an ancient doctor, mustard having dripped
onto his lapel, lunged forward
from the picnic table, reaching
out towards the child in a heap
by the shallow end of the pool
he lay as the doctor casually instructs
"stay clear, adrenal apoplexy".
terrifically precise in his craft
the doctor led us, as our brigadier general,
to raise the child, slowly, and carry
him, the four of us forming a rigid
parallelogram, a gurney.
time is indescribable in such an instance
as moments raced as the wings of a hummingbird
flip flap, flip-flap, flpflpflpflpflpflp
the ambulance sped around the bend
past patient observers
though was nearly capsized in a collision
with one particularly time-greedy fool
who's breaks were the only sound audible
until one child inquired from his position
behind the maple tree
"what of the slumber party?"
unaware that there would be no party that day
after all.

va

Breeze as brushes sweeps sad debris
leaves that settled aside the orchard
black pickets, black gate still shut
old Colonials' tile river is split

the buzz of bees is unsettling
two travellers recall a fallen tree
the underside of which was ugly,
black, rotted, but also, alive

ten thousand thousand legs crawled
across the span of sored timber
a sour stench of foul consumption
overwhelmed the faint whiff of flower

the two feigned Jesus on a brick
red river flanked by silvered
apple columns, seemingly an entryway
into Atlantis itself, though long abandoned

they stood on the cement port perched
over the river as two
Atlanteans wondering direction
while the water appeared still

and when they turned away they were
equally interested in the whereabouts
of a local source of the cerulean
that filled the troughs when all they saw was red.

upon opening an ornate door
of blood washed cedar with gold tassels
they cried their Atlantean cry
which bounced around an empty foyer

they found a tar flecked marble floor
two figures with arms extended
as in the account of Michelangelo
his fresco rendered in flesh

the handiwork of whom they were unsure
and for moments found themselves
pacing in and out of the temple
talking only of Michelangelo

and as they deliberated whether
to disturb anything at all
they opted to seek brighter council
unafraid of ambition or Brugelesque insignificance

counting lessons as they retired
the two assumed the debt was paid in full
and were not afeared of the noisy isle
but rather bemused by it

they did not notice a young cod
riding, capsized, on a great blue via
past a bobbing orb in murk
as gulls lazily swam by.

Elder Philosopher

My grandfather was a philosopher
the monday morning kind
he contemplated politics
semantics and semitic practices
over coffee and a piece of
bundt or something or other.
once after a glass of wine
he leaned over and shared
with me the only thing I needn't remember
and yet always do.
"space is the next great frontier kid
celestiality shall replace superficiality
and the moon will replace the beach,
the finest coffee can be found up there."
he's crazy of course
but what would one expect of such a man?
We used to sit outside for hours
counting planes:
there were a lot.
He told me once when he was a pilot
in the RAF. Single handedly
he took down the red barron, a man he
called ginger, much to the dismay
of the redfaced barron.
They had been friends once, before
England had separated from the rest of
Europe. My grandfather remembered
watching the coast seep away
a butterfly who landed for a second
and tauntingly fluttered past.
None of this happened of course
but he was my grandfather.
He was at least a hundred and fifty years old
said he'd played both sides of the
civil war, and never lost a battle.
Not as a general, but on the front lines.
He said stonewall jackson swore by him,
well until he slept with jackson's wife
then he had to flee for the hills,
only to sign up with a union force
straight out of the ozarks.
my grandfather was a crazy man.
i never knew him.
he died before i was born.

By the bays of 'e

Has since been pillaged, was nothing more than an exercise anyways.


breeze as brushes sweeps sad debris
leaves rustle by the orchard

forward, sidevias, lengthfool

a rental on the bayside
beyond the bar, a hidden treasure
sunken eyes from lack of sleep
filled to the brim, damp and salty.
tears on the head of the ore
at a lack of mined experience
mente naivety
-----------------------------
submission to sea salt crests
battering port tip-top capsized
flipped, providing a young cod
passage on a great via azzurra
past a bobbing orb in murk
as gulls lazily swim by