OF YOUR GREEN WORLD

of your green world, when i think.
behold, how you live in your colors
in your paint cracked porch
casting a strained eye
into a farther, browned and dusty way,
or within your fences, as your roof cry
its muted need for repair...

inclined, a water jug's sacred isolation,
forgotten under a storm drain,
dignifies an odd sanctity of prayers
in the deep, green moss of
unanswered being...

as from your windows unshuttering to light,
the last remembered song within
is a sinatra ago, crackling from
long, long and away...

and from this sphere
deep and silent
your colors changing
equals the rushing clouds,
and the summer lingering
distinctly and green,
and quiet
arrives day by day
into a hushed eternity.

-Marty
Copyright: 8/2001
martyu_p@yahoo.com

















~gray rest~

charming cross of white wood  
adorned with pink rose buds 
made of plastic
oh how quietly you sit 
and almost touch
the slightly larger cross that
is painted a dark shade of grey
it stands protectively behind you

this image rests in my mind

the wind of flying kites
strikes my hair and twirls it
through the newness of spring air

i travel down the rio grande'
sitting high on the back
of a large black cruiser

driving this way is so different
than driving with windows closed
and the environment pleasantly
being controlled with buttons

as i sit here 
i am able to see the world
more clearly 
and 
i am able to smell the world
more purely 
and
i am able to hear the world
more crisply

the pleasant 
and 
the not so pleasant 
sights, sounds, and smells
fill my being full of wonder

the radiance of the sun tastes
my black leather and warms it
as my experienced driver 
takes a sharp bend carefully 
and
i see the shadow of crosses 
that mix and blend together 
on the smooth concrete road

as my vision gets clearer
i can see their true form 

they are two wooden crosses 
that are planted by the road side
one cross is painted white and 
the other cross is painted gray

this image rests in my mind

we drive further down the road
and i am overwhelmed with the 
beauty of mountain, river, and sky
i feel blessed to see the world
on the back of a large motorcycle

people are drawn outside 
on this lovely spring day
kayaks race down the river 
and 
young men cast their lines into her
hoping for a fried reward for dinner

my bottom becomes tired 
and i squirm 
so my thoughtful driver turns 
and heads home

we pass the same sights 
but this time 
they look so much richer 
as the sun climbs down the sky
to sleep for another day
we pass the white and the grey again
this time i stare into the crosses

this image rests in my mind

now i wonder who the white was
and i wonder who the gray was
these crosses represent life
that was lost on this road 
and
i wonder if they were lovers 
and
i wonder who the cross keepers are

the image of white and gray
visits me haunting 
yet tenderly 
in my night dream
leaving me with more questions
that are not to be answered
and 

this image rests in my mind

-Kimba
Copyright
April 5, 2001

















Antaradrecta.

The sun lodged itself in my thumbnail.

I swallowed Jupiter's icy slush 
in Dynatella's Fluradna bottle 
previously emptied of stars.

The Planet Moon Flusectadryl 
in the airless lunar quadrant 
of Dynitronella entered my 
right eye at midnight.

-Matt S
Copyright
June 23, 2001

















~MOORED~

A certain irregularity in the way the waves
crashes and moves,
creates a curving shoreline
of foam and seaweeds,
a crowd of old men ponders on a shipwreck
submerged in deep, unmoving silence,
an abandoned harbor teeming with ancestral ghosts,
generations of tales re-told to wide eyed
children of yesterday...

here is a coastal town whose souls
turn inland, always inland,
or farther from the sickening
seaspray and sand...
this is the coming darkness that will cover all,
it is a calling for tall trees,
and mountain peaks,
away from the saline air that fills one's lungs
with each inhalation,
away from the monosyllabic lives
of waking up and staring out into the endless sea.

Away, anywhere out of the fishnets
that sways to and fro,
out of the huts where housewives and daughters
spending fish hours and shored minutes
preparing tables and beds for sea-tired men...
away from the drowsy jellyfish mornings, foggy and
stale,
away from smelling wharf...
anywhere, anywhere at all,

the cold wind blows high enough and strong
to carry sea moored souls
dreaming inland dreams.
gulls are erratic on wingtips, squawking and
grotesque,
but children have eyes glossed over by nagging visions
of elsewhere, of mountain tops, of city scapes.
The men are hauling smelly barrels of the same catch
day after day after dreary day as centuries ago,
and gossips of a sultry young lass
running away into the vulgar city of her dreams
float about and die
in ebbtide.

-Marty
Copyright:
July 2001
martyu_p@yahoo.com

















shepherd

i tried to pull it back
but wool can only cover eyes for so long
i tried to be that sheep in wolves clothing
thinking fur offered more protection than my own skin
but it got in - you got in
between those cracks in the pavement
penetrating between every stitch
layers upon layers and still i shivered
just to feel the callouses on your hands
once more
as you guided me back home
back to me
defended behind your ribs
for eternity

-fawn
copyright:
1/06

















Wiggle

What is it 
that is in your head?

How exactly 
do you reason?

Do you ponder 
for just a moment?

Do you ever care 
of a consequence?

Do you pursue
only when threatened?

Are you a keeper 
or do you simply let go?

Are things living
in your back pocket?

If so  
do you sit on them?

Are they 
stuck like glue?

Do they 
ever squirm?

Do you
squirm?


How long
until you squirm?

-Joee
copyright:
1/27/06


















you hurt me, 
you are burning me. 
you are pulling my arms. 

you will eventually kill me, 
i can hit you, 
kill you with just one blow. 

i am able to make you mine. 

you are afraid of me, 
and i am of you, 
i love you and you love me. 

for now i am waiting, 
you make the move, 
life.

-patrick
copyright:
April 2006


















Lightning tears trails across the sky, 
across my mind, burned air to black, 
imprinted itself on the night,
ebony thunder of laughing Buddhas.
Trees jumping out of their roots 
in nature's stroboscopic lightshow 
blastedphotographed onto brain cells, 
retinas, optic nerves, spirit.
My home is in the lightning bolt, 
tornado, earthquake, tsunami, volcano, 
raindrop, tree, flower, sun, Neptune, 
Triton, black hole, supernova, A-Bomb, 
H-Bomb, butterfly, zebra, Northern Lights, 
rabbit, ticking watch, river, stream, 
ocean, single acid square on tabletop, 
joint in clear plastic bag, emerald, ruby, 
sapphire, veins of gold and silver ores, 
caverns, moon, on the cloudtops of soul, 
in every blade of grass, electricity, 
sank with the Titanic in 1912, was in 
Auschwitz, burned razor blades with 
acetylene torches, in blackberry bushes, 
tires in vacant lots and landfills, 
in accumulation on top shelf of bookcase 
in bat cave, in every rainbow, molecule, 
Vancouver, Cleveland, Gibsons(BC), 
Eau Claire, Hawthorne(Florida), in hearts 
and minds of those I love.


-matthew sipress
Copyright:
April, 2001 
airlesslunar@yahoo.com