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JR Rhine Mar 2016
I cradled the unfurling shed snakeskin delicately
admiring the imprint of faces and places
swallowed up in time.

An ancient amative light sat patiently
on the blank sheet
before the electric medium;
the electric medium sitting buzzing
eager to tell another silent story.

I wrapped the skin around its spindle;
and from its den I extracted slowly and cautiously,
urging the skin into the hungry buzzing medium--

And minute punctures in the skin,
where the projector's teeth sink in,
whose teeth chatter like plastic wind up dentures
as the skin passes snake-like through its dusty plastic entrails.

The tattooed skin is illuminated at the heart of the vessel--
where the countenance of a single solitary bulb
omits a radiance, brilliant and magnificent--
powerful enough to cast the skin like a shooting star
across the darkened room

onto the patient white sheet
where my eyes await the tattooed memories
to dance before me.

I sit in my torn and weathered leather chair
echoing the silence of the screen--
(hypnotized by the hum of the projector--
an incessant electrical drone accompanied by the bombinate
incantations of chattering crickets.)

The stories are shielded from my inquisition
by layers of translucent grain
that leave textures gritty--
and a soft focus that leaves faces obscure
and expressions ambiguous.

(How clever you are to stay silent,
and leave me in such tempestuous musings!)

Vast pores pop up excitedly burned and scabbed intrusions
and if you linger for too long
the brilliance of the glare will burn into you--

Like the shaman who dances too close to the holy fire.
Like Apollo flying too close to the sun.

I must be careful,
and fully aware--
of your transience.

These ambulant hieroglyphs
speak volumes in their silence--
and I find myself drawn
to the blurry smiling faces
as they peer into my soul.

History breathes.
and History repeats.
but lies silent
in the sands of Time.
Becoming muddled,
but waiting.
for its story to be told;
for the mediums to rise from the grave.

I suddenly agnize myself as the last generation
to have its memories and histories burned onto tape.
and as I sit here I wonder
of the Society
whose soul I will peer into--
when I am unearthed
out of the sands of Time.
Working with 8mm film.
"Sorry seems to be the hardest word."
I feel your wonderful eyes.

He was a greating glider
Knowledgeable, nice and
Sweet. Had a nasty divorce
Flooded with ***** accusations
Nailed and tortured by himself
For the things he wouldnt do..
He was clean.

Tears within us turn to ice. And they should burst.
I've never cried over you.
I don't know you.

Perhaps. I did.
Once upon a time.
For real.

He is a quick thinker
A worrior with an ancient
Soul and a progressive

A Black pearl.
Shelly aboard
in disguise.

Soft as a kitten
is his heart.
I love him.

"Let love rule"
Rise and shine.
A perpetual creation.

Monsoons and many moons
Have passed like a metaphor
Core. A divine traveler.
A colourful world
It is.

He reads thankfully

And humms songs
Of devotion. And he
Writes perfectly.

Harvest moon
He loves modern music and dancing.
He writes.

He dreams about another tattoo
across his heart. We share air.

She was touched
Today. And there
Were sparks sizzling

One long frozen
Moment. Reaching
The most intimate

Not uncharging the potential.
There was a simple question:
"How did you spend the day?"

"With the beautiful artist
In bloom. Drawing."

Shyness. And the

He glows.
Written by
Impeccable Space
Robert C Howard Aug 2013
at the fete du bons vieux temps - Cahokia, Illinois

White clouds of rosin dust
Flew off Geoff's fiddle strings
As his earth dance
Soared above the pulsing
Of friends on bass and guitar.

Tuniced men bowed
To their bonneted ladies
Bedecked in colonial frocks.
In turn each pair sashayed
Down and up the line,
Whirled and laced their way
Through outstretched hands
Of family, friends and neighbors
Shaping an arch at line's end
For all the rest to pass beneath.

All across our country's timescape
Countless bridal pairs
Have sealed their sacraments
Spinning in the whirlwind
Of the Virginia Reel -
With each interclasping of arms
A blessing upon their unions.

Geoff lifted his bow from the strings,
And bowed with his band to receive
The applause rippling the air
Like the patter of ancestral rain
Nourishing the sweet soil
Of our common earthly essence.

February, 2007
Included in Unity Tree published by Createspace and available from in both book and Kindle formats

— The End —