Tight Rope Walker; draft #2

I stand on a tight rope
toes tight against the coiled threads.
My eyes look forward but my mind sees 360 degrees:
Is the wire swaying? Am I more than halfway?

The crowd is silent. Should I achieve unscathed the distant edge
they'll applaud but for the most part they await
some say court my disaster
that I should fall and with no safety net:
for this walk too I was dared to perform by passersby
too afraid to walk the straight line herself
all while gleeful and participant in the glitz
the glimmer of this media driven spectacle.

A yawn from the nosebleed settles upon silence
my soft feet lift glide inches at a time
eyes glued to the goal despite the catcalls:
I am a juggler
all at once dealing with seven tossed balls of circus glory.

The platform now looms near
my mind turns to the philosophy of distance,
how it changes moment to moment
relative to the pace of the swish between my legs.
Mind and eye become one
and baptists in the audience think I look like Jesus walking on air.

My right foot clears the cedar wood's platform edge:
I first hear a solitary clap and then a cacophony of applause
the rhythm to which I declare my living pulse.

Opossum Belly; draft #3, finished poem more or less

Dead fur dries over and over peels skin
slowly lifting from muscle tissue:
somewhat of death an end to heartbeats love nerve twitch
severing iron from blood the life-giver oxygen reactor,
somewhat the passage of windy airs
somewhat also the rapidity of flies dropping egg bombs
their young pouring forth from fleshy orifices:
muscle becomes meal.

An opossum's belly turns and writhes under the hot summer sun
and it turns also my stomach
thankful I am empty of food late for dinner.
Gas expands turning animal into organic and bone toothed cavity,
byproduct of microorganism-evolutionary vagary:
the small rule the fate of the large
that feed and fuel and wait and crave
demanding more from passerby's lest they sit unsuspecting
and then too bare the rancid meat fruit of fly speck goners
puking red meal acidic entrails out onto the pathways of life.

Tight Rope Walker; draft 1 (formerly Tight Rope)

I stand here on the tight rope
toes tight against the coiled threads.
My eyes look forward but my mind revolves in 360 degrees
measuring my distance to the platform
simultaneously looking back:
did I shake the wire? Am I more than halfway?

The crowd is silent. Should I arrive unscathed at the distant edge
they'll applaud my efforts but they are for the most part waiting
(some say courting) disaster,
that I should fall this time with no safety net:
for this walk was a dare by passersby
too afraid to walk the straight line themselves
while also gleeful and participant in the glitz
the glimmer of this spectacle in a media driven life.

I can hear someone yawn from up in the rafters,
someone too cheap or too poor to pay full price.
My feet softly lift and glide forward
my eyes remain glued on the goal despite the catcalls:
my mind a juggler
looking at seven tossed balls of circus glory all at once
all while I wonder, are they tired of me or just worn out from work?
For many it seems my dance at sometime
became the only thing they've been waiting for all week,
as if the sweat boiling on my brow, the great heights,
and the tension in the air
made up for puking out metal shards and shitting black tar.

The platform now looms near
and my mind turns to the philosophy of distance
how it changes from moment to moment
in relation to the pace of my legs swishing back and forth.
Mind and eye become one body
baptists in the audience think I look like Jesus walking on air.

First I hear a solitary clap, and then a cacophony of applause
at the moment my right foot clears the cedar wood's platform edge
where I declare both my living pulse and the success of the venture.

Opossum Belly; draft #2

Dead fur dries over and over peeling skin
slowly lifts from fleshy muscle tissue:
somewhat of death an end of heartbeats love nerve twitch
severing iron from blood life-giver oxygen reactor,
somewhat the passage of open time and windy airs
somewhat also the rapidity of flies' dirty copulation
dropping egg bombs their young pouring from fleshy orifices
muscle becomes meal.

An opossum's belly turns and writhes under the hot summer sun,
idle by roadside
turns also my stomach:
thankful I am empty of food late for dinner.
Expanding gas turns animal into organic cavity,
byproduct of microorganisms and evolutionary vagaries:
the small rule the fate of the large
feeding and fueling and waiting and craving
demanding more from passerby's lest they sit unsuspecting
and then too bear the rancid meat fruit of fly speck goners
puking red meal acidic entrails out onto the pathways of life.

Opossum Belly; draft #1 (from Brainstorm 052610)

I can't stop mixing feelings with volcano thoughts
and I want to write about all the things in the world
but where how when to begin?

Dead fur dries over peeling skin
slowly lifts flesh from muscle tissue:
somewhat of death end to heartbeat the love nerve twitch
severing iron from blood the life-giver oxygen in cells,
somewhat the passage of time or open and windy airs
somewhat also the rapidity of flies' dirty copulation,
drop egg bombs pour young from fleshy orifices
muscle becomes meal.

An opossum's belly turns and writhes under the hot summer sun,
idle by roadside turns also my stomach:
thankful to be empty of food only later for dinner.
Gas expands animal turned organic cavity:
of microorganisms and their evolutionary vagaries:
the small rule the fate of the large
feeding and fueling and waiting and craving
demanding more from passerby's as they sit unsuspecting
they too will bear the fruit of rancid meat and fly speck goners
puking red meal acidic entrails out onto the pathways of earthly life.

Brainstorm 052610

I can't stop mixing feelings and thoughts in the volcanoes caldera

I want to write about all the things in the world but I don't know where to begin
or how or when to begin.

Fur dries when dead and skin peels from flesh and muscle tissue:
somewhat the result of death the ending of beating heart nerve twitches
the severing of blood and iron the life giver breathing oxygen into cells,
somewhat also the passing of time and openness and windiness or air passing
through follicles far gone though live mistaken by the eye
somewhat also from rapid flies and their incessant needs of reproduction,
pouring forth eggs and young into the flesh for meal becomes the muscle flesh.

Watching an opossum's belly turn and writhe under the hot summer sun,
idle by the side of the road turns also my stomach, and thankful it is empty
of food later for dinner.
Gas expands the animal turned organic cavity: methane grows as byproduct
of microorganisms and their evolutionary needs for fuel for their own kind:
reproduction bears fruit and yet again rules the fates of others
feeding and fueling and waiting and craving
and demanding more from passersby's if they sit unsuspecting
they too will bear the fruit of rancid meat and fly speck goners
puking red meal acidic intrails out onto the pathways of earthly life.

The Unfurled Sail; draft

The sun the morning
and the ship set to its moorings.
Many men, strong, smiling,
ragged, tanned beautiful blackened
men lifting the chain,
the blood red,
rust dead chain dripping
incandescent. Pulled
from the rock bottom of the bay,
a rock bottom worn smooth
and in a slushy
dizzying poof as a cloud the sand
expands, contracts, and sprays the sunlight,
then floats and distracts
the fish swimming, the fish who had,
until the anchor lifted up, top light, dragged across,
a ragged dance, been supping the blood red
chain, dead but until then to the fish.

These curious fish could not count the
nutrition facts of the great iron chain
but instead the taste, so unlike their regular diet
of scuttering crustaceans
and babes of the placid sea; so unlike
but the fish, unknowing even to themselves,
ignorant of the platypus,
suckled the dead, blood red rusted iron chain
and shackled anchor until its dance,
until the blackened tan smiling out of men,
ragged, pulled tugged
the chain, and set the ship adrift.

The sun, now rising,
raining down constant flash
of sunlight, sunshine
around and almost
through the precipitous clouds,
not the puffed
sandy underwater dance of clouds upon
the rock bottom but instead a
cloud built up from the dust
and love of lives past,
now desiccated and dried,
now mixed and slurried
into the earth’s great
salad bowl; of broccoli, of carrots,
sprouts, and togetherness of material things.

A call comes out across the bow,
anchor now on board,
great chain rust puddles dripping through
floor boards; the call a call to
now set sails to unfurl the
flourish of canvas to readjust ropes
to climb to the lookout and the
subsequent snapping of the sails.
The great boat, lurches and bobbles,
as a stout cork upon a
wine bottle ocean, the sails filling with wind
and yet empty they be, pale white,
as ghosts, but bright in the day’s sunshine.

Pedestals of Rose Petals

I stand on pedestals
of thorns and rose
petals, prick and the blood flows.

my ragged shoulder
sore at the socket
pops and I feel the pain
of separation:
the forever far off sound
of percussion, the suction
of ears as they make meaning of chaotic air
as the ground trembles,
the wind passes
through space and time
passes through our very fiber
but still accounting for the toothless decay
of humans thin,
or rotten in old age
against the supple nakedness of young skin,
ever met with ever.

The glory of sunrise matched only by
a night spent waiting for its rays to pierce my flesh
as arrows pierce armor as bullets shred for death.
And yet the sun rises this cool September morn.