Art

The Farmer

The Sunset field by E M Shafer

And they spread across my momentary page
with their feet deep in the wet grass
and they point their hands in the sky,
the rays are always sunset-orange,
they stand
looking over the field,
the river of blood
of their forefathers
flowing under their ground,
and they say
and they repeat,
someone must endure
for the debts of this world
to be freed.

The tyranny of time

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Melting Clocks by Salvador Dali

The maiming face,
the captain on the wall
trots to climb upon the ceiling
for its ambition to mimic the sun–
its father
its own time.

I look at the wind
how loose
for there is no rhythm,
in its fingers to seduce,
to clasp it’s own self,
and there is but a rustle
of a mellow present
without a (wait)

At my navel
it strongholds
and etches upon me like a yet another circular tattoo,
that I forgot
is man-made.

The metaphor of the bird

Image result for Lorena Pugh Surreal Oil Painting of Sheet on Clothesline in the Country
Lorena Pugh Surreal Oil Painting of Sheet on Clothesline in the Country

How many times have I
criticized the metaphor of the bird,
when my mother would say
how free
is she
and I’ll put my hand
upon my cold forehead,
It doesn’t ring right,
I tell her,
it is a projection into
wishful thinking.

It is unruly for you, I tell her,
to fly without airports,
immigration officers,
the office cicadas,
the old regular bloated system
to color within the lines,
the patterned sweat it brings upon your back,
the despair of
the black and white, dust-colored earth
that holds your feet.

I think of the rain–
often I wish to sink
in earth, in a paradox of
feeding back the fertility
with a gift of sleep,
and perhaps the satisfaction of
a life-long debt repaid
is the final flying.

Alien

Image result for motel surrealism
Artist unknown

In a dream,
an unconscious town
wrapped in the dusk of a cheap motel
where lights circled like afternoon houseflies
–alientation–
this is your name.

Like an arc
of time
spread upon a bow
and with each malignant touch
the veins open
and the room rings with an effort of a Darwin
‘adapt lest you die’,
but I don’t
and I won’t

die
for I am to witness
–alienation–

A moment of bliss

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Engraving by Johann Ulrich Kraus c. 1690.

Things keep happening
O what is new to foretell–
scratching his soft beard,
Tiresias slips into his twin-bed
and dreams of a shepherd
in a song of reaping,
that is,
neither to sow
nor to sell;
but the snakes soon unravel.

The Room

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My life lays scattered on my bed,
the objects, the body parts,
a hand paired with a bow
a foot strangling the leg of the bed
a hollow-eyed German doll
a bastard-colored coffee mug
a pillow of some delicate virgin
the aged ash in a steel bowl
a floral rice cooker
a snooping miniature of a black cat–

In disbelief,
I (real)ize
into things.

Flu

Image result for white flower surrealist
Photo by Sayaka Maruyama

There has been a dousing
of all the tumult
that blows our way
for all our castles overhead,
we submerged a little bit
and slept without sorrow with the may flower–
without sorrow,
O without sorrow.

Without sorrow
we were home in our chests
and the wind began to feel like water,
for this is strange;
the mind sleeps
when the body fights.

Song for one more sleep


Image result for insect surrealism morning
Monday Morning by Nikolina Petolas

There was a whistling
right after the morning fell off it’s egg shelf
and broke in the tundra of
life-leaking toothbrush basin,
like some rabid dog
tearing nail for tooth

My hands with some old mosquito blood
caught a hold of this insect
and placed it upon the bicycle of
a man selling sofa and cushion covers;
as a result,
it dilapidated
it coughed–
ousting the vigor of the southern spring
and other marooned extravagances like
political declarations, love-promises,
essence.

In a small monotone
my morning paddles with this man,
dragged into the sullen of the afternoon,
laid with the song of a distant Koel bird,
It is now
put to rest,
put to sweet-sweet sleep.