dusting off the ol' poetry

a hide and seek sort of thing, like trying to touch a 7am spiderweb, gossamer trails of phantom activity, the imprint from the passing of an hour

———————

left:right brain lobe harmonies, titles were never my forte.

we efface an hour by looking at the fullness of hand-to-mouth,
to avoid, or delay, digestion
you see, we had to ‘avoid the flat visual attack of things’
everything said with hands out, gamely and web spread, questioning space

the places on my body that are burnt decided to improve on living and it took shape as a vertical root
lightening rod girl- pulling static from hot hot air,
the human sort of electricities, forbidden electric sources, the vital license
which is why you must believe me when I say that it’s
only that ’some equations are more obvious’ and therefore
the answers follow the design; obvious,
there is nothing except phantom finality in the outcome, how>why
if nothing but because an answer : reaction

I am currently engaged by a slippery debate between the left and ride side of my brain;

my body feels cupped like a shovel, it tries to tell me in the quiet-time that I must
grasp not grip
it was waltz time then, and it’s a New England low slung sun,
it was waltz time
and I say to the one in Paris

‘darling, I am so rich tonight but it’s for you’

and

‘avoid the flat visual attack of things’