moonlight crumbles and contaminates the air,
Guaraci, the sun’s beginning, will light
a slow and final morning.
I have questions, she puts a finger to my lips.
Now that our context is clear,
we’ll dance and sing and wear the memories
of friendship: rings and bracelets,
cuff links and a tie clip,
home screens for our cellphones.
At other times regrets will tell their stories
and you will let your cravings run their race,
but not here, not now, for
the gentle days and nights with me.
about
Guaraci is the sun deity in the mythology of Brazil’s Tupi-Guarani peoples
artwork
autumn
That was incredible. And the artwork, too. I love the color of the line at the bottom.
Thanks Randy. I appreciate ‘incredible’ 🙂 . For me I think it will always be the twilight zone, dreams, speculative fantasy, it just comes out that way, except for my grocery list 🙂 . Thanks for your comment on the art too, I put some work into it trying something new.
It worked out great.
😀
Lovely last stanza.
Thank you Sascha. I don’t know what happened. I was going apocalyptic and wound up somewhere else (no, not the Pinot). Wait a minute, maybe it was 🙂 .
The pinot could change apocalyptic possibilities.
Like “Damn, what was that launch code again 5755 or 7575? Is that a pressurized cork remover? Where’s the freaking button gone.” Anyway my basis for writing anything is that it feels right at the time, and I have no idea what that means.
I understand, at least know it to be true with my own writing. Let instinct lead because sometimes the flow of the words creates a direction that planning didn’t include.
OMG. Ambrosia. The imagery and symbolism are so beautiful I don’t even want to dig deep. I just like to let it float through my brain. Of course, upon 2nd reading I probably won’t be able to resist doing a little probing. “I have questions, she puts a finger to my lips.” That says a lot, doesn’t it?
Thank you BG <3 . Best not to dig, probably all you'll find is iron pyrites or coal seam gas, and when you ask a question all you get is an answer. Maybe something says something.
Also, what about the weather? And that …er… *searches internet* Elliott at Daytona? XD Sorry, couldn't resist.
It evokes so much w/o spelling it out. Just hints and whiffs. The part abt the sea falling is yummy.