Who decided that we should ‘shoot’ emails?
"Come on baby, dance with me!" or, My beach shack face.
Lovely spotted smiles
gaining scuttled traction over seas of singular irises.
stopped only by
bits of lonely sand
by opal teeth and regurgitated by the incandescent sheen of egg-white happiness.
I pick up each discarded sheath.
Half of me
anticipates the treasured grit within. A mystery. Something worth covering is something worth finding.
The other half
To string a series of
discarded pearls to wear
and show I know
what happiness is.
I toy with the irregular bead
those beautiful smiles
to grab my hand, eyes brightened
and steal it away from me.
rub it between
my forehead and thumb
and use the wrinkles
between my fingers
to catalogue each
stopping my glassy gaze only to slip,
like a dove sewn into a magicians coat,
the tiny pearl into
a nest of rough canvas hidden in my pocket.
a million other lonely smiles.
Angels on the bus; Demons on the train.
They all had halos
reflections caught and diffracted in the
shakey shrine of a journey folded and amplified and reduced for
Their faces were tired, some of them.
Eyelids carried weight and the silted cheek of dusty words spoken lay fragmented over their muscles and
trail worn shirts.
unimaginable distance with
nervous rubber and plastic corners.
Beautiful, organic creatures.
Casted down from the godliness they so silently thrived for.
They all had halos.
And in the common jolt of well worn roads
supporting, cracking, blistering
under the weight of a million golden mirrors and mimickers,
hallowed skin glowing in the midst of dirt,
He spoke of damnation.
The emergency light flickered
Red blinking light.
His face was shrouded by the sweat of a thousand days
willing away the light of the world.
"And the end will come…"
Spoke the tattered prophet to the steel frame.
All avoided his muses
but the emergency intercom
rusted in brimstone breath.
His reign continued and the cabin was silent.
The same silence that
the cold cool stillness of sanity, championed.
The intercom wilted to death under his pressure
poised in misused disbelief.
from skin, eyes, and mouth.
They don’t call it sunrise for nothing.
"Good morning, sir!" he smiled
shattering my freshly dried grimace
that I used to ward off the grime
He was smoking a crisp cigarette in front of one
of those new vaudeville low income housing
He looked ruffled but
I had never seen a smile
so well folded.
He took that damned smile,
gritting ash between his lungs and exhaling a magicians vapor,
and scattered my
and dusty mask with an infinity
of wrinkles and grinning eyes.
And he folded my lips,
until I was something smiling too.
I was defeated
exposed to the joy of
anothers lovely morning.
a blind man on
the early morning express bus
thrust his money
at the driver setting
aside his walking stick
we all sat
bus driver counted with sticky-gloved fingers
God wasn’t up yet
but he refused to sin anyway.
Noise, din, and music.
It flutters through the mossy
carpet of a quiet room in
the shattering of foot steps.
The same footsteps that would clap like a fallen leaf in the height of a fall gust unnoticed.
The smallest whisper fades into
a realm of shoe-box emotions
in the ring of a plaza
it shivers the spin laced in humid
and languid sheets.
The lonely and toneless grey thud of a stressed drum plays a different, joyous tune paired with the voluble rays of string and reed and even skin.