InkwellofUnknown

November 13, 2010

The familiar blue ether of my office chair was enveloping my back; fluorescents wove their dull rods ‘round my optic nerves. I glanced outward, over the beige partitions tacked with phone extensions, office cheat sheets, and random cartoons printed from the ‘net, and through the tiny cube of window two hundred feet west of me, to the world outside.

Sunlight sinlight prowled jauntily over the street corner, and just beyond it a park with its pocket of vegetation beckoned. A figure moved along the grass there; female, barefoot, curvature silhouetted by the brightness. A well of ink rested in the palm of her left hand, and a pen sat elegantly in her right. Even at this distance I could make out the ink that swirled in its glass container; a strange tincture that caught refractions of light and spat them back into my retinas in multiple hues at once earthily natural and unaccountably alien.

She twirled the writing implement between her fingers, dipping it into the well, and removed it with a flick of a slender wrist. Then she began flicking the ink-impregnated pen at the earth, grasses, plants and trees around her.

Droplets of the fluid splashed against disparate points of the vegetation, and I could see organic forms erupt from the earth in reply. The first droplet initiated the arrival of a lush pod which swelled and unpeeled its husk to reveal a full and layered orange bloom, multiple leaves curling and undulating as traces of red ran through the petals like capillaries. Several smaller sprays of the alien tincture alighted on an unremarkable clutch of weeds skulking between the broad green leaves of a rhododendron bush; globes of syrupy moisture grew from the shriveled nubs at the weeds’ ends, and each of the balls of fluid gradually slid open, pink-irised eyes orbiting their pearly encasement and surveying the world they’d just been born into.

Blossoms and plants previously unknown to this modest island of the organic overgrew the simple greens and browns; some curling and clawing at the air like gaudily-painted and famished animals fixing to devour the pedestrians who strode by insensate; others, floating and bobbing sensually against the wind in an attempt to seduce the anesthetized passersby from their torpor.

Even from the box that encased me I could see them;  smell them; taste the odd fruits that fell lazily from their stalks and buds to the earth to regenerate progeny even more exotic and sweet than their elders. Time to walk out the door and to elsewhere, my mind said in between the words the whole swirling mass of botanical strangeness sang in syncopation with the afternoon air.

Many Bubbles

July 29, 2010

How I dream it

Her voice and maybe the way those damned orbs, windows as usual; all round and enveloping,  jettison sadness as

she drags her fingertip across the spiny alien surface; pulp glistens. Nail through skin juice sweet or bitter or vegetative (Russian Roulette of sensory)

threads, pregnant serpents full of sweetness, between my teeth and hers challenge to extract that milky white fiber or satchel of juice from between hers with swipe of my tongue. Lizards—no. Or maybe.

Just her id and mine; the latter stronger now than previous and taking her hand wrapping my arms around licking dew with her shoulder and the smell of her I’ve been there before never tire of it capacity infinite she knows and in time it will open and she’ll arrive too

emphasis on second-to-last two-syllable utterance

Scorpion

July 5, 2010

It hid amongst the caramelized and crisp leaves; armored form of efficient menace coiled and waiting.

Its black eyes stared at me as my face

 moved closer. Bound and determined, I was, to face it and drink the fear of its poison like some hard liquor. It unwound its tail, stinger glistening with venom and afternoon dew. I opened my mouth and smiled.

One lone drop of its poison beaded and dropped upon my tongue–the bittersweet tincture heated the inside of me.

Stung less than I expected

Unconventional Way

May 21, 2010

Uneasy

would be the sensation, I reckon.

Seems straightforward enough to me but for the superficial obstacles laid out by all without:

I’ll get there by all that is

Summer will tell

Stand for them he will as his clawed fingers wrapt around the handles of the glowing scarlet paddles on one side was tattooed The tiny passengers looked out the windows in awethe image of a naked woman writhing in flames (damn, she was sexy); on the other side there was something akin to a wispy cloud, shaped as it was like a belly dancer, maybe the taut one opposite

He walked just beyond the window; gesturing to bring the small yellow airship into its three-point landing on the work table. The passengers would step off onto the tarmac, blissfully unaware of the burning smell that wrestled the air with impunity. All of them, gone for good because of their own inability to articulate

Glad I wasted the non-refundable airfare by missing it, I was

It was on fire, or maybe just aglow

or something, that morning

So recently I’d had my eyes re-opened to

something that was seen clarion and incomparably desirable,

just a few moons a few dozen moons ago; 
 
and his sunfire hands scattered seedlings of a kind, to plant

                     in her head                                                         

her beautiful multicolored brain

Talking Chair

February 28, 2010

Old man with his cracked and angular lips;
 
Has bawdy stories to tell, which he relates with a twinkle
 
                                         as I graze past, sunblind and strangely beautiful as I’ve always been

Seawater has its way

February 11, 2010

Partition, silk and moistened,
adheres and I caress her o’er the fabric while seahorses neigh and race

She did turn; strode towards the churning foam
Lone strip of gray fabric, tattered yet smoothed by saltwater

passing along
my palm

Saturated

Her head rests on her white shoulder
lips pastel and sensual

one ribbon of restless blue above

Those lips serenaded it to reality

Spring was the Star of the Evening Revue 

Confused so far?
                                     I was.

 No; no good reason why.

She and I talked like we’d never been apart and hid ‘neath a veil 

 of tasty nocturne silk. 

I knew her mind and she knew why and how we both tasted when spring

was still the main character

and reality kept its haughty distance