Left, Right, Left?

“Good writers touch life often. Mediocre ones run a quick hand over her. The bad ones rape her and leave her for the flies”– Ray Bradbury, Farenheight 451

(the spring blooming light was approaching.)

I hear hoofbeats, now.

thats the sound of her arterial valve, crackling on the oven

and thats her left aorta ,keeping time.

She is afraid she has it all mixed up

left aorta, right

right aorta, left; (?!?!)

touching life most often

is a hard guess.

(at best, mine is at work.)

a calculation, interpretation,

statement accusation.

thats my cervical cortex springing back, at the centrifuge

and thats my left cortex ,analyzing you.

I am afraid I have it all mixed up

left cortex, right.

right cortex, left; (?!?!)

giving life a run down

might be a bearable mess,

(but he is on the wheel)

making a turn to the station

faster faster FAST

relax

take a look back

that is the sound of the oil tank, up in flames,

the left turn signal, clicking.

He is afraid he has it all mixed up

left turn, right

right turn left; (?!?!)

raping the soul out of life (I assure you)

is your best bet.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

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In the August fog:

The bearded poet reeks

of mud, and dry leaves.

He has been

fashioned to recite,

line by line,

only skipping

sentences

when the task

is too tiresome.

We will wait,

and we will wait again,

and  all these soft and silent waiting evenings are being

ironed out on the porch

in the August fog.

We wait, and we wait

(an abandoned curtain is playing on the cornfields)

waiting to be seen.

still burning, love?

take care then,

to put me back onto that Great Stage

and give me a shove.

you’ll see-

ma, look! no, hands!

as proud as me!

(and I was likened to the scent of darkness

for as we passed the  gray stone towers

I was fully fine to listen to

the songs they chanted after me

“STILL BURNING, LOVE?”

‘STILL BURNING LOVE?”

“STILL BURNING LOVE?”

“STILL BURNING AS WE WAIT?”)

But still we wait, and wait again,

and all these silent waiting evenings are being

ironed out on the porch in the August fog.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry