Like Slanted Shadows on the Road

Our notion of afternoon had to do with

The siesta of passing bleeding hopes

A semi-minute it took to breath well

On an empty stomach at the past for good

To truly feel the processing of all afternoons

 

All passing transparency of light

The trembling waving lyrics left unnoticed

Aches better left internal, misunderstood

 

Lost to attentive passer Byers

The future remained a heathen country

Full of autonomous regions, gentle reminders

Of what we could become, though

There would be no rest, and that was fearsome

 

Only the shapeless volume of technology

Merging with mind, intelligence launched

Headlong into the speed of secret stretches

Where time became something eventful. 

 

A Poet’s Ferry

Just when I thought I needed direction

I felt the spirit move me in deeply wrinkled lines

Of longing for literature, spread

Smooth like where few traces of men have been

Where few seductive women could lure

 

Inconsequentle words through portals

Down philosophical gaps of inquiry

To the moon-maddened passage

 

The divine ferry of artistic temptation

Ripe with the litany of the coming days

Just when hope exceeded breath, before

 

The names of names, the light of hours wasted

I knew at the water’s edge, that I had too

Tasted literature at her bright tips of lush flowery. 

 

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