Three Masses From Afar

Ember rest
Again
Reset when

Twilight falls upon this vermillion-
Washed lakeland feel at home feel
At home here laughter like
Landscapes puncturing aqueous mirrors;

Islands unexplored in true measure

Incendiaries seen incendiaries
Felt beating
Away at tree trunks add
Another ring another year tied to finger left of center

Aluminum cans popped
Open fizzling, silently we roar,

Silently we all roar

Tamping gravel to dirt,
Memory to stone

Which of us will bear
The brightest constellation?
Carry the boulder-blasted torch songs
Towards empyreal horizon?

All dancing
All dancing
Trances set
To still-life in motion,

Cricket orchestras illuminated as if
Actually fireflies

Smoke,
A burn
Smoldering supple
And endearing

1,2,3,4

So come with me sunflowers
Masquerade yourselves in cloaks of humid forgetfulness

A hand a petal a liqueur
Sweet and welcoming find what truth hiding
Amongst locations left unknown:
Along shorelines littered
With millions organic mirrors,
Where are we in these grains of sand?
Slowly digging further into out of habit
Maybe out of hope
Are we trying to feel more
Trying to feel all the minute interpretations
Of our own existences at once?

Leaving nothing to chance
Collapse waves beckon wheat forevers
Come with me sunflowers,
We’ll dream restlessly
Waste days away entranced by sleep fever hazes
Wander stubbornly stuck near bloom
Rotating from season to season
Water to wine reason to reason,
What light shines on a single moment-
Dusty windowpanes revealing a rainbow of colour,
What truth is there when a minor shift in perspective
Reveals so much more,
How can we possibly persist in not knowing truly,
What we are?

Sunflowers bright and safe
I’ll admit that this life is lost upon me,
Your company brings comfort
A warm blanket to cover this cowering frame,
Under shade your body an umbrella
Sipping sweet and welcoming,
What truth
What truth
Falling asunder settling to horizon
Sunshine sediment falling,
Falling away
Our shadows merged together,

I felt at peace

Gap Year

Make the most of it they say,
As if that’s not
What we’re already trying to do
Though definitions vary between late
Evenings and impending sunrise,
Watch night sky glisten with match
Sticks striking skin, a glimmer of pointillism
Find our way home by connecting the dots
Taking time holding onto consequence of being
Together under assumption that if these eyes
Never close dawn can never come
But it does and how sweetly significant it is
That the day can end in reverie against such
Sullen cries of waning innocence

Pulled awake with thick honey beams
Shrugged off residual suppositions
Lingering still a soft pot of moral support ready
To mitigate existential insecurity waits eagerly
In the kitchen or outside painted as neoteric
Portraits of wash-town forests
Take a break decide course of action
Stretch and listen leaves whisper hymnals
For the day’s intent, sing along
A chorus of vibrant arrangement

To run or wander is always
The question the Great Mother Moon asks,
To rest or mend is what’s requested when
Our eyes open, revealing again an opportunity
To repeat or start anew

A Change of Pace

Replace windowpanes with cliff faces
Journey to a more natural
State through a pasted collage
Of picturesque contours equating
The bends of our elbows to the
Curves of limestone escarpments and
Speaking- roots break up chrome screens
Covering teeth it hurts at first; to crumble
At the fault of growth, to freeze
In the winter, to warm up and readily accept
Fish spawn hooks strung to poles in the summer,
Then it simply
Doesn’t anymore, we breathe
Sink sipping into eagle feathers
Seeing an aerial view as if being
Human is a stepping stone and this
Is where we truly belong
Syncopating ground with atmosphere
Here with there moving in slow grace
To nature migrating look!
To nearest distance: a sunset of whitetail deer
Envelops a lighthouse purls
At a beach decorated with soft sangria-capped fossils

By Coach Light

Cliff faces bled into Superior, cozy Scandinavian architecture clung to tree roots and mountain hollows, main street undulates between nature’s skyline and an inherent need to find home. The sun conceded to blue colossus becoming barely visible old bookshops and pottery dens dissipated the remaining light-a softened glow settled about the city like a comforting fog. A kaleidoscope fell in carefree pattern dancing seemingly to the beat of Michigan folding into Autumn, of the work week folding into Saturday evening.
We wandered as aimless as the leaves prolapsing to concrete, exchanging water vapor for purpose in search of continued adventure or fresh brew. Balsam firs slipped from heavenly precipice between our hands like pens or pipes held to mouth in a moment of meditation. Gradually isolation retreated becoming again, encompassed by a feeling of collective presence. Shuttling down narrow streets, sloped avenues everything was fervent, the city was enveloped, now by newborn constellations fluttering excitedly. Music could be heard faintly, not violins or brass horns but jangly guitars and gritty bass lines just as magnificent and soaring as Jean’s Symphony in E Flat. Entirely entranced we followed the beautiful soundscape, to dead ends, dive bars, our feet wrote in cursive as we navigated and traced it to the source- double doors brimming of color and youth in the vein of Dr. Seuss, covered in the hand-prints of children laughing with skinned knees. The doors opened like a theater curtain, revealing a whimsical world of Paleozoic flora clashing seamlessly with exaggerated organs- small parts becoming massive structures sprawling across the ceiling.

Crossing a train bridge, a voice screamed desperately giving a dying exclamation for change. The room was narrow with an ambulance bursting part way through the wall, a cluster of young adults began to dissipate with the growing chant of “Smoke break?”-they were like the seagulls of Nemo, the floor was checkered black and white, we stood on a chessboard or anxiously in a kitchen. In the absence of an audience a trumpet broke out mournfully singing scotch jazz, a walking cello faded in and everything began to erupt once more. Stationary dump trucks came alive, engines roaring with the buzzing lips of college students, painted turtles bathing under fluorescent lamps were named and included in games of hide-and-seek and tag, the bones of dinosaurs were re-imagined as breathing creatures chasing fashionable cavemen. All was frantic yet increasingly harmonious, alive with reverie hidden conspicuously in a two-story building on Baraga Avenue. A knee shaking guitar solo came forth drawing on the prismatic colors enveloping a glistening community. Brass breathed fire yet again and the words were spoken so casually in contrast: “I drink whiskey cuz my baby left me” and we all were there intoxicated on everything happening.