~
I see starfish from
my false bottom
canoe

stretching the wave,
a shimmer to the sound
—slow, fast, wide, and narrow,

then gray over blue
in the empty mirth.

I see trouble and strife,
a beacon of
decadence,
trembling consistently
on each note as if
she had the permanent fever.

I see death and transfiguration,
(equal bedfellows),
out of the ground
as glorious
wisteria,

there's ether on hand
and a lot of bridge work
to cross the vocal span of our
vibrato wars.

I've only got time
for the business at hand,
these cobwebs in the corner
(of history) can linger,
or die like
flies

on the Queen of Compromise,
who never was,
who might have been,
who will always be.

am I cantillating
or have I ventured into
false memory syndrome
again?
~

The sky is an artistic graveyard.

Many a hero and many a fool have come to their fate in its wave-driven clutches.

The number of syllables required to storybook danger is as dense as ozone.

The orange layer—a warning sign, posted by the forebearers of fun, who were categorically undone by the very forces they worshipped.

Birds no better than to fly at such temperamental altitudes.

But the dream will die if we don't try.

And so we hoist our ambition like a kite, hoping to stay aloft long enough to discover something more about ourselves.