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  • mono 2:05 pm on May 21, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , , holga, , , , , , postmodern   

    Encroach (1-3) 

    1.
    Stagger, sway only into the last haul.
    Jagged feet of my own that realize
    such a haunting dread of displacement.
    The self subsumed by currents, by the Bleak.
    A path through the dense green thickness
    and now an opening with branches like tendrils
    tendons tickling scraping the face gently.
    This, the first limping leg of the journey.

    2.
    And then, a gap, the pouring mist
    comforting and painful, swaying between the two
    Must seek some shelter, but the green now overgrown
    sticks the side with a glint of anticipation.
    The first to get soiled are the feet, damp feet, earthy.
    At last, the residence in its wholeness, yet the front visible
    wet wood alive absorbing the pouring mist.

    3.
    Laughter from the inside of the mouth (or is it a cry).
    It is difficult to decipher.
    The coded speech, the crackling glimmer of a smile, breaking and forming.
    He stumbles now, bumping into things and trees overwhelmed by the forgotten Bleak.
    Reels akimbo and slips into the overgrowth, its green mushiness comforts him.
    But, he has yet to reach the house, is it a house? Stands. Limps.
    This time it is his right leg, no knee, which cracks whenever he steps, so he drags.
    The door is close and the porch, of course, screeches as he applies pressure.
    Wet foot cracking knee slip and he recklessly smacks the wooden floor,
    a tooth loose upon impact.
    The door, a handle? No handle, of course it is an extension of the wall. Mirages appear
    from time to time, this time now a door and then a porch. Still, this must be the second
    leg of the journey, the limping creaking snapping whining journey.
    He manages up a bit, a wheeze. His long gray hair frazzled now, matted oddly damp.
    This is the rain soaked paradise, a house, the house
    he knows and has seen this residence. Turning head and
    glancing slowly back, a slight prickling pain in his side sees
    the yard, the overgrown green and across the wet bleak firmament,
    another residence, sparkling wood damp…all that dampness.

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  • mono 2:49 pm on May 20, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , doom, Energy, Energy and Environment, , , , postmodern, , ,   

    A Wind-Whipped Umbrella (2 Eyeslit Tankas) 

    Dripping shards of grass
    The obfuscated sun-slime
    of a bleak current
    Encircle toward the Vague
    If only to sink within

    The shivering self
    and a wind-whipped umbrella
    I stumbled at last
    Not so luminous under
    a silk quilt epiphany

     
    • Jeff Jefferson 11:43 pm on May 20, 2008 Permalink

      “Sun-slime” …!

      Such a cool notion; the sound of that word is great. Both of these tankas have great sound and rhythm to them.

    • jgrefe 6:53 am on May 21, 2008 Permalink

      Jeff Jefferson, thank you very much. Hopefully Michigan will be an inspiring place this summer to reflect and craft some new poetry. Hope to meet up with you again this year, your schedule permitting.

  • mono 2:42 pm on May 20, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , , , , postmodern, typhoon   

    Night Typhoon 

    Night cold hum and whistle from outside the window. A man standing too soft to see. The breeze floating once has now been stifled, shut off just a steady wave remains piercing the air, a dog whistle, a tone. Night cold hum and gristle from the dinnertime pork, the supple fat mashing between yellow teeth. There is a cup, a distant haze as the laundry machine spins, works so as to create a temporary solace, a moment of blissful engagement. You walked into a bar, not alone this time. There on the counter a turtle in a box, an assortment of dead fish, cheap and delicious. Night cold drums that you thought you heard, only your heartbeat, your neck twitches sometimes and yet you remember some voice, some memory like a snapped photograph, like a blurry aftermath of developed film.

    Only voice felt seen, a rasp emerging (erupting) what you thought you thought, your body twitches neck ablaze now no news, a typhoon and yet you were not there that time, but might be possibly soon. Still heart beating resounding crevices pulled tight the string, the hum, dull yet bubbling painful, often so, you think, still regaining enough energy to pull on your kingly robe at night. The blue robe that you bought, when exactly did you buy it? Some time ago in a discount store it was there, the size just right, just enough in range for you waiting for you, a warmth now in the dirty garbage room of your life, she said. The mirage of the other side, the life of other people waiting for you to come along, not knowing that you would arrive so early, not ready for your bumbling intrusion. There was sunlight, but masquerading in the brightness of the day, that day, today you imagine will be a little different, a tiny bit more wholesome, perhaps. Little do you know that on this particular day, no not today, it was a different day, you would tire for only after a few hours of footwork, a few hours of brain mashing and then retire to a cold quiet place for respite. The staring glare kisses back, blackness of empty tides are always pinning you to the floor, holding you down.

    Woods, green flesh molded melting precipice and the lunch that was packed in a plastic bag from the supermarket. How fitting that nothing remained, that everything was eaten, devoured. Chirp, dissolve, chirp implode into conscious reflection of some other forgotten thicket, a woods that you once inhabited, an ordinary spot near the house that you used to wait at when you were a boy. For who? No recollection, no empty spots left. That memory floated in, pushed itself into emergence this afternoon as the blue chair and the empty old room provided the perfect place for a doze, a concentrated work-related doze, a slip a slip. The day beat clear this afternoon, the day before the typhoon. Now, waiting for the rain, waiting for the wind window open and listening to the evening tide concert of cicadas and electrical wires pulsing (no, buzzing) as sharp shards piercing flesh, skewering sinews beat against your window repeatedly, over and over, repeating, repeating.

     
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