Sunday, March 29, 2009

columbus ushers the dutchman's wheat field across a pond

march 30th:
1492 - The Spanish monarchy signs a decree that aims at expelling all Jews from Spain unless they convert to Roman Catholicism.
1853 - Birth of Dutch painter Vincent van Gogh.

so, you're either pushed in the fire or piled
in the hold as ballast. leave your homes
or leave your god, your chosen status, your
mythical beginning. the world is flat
but sail to the end of it with decrees and proclamations
punishment and conversion. conquistadarwinian
breakers on the surface of the circle we're just now
inventing with spears, gunpowder and spheres.
the queen is behind you, and the jews will finance it.
there's gold the flavor of cummin on the other side.
see how the parabola extends, the elipse, tho large
meets itself under your nose. sail, my intrepid captain,
don't take bananas, but you'll want to remember
the scent of oranges and fresh water, packed in caskets
of oak, rolled on deck. sweet it is, mingled
with the sweat of the converted.

in the morning, it was centuries later. the captain stretched
and beat the rowers who took us out of harbor. the slap
of the oars on the bay were a benediction for judas. some
vortex took off into a dutchwoman's ear. voice of god
she cried below the swirling clouds . her son's eyes
were missing. there was bag of aggies in the chiffarobe.
give me the blue ones she told the midwife and placed them
into empty sockets. the boy blinked as the visions of merchants
crossed and twisted with smoke from the flesh of all those jews
who burned. they were not saved. but isabelle's hair was.
the boy put it on the canvas, in place of a sky. at the lower corner
of the middle of the scene
were the black frocks of the inquisitors. columbus
blew across the sea, riding his woman holding
the reins of her hair in a wooden circlet
so missed opening night. he had a theory
to prove and eyes of glass to leave behind.

gardenia moon

she gives you the scent of spring
heavy with perfume and signal. behind
the strip mall, cigarette smoke
belittles dumpsters standing sentinel.
spill in creek call 427=9766 for info
flashes on the solar powered sign, both sides
of memorial drive. someone's gonna die
tonight, it won't be me though rain
comes hard upon dry boned land
a missile hatches

out of a dinger in a red
dress, someone somewhere's
gonna die tonight, tho cops cruise
and safety belts are worn , sirens blasted
streets fill with water, then the rains are gone
then the puddle then fey traces of water .

Saturday, March 28, 2009

the street regretlessly carried on

title== lisa gordon

canadian style daisies bloom
in the side yard. today i took the seedlings
transplanted them to the front
where the ripped roots of the orangeweed
left an empty space.
its flowers
are bedraggled, tattered bee
wings, an anodyne for hive.
persistence of a different stripe
needs purchase here.

glow cube in the window pane
color of absinthe & absense crawls
into numbers, additions lost
in t- minus calculus. the wind whips
across water starved grass
begging for more or less
what is missing in speed.

it strikes me that some alignment
of faith or perhaps subaudible loop
keeps powering the will to make honey.
science confirms this in various degrees
using different specimens and rigors.

masks of greek proportions filter
into the day time dream. i can't believe
i'm still searching for some objective truth
when my logic tells me i've found it
and it doesn't exist.

there are the hospital bed whites
of a heron on takeoff over my pond
late afternoon before the sky tinges
with reds, the grace in the angle
of light's fall. all this beauty in a drive by
moment, an after work reward.

i've turned a spindly tree overgrown
with vines into a creature that morphs
depending on the wind's directions.
it's no secret that i'm air, seeking mist
so i ask its various masks what are clouds
dreaming? it keeps mum,
bowing to the left and right yes and no
laughing in this i ching air.

in like a lion, out like a lamb
they say. i'm expecting sacrifice
at every moment. i heard the more
you give the more you take away
i've been into subtraction since childbirth.

already there's sufi for breakfast
and resonance as a chaser. sorry i missed
your call, but i want you
to try again. some black ribbon
connects us still, you know.
we could, any one of us, drive it someday.

Friday, March 27, 2009

wrapped in cold fusion

my lips are sealed, a core of platinum
and zanzibar melodies. if i chose
to call you moon then what will you do/
wane and wane till the sky goes dark.

took a seed , turned earth spin of this
skin into space junk. the vectors aren't
planned but threaten
the station, never the less. five mils wide
and a hole the size of burst lungs so we escape podded
lookin to plot a laser revival, where all the tiny hairs
dis integrate ,disinterest rate dislogicate. dis solved
we named you white.

chaos has fallen
to the floor, she stalks
solidity and misses fog's
white noise. a fan's slow
tick moves air and click
the music slick and tangible
loops like dj's frangible
syntax playing mentat language in bin that
made in china lost its luster
when faux chrome need a buffer
and nicotine's what suffers slings
a hard rox combustible.

what is this
weed of generations
that the pres won't make a station
on his holy journey to the fix
america cuz we so sick, did i say sick
no i mean slick, yeah slick n glossy
you know how we mean the bossy,
bet it, get it
gotcha forty acres got ya flossy
got a great hearse with an osprey
that be pulled by new orlean's horses
resurrection from dispora, gotta change
the language, let it e-volve in translation
stutter/scratch/like twofold snatch or
granite cleavage soft n devious
you can try to lift and seperate
but i think your back you'll herniate
tired of trying to control the big
e that the windows show how we
have lost the meaning so
just sit back and let it flow

just when i think i know you
that's the time when you submerge
i think i like the quiet there
of wind inside the verge
where all things blown up car bomb
that you live thru center blasted
like being blown a puff of seed
tossed into the dirt. so burrow, grow
borrow go, soon enough the deep churns
up, a creamy white shot face n cup.
don't forget it's how you got here
me n you in flagrante delectere.


do you know what i love about colbert?
he's all about pun.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

budhabong n chaos

budhabong is stretchin his legs
across the leopardprint sheet. chaos
lays in her mother's arms, tyin to sleep
when one plops on the other pushing
her off the nipple. a fight ensues. mom
just leans back, closes her eyes.

you tell me you can tolerate cats and dogs
but you don't own either. i begin to berate you
for the things your child is missing.
i have to stop myself. i don't even know you.
ok, so i'm bossy. i didn't grow up with 35 cats
and fifteen dogs in a three bedroom house
that had paths thru the hallways around
the shit no one had the strength
to pick up. cat piss is enervating.

we agree to one day smoke pot together
if we can get around to meeting
for a drink. i like your idea of east
coast getaways in the summer.
o wait. that's my idea.
here take it.

my gramma was a navy wife. i have
a handkerchief to prove it, so we have
about 3 degrees of separation and several
trines to discuss. i forget if they're
beneficent or boxy. i'm thinking
out of the box is where i want to get to.

i read the tarot, cuz i must. it's
an addiction now, my only free one.
but i won't read the spread i really want
to read. i'd rather be surprised
like i was when i reached out
to touch the curve of your neck
and the line of your jaw
as if you were standing
right here, instead of all the way
into a new poem that has yet
to be written.

plug and play

when you're feeling empty
remember how it is to pick
up a girl and stuff her
in your blankness. all you
have to do is use the word &
make her believe it.

you believe as well
as long as your beliefs
aren't challenged.

that's easy, with these new skins
we've developed. they create
a frame for the void,deflecting
for a moment where it comes from.
smoke and mirrors make a new self.

you wake up with clean registers
sparkly intentions, gracious blank
spaces to write new songs.

how is it you remember music?
some things must be preprogrammed.
those aren't wiped, they're written
on the chip. still, glitches develop.
subatomic burrows are wormholes in intention.
this keeps you playing the same song
despite your new efforts. you think

it sounds different so you record it.
some thing seems to be wrong
with the playback. you've heard this
one before. just stick it
in another box, forget about that you can
fix it when you get the time.
we have more skins for you to try.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

i only dream of you when i been drinkin

wake up, perplexed. how are you still in here
when you've moved so far past where i live?

used to love that, visits with the dead and gone.
now i want to rip the image in half, brush it onto
a sunset decoupage , toss it into one of these
drawers where all my pasts moulder.

you tell me to embrace the erotic sans flesh.
i insist i'm not that evolved. but i am eloved
and that has to be enough. bad chosens reiterate
into now. you could have loved me, once

but you didn't. now i'm voice of unrequited
while you go off in search of reunited. the ironies
multiply across the next us zone. my writing spins
out as untagged grafiti. memesque. i'm happy

it's almost warm enough for the beach
but not so warm it's a bath.

i'll never ever
ever understand men. and i'm getting to the point
where i'm no fun anymore
i am sorry.
i wanted to know you.but
i guess i do. you said deep
and i concurred. what i didn't
is how you stay that way.
dive man, dive into what ails you
keeps you flat on the surface.

no one can handle
the truth of someone else. it's ok,

i'm like fire that fades
without consumption.
compatibility takes a bit of working thru,
a dance of left foot right foot.
surely there is some
mountain of wikinfo that goes
into this, albeit in a comic book way.

if i hadn't felt
the flame i would have stayed
in my bed.
that's a truth that kindles
lighthearted and deciduous
thru slats on the side of the road.
tissue thin and contemptible
are desires borne in flesh.
they fade at frosts and crackle
in the burning summer.

time is an essence few wish to share.
your problems remain yours
and mine are mine. poisons
divide us. they look
like asphalt streets and concrete, smell
like the price of gas or a trip
to the moon. it's ok. i'll never
understand men. soon
i will cease to desire that. looking
forward to the fade. you teach me how,
simply by remaining what you are.
don't ever change.

Saturday, March 14, 2009

litany of things

i've got, i've got, i'd like to get
this new pot or that new bling.

grrrk. consumer ism.

scarey movies and titles of capricorn
take the will and move along.
on the road to falujah
a potential exposed, explodes effectually
into trines and create new signs.

you were cruel to me, and i held on to it
like gruel to my extra spine. now you
get new hips, spangled and fangled
but your heart is reused. and so you build
a story on it, all yen yang and probable.


Friday, March 13, 2009

one day the tarot

will hold no news of you.
the thread that holds us
will burn like a filament
in a old bulb. einstein would be
proud that time runs in both
directions, just like an equation
that doesn't care which side
of the road you're on
since everything's all even now
all equitable-like and you begin
to tell karma to kiss your ass.


Lead [-]

(03/08/09 20:02:12)


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why do you write about me
like cannons blasting or resistance
with a stuffed belt. it's not that we don't know
each other, intimately after all
this time, it's thru the mirror, into the inside
where amour damages most.
he grabbed her cigarettes and tore them
in half. she admired the passion.

why do you write about me as if i were
a subliminal holistic bottle of essence?
swains offer broken hollly sprigs
in spring, after easter, when heads batter
against portals, waking from hibernation
and the bitter taste of winter.
a fair of walking proportions, a pre enginized engine
a reproduction of simpler times.

whence walks the wench in this charade?
is she a soldier too?

why do you write about me as if i were a soldier--
and if u were added, we have soul die r.
you don't like the implications of that.
this is why you're my favorite guy.

and if you write about me
does that mean you love me or are you stealing
my stories, are you taking my flesh? soul eater
because you have none of your own?

there is a lot i would excuse myself for
but the worst is being an invalid friend.
still, i would excuse myself. i write you
in metaphor and dance, i read you
into my romance while you're making a poem
of show, how you pull me into where
you were, distancing what i went thru
as if you were the choreographer's muse.
just a show, just a metaphor from pain.


on the other flavor flave.

some times a u is exactly the right thing.
you're exasperated with the way the burn out
keeps spilling holes into ego. so you put it in perspective.

yeah, you do. jimmy, jimmy. your chiseled abs
sprawled across the grotto floor, the ghetto wall, the gradient screen.
there was no geometry to inhabit, the s & m fell like irony
from your gut. take the mortgage and the job and the child
and the immortal words of shakespeare into a blank room
and fill out this form. yeah sure. check do over.


now, are you doing over? the subtle twist of reality
finally getting thru to you? yeah. read cioran this morning?
the dyspeptic romanian could not let a happy thought
spoil his post coital cocktail. he finished rubbing
his navel and sighed. another day, endured.

i think he secretly laughed. he lived to be eighty or something.
that's like 169 in writer years.


actually i like sundays. sometimes i get a call
i really want and sometimes i get emergency calls
but mostly i just kinda look around the web
read salon, the news of the coming armeggedon. we're
pretty much all gonna die, lenny. scope out the fishing
see what might materialise out of the blue. some times
things look hopeful, a cleansing breeze coming out of the north
bringing rain and rebirth to parched out florida.

sometimes there's tornadoes ripping across the landscape
and i think how one family's horror is a spin away
from mine. i don't want to be fatigued about it.
i want to open the doors and load a bed on a truck
or send some blankets and sheets over to selma and the kids.
we have some cans in the pantry too. see if they need
to spend the night. we have room.


dunno why i call it chiral.
doesn't even appear symmetrical.
i disappoint the reader-- myself.

gathering sunlobes ^ criss oilnational typhoons

the cat has pink eye or a cold
there are poultices in a herb garden
enough to heal glossolalia but no
remedy for a virus. the iris melts into tomorrow,
half closed and thinking of the purple lighter
swaddled in a bevy of cleaning.

unpacking tomorrow, alone with survivable
memoir, you place your things in intenerant situations
sterile again, scrubbed with fire
and sand,just as on the prairie you crossed
where you lost your partner, some scope of future, a scrap
standing in a snowstorm. anyway the plates
were clean, worm free. the children, at least
survive. there is music to free up the starts.

you blunder into the bathroom, trip
over a crate of cares, bark a shin.
was it yours? feeling around for the string
you realize there is a switch. feeling around
for the switch you realize there is an opening
thru which you absurdly fall. the doctors
never mention this. the piano takes up

too much space. you don't care what the decorator
paid for the thing, this time it goes. portraits
of the children hang awry, as if a medium sized
wind had torn thru the hallways. the butler
brings you a tray of single
ply toilet
you sniff.

sniff again. place the box
into the closet, turn to the holder, load
it. the camera zooms out. a moth
under the bed lands on a shell
case. the instrument inside waits.
that's what makes things so comforting.
they don't need patience.


you want to deglaciate
release co2 into the atmosphere
bring about a rise in see level.

it's been so blind in here these days.
the drama has recently ended , you think,
knock on some wood. the kittens stir
and momma cat burrows into the dresser
like a fox. if you leave the drawer open
she will move them. the other night
the gray one was caught in the runners
and mewled pitifully, as kittens will do when uncorked
from the nest, wings caught in a branch.

the tension of the reversal is not enough
to make the deck come out of hiding.
they all left you, one by one
and you will not see them again.
the latest is just an example
of getting only part of you
the rest tangled in roots so far
below the surface your casket will need
a facelift to hold your body.

you just wanted someone to get you
and that's when the dancer met the stage
holding up a sing like in those forties musicals
revised in harry potter and reconfigured
for after the math, when we become irrelevant.
but the bard, the bard that outmoded fuck
will not. AND he didn't even do it first.


so the mighty are getting their island
plans together. we are the dust that gathers
in their looms, persephone's pomegranite seeds, no
the flesh she sliced off to get to them. i want
to be in a salad and you want to sorbet.
either way there's six months of rebirth coming.
good thing time's speeding up. at this rate
inflation might be the cure. when accosted

on the corner by pms, the lorry was quick
to point out it had not seen the dog lunge
or the leash of its owner, now battered and forgotten,
like a graduation present at the top of a brothel.
it was sorry for the inconvenience but could you step
down a midstroke while it got its tiers decorated?

you complied, still holding the tin roof from the shanty
in which you first took residence , here
in the land of epiphanies in a pill.
you thought it would return as soon as the cell phone
bill was paid, but alas, several weeks later
and you're almost out of water and food and the damn
natives circle the huddle of possessions like crows
and sharpeis sinffing opportunity. the wrinkles
sag, they look older each morning. the captain wants
to take a gun and reach misery by morning.
i'm thankful you stayed
his hand.

no one wants to deal with the burials.


now the paint's thinning. the rut in the road
is as deep here as a thousands seconds ago.
all that history to follow. it makes you want
and for that you're greatful. another night on the trail
another tial lawyer with half pockets and omulets of ohm.
i'd say take him up on it. but you'e not a gambler.
and besides you dh't hve cab fare home.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

it's not quite morning

the sun's not officially in the sphere
of burning thru the aether. the moon hangs
like a vanilla wafer to the west, over
your head, going down. still
above the high school, it's surreal
as only reality can get. its mass
rests on the ramparts of education.
traffic is sparse, moving in quantum space
i fit into the stream, boozle past the languid
cop whose arms are by his side
imitating kafka and berries
and drop the boy off
for another day
where mystic reality snapped
into being on the turn of a boson.

on the way home, her face receeds
framed in trees that slide at 40 mph.
the sky a savannah, birds small as elephants
eclipsed by her beauty. freckles move
over the visage of some alien light
that escapes the dog's lunge. still
the lunge. tonight we'll catch her
in a lens as she moves exposed
over the continents we crawl.
but we won't hold her. she can
only be kept in distance
from these arms.

where are your poems?

thinking of the music you said you like. at the time
i swished music into my head, vivaldi or a season
maybe. my hands have been tied, they let me loose
for a few minutes in the day to scratch my itch
but by then, nothing comes. i write in red on the back
of diet plans, the old man comes round with the keys
looking for a lock, bees stumble over newly burst
flowers, swimming in scent, palpable as waves
and wings. i steal grommets of time, layer
them over a antimony and tin, heat them
into a cloistered vista, 1 gig of rom just to load.
you are the vector of my first wakening. the moon
fell into my mouth and disappeared, i slept
before i meant to, like some zen master, obeying
body because the metaphysical was tuning up
but not ready to orchestrate a longer day.

Saturday, March 07, 2009

chiral symmetry

anti sparks move down the bosonmate's
plank. a seafarer does better on the sea
me hearties. grab your chiral symmetry
and meet me in the fermion field. i'll bring
a blanket, you can pack the basket. grapes
under the sun perpendicular to bottles, tipped
gape mouthed, dry past a last drop. someone
drained you. scuze me while i traipse up
these zigguraut steps to these angles
wrapped in s left handed flaviur

find a sacred trial

it's important to be very clear
and strict and rational right now.
dunno why. superstition has made my life
so rich, battling demons not mine
but echoes of your life. i let my demons
crawl out the windows, or be transformed
by small doses of drugs.

i have no answers, only questions
that can't seem to articulate
themselves in the proper way
to query gods. mainly i guess
as to their structure, then move
my fingers in imitation of spells.

i think jack's right, i just need
to get out of my skin for a while.
step on a rainbow. become it.


the truth is she doesn't know where to begin
this close to the end. she could go over
the way her choices enriched her, the fact of choices
being a blessing,not curse. how knowing
but not believing in yourself is perhaps
the slyest curse, while believing in yourself
and little else is the most painful.
most path of most resistence.
why did she have to be a root on the river bank
a pebble in a shoe, a cog in the machine?

oh damn girl. why not? on the occasion
of a fiftieth year of this planet she felt
every node and nexxus that had come from
the seed of her soul//excuse the gardening metas
excuse the butterflies and moths and chrysali,
excuse the excuses most of all//but
you don't have to excuse soul.
that's the one thing we don't have choice in do we?

or do we?
justin says we don't. neitsche and cioran and baudrillard
says we don't. the river says we don't.
why does she insist on transformation?
the positive flipped on its back
the negative now light. she knows
about hole travel vs electron travel
how the positive is merely a space
moving thru spinning collectives embracing
them for a submicronano, then moving on--
a spin in the close blanket of barn dance
or when he bent
her in reverse, kissed her neck
as she watched the full moon rise.
the orchids they made in the summer twilight.
the spattering patterns of light and dark
found in the disco ball's shadow.

she disliked his greed because it mimicked
hers in its cloth. his priorities were as fucked
as hers were when her children needed nest.
but he was even more a sow than her. he had to buy
into the dream, pay money for it then try to cling
to what is ephemeral. she did not collect,
she was given things to dust. she dusted.
she had to learn to give away.
he had to learn to let go.

on her shelf of tiny things
a tiny box of tarot cards,scored
from his fire. his convictions
she mangled with anachronism and anarchy.
her convictions he pirated, set into different
metalled chains that flowed down the centuries
like a midsummer night's dream. she watched
them glitter around his neck,prayed he wouldn't
hang himself or nag himself into a preternatural
economy. one was lost, another on the verge,
a woman's head slides under the water
for a third time. ripples across a pond
throw striated sunlight on goose
eggs. the embryos stir.


daisies have come up
next to the pizza box
on the side yard. you

can hear the grass complain
feel its thirst as you walk
over its crackling yellow.
a spur clings to your instep
begging to be taken from this place.

you don't understand how
allowing entropy into the system
snowballs. the battle against it
is always futile, that's the promise
of dark matter, but serenity is in
the trying. the trial you told him

he had to make for his own sake.
you're not sure if there's a wave up
and out of here. all signs point to no.

maybe you do take that gun and put it in your mouth
no one would miss you, except your mother.
i would miss you, she says into her kerchief
thinking of her immortality in a casket. you

gone before her. bastard. little ingrate.
why do you hate me so much? this is why god
turned his back on us. you want free will? she asks.
how could it be any other way? i just want you
to be happy.

Friday, March 06, 2009

dear pres o sidio

the presidio. sometimes do you
feel as if this is what becomes you?
fortified coastal barracks
waving goodbye to the goodbuy privateers
goodby haliburtin goodbuy enron ron da en ron ron.

it's all falling apart on your watch
and the stinking financial markets are as greedy
as they ever were. can we just talk some serious
al quaida jail times for the wizards of wall street
for once/ for

upon a time there were wolves in our midst
who promised us gold if we let then in our henhouse.
so we opened the door and they said let us take
these eggs for safekeeping and each of gave these
eggs to the wolves, because they were so strong
let us protect your investments they said
so we did. later they came back and told us
they didnt know what happened to the eggs
but their bellies were fat,like limousines,
their coats glossy as private jets,piggy bank
eyes, sated and lolling. so we killed some
of them and put the others in a pen
then gave them their brethren for dinner. later
we crossed them with the dogs we bred for sledding
still feeding them each other, and still later
we took them to our enemy's camps and let them lose.
every think has its use.

so what do you do with the wolves here, now/?
i think you could make the right decision
but you have to stop caving to the enemy. what they're doing
is not going to help. change. the promise. remember change.
let's get a new contract with america. talk about insuring
not being the job of employers but of community.
how america is a community, give us numbers
and statistics, the real ones, that point out how much
we spend per capita for health care, with public dollars
right now. the futility of maintaining health
in a viral body. time for the emetic. time for
this trading on the margin to cease.

i dunno, frankly, herr general, how you are
going to mobilise the thinkers. it's
imperitave for you to retrain the mobile.
where's a cool propoganda machine when you need it?


looks like pepsi. gawd michelle
can't you do something with him?

if i'd have known, for certain, for absolute
certain, i would never have believed.


it's just, hope. ya know?
like evolution might take hold
and produce not metrosexuals so much as
thinking, non violent males. however challange
is simply the core of being. sadly, it's not
limited to the male, tho it seems to be
less a point of honor in most females.

tho my apple pie is the best at the fair this year.

smirk at self.


smirk at satisfied self.

smack asshole selfrighteous self yo


honestly b, i thought you were da man
i thought you might not cave to the masters
but it's tuff to keep the peeps mobilized
and then the way they keep you from
the zeitgeist thru insulation, pink
thick lips of it, licorice tinted limo
windows, the waves of power troll
thru the a/c on the drive from your mansion
to the ...where ever it is people gather
on sundays or other religious holidays.

you know, the little peeps who put you there.

come on. instead of playing ball, call their bluff.
oh, it takes credit? well i can print money
with the best of them. i know i know
i'm being simplistic. only certain cretins
will play this particular game
and if we take away their ball there's likely
to be some kind of scuttle in the hood
all fulla drive bys and let them sort it outs.

well. i dunno. tough call. can't you just
grab their balls and say you get behind me
or i'll let them lynch you.

plenty of smart peeps on the inside. plenny of frictions
for the machine...

Monday, March 02, 2009

in the closet the cat

thin mints are addicting he
says as he walks out the door
with a sleeve

in the closet the cat prophet
sleeps, recovering
from emasculation. the young
man says to the somewhat stunned
from drug-and-alien- car ride feline
i love you prophet
you'll be okay.

grades and basketball injuries
negotiations for points and papers due
a blossoming after fever. wings sprouted
overnight, but tender still and damp
as peachfuzz in morning dew.

i was a smart woman, under mushroom cloud
stirring thick soups with undercored ladles.
friction of dirty oil, a subversive gum.

his pale stripes wash out after that,
no longer imprisoned in short pants
knowledge battles will and the keys
begin to rebel. they have their own stories
to tell, and it's not going to be prophet
who bats the ball back
into this court he's
napping in the closet of his birth

well said the woman in the card. she was a queen. one of four
suits with powers and insights into the subwoofing
areas of arising. you told me of the shaman, a woman
in the village of your story, the delicate way
she wove out of town at the exact right moment
as it seems to go that way
in tales that outlive
their makers.
the cards
have a way of revealing a veil inside a veil
and reckonings ripple thru light, exposing
nothing saved on film
unless you had a camera.

the cat's life is intimately changed.
his sister, due
to be fixed as well, nurses two kittens
the boy coaxed out of mother's belly before
the gray haired witch took them for slaughter.

i'm glad they survived.