NOW . LEFT OF CALL TIME

 

          
              Not even the driest humor could jook! make humour 
       shrink; über less in terra stages every last ‘n’ first
       time . act the beaver faith retriever.

                                             Runways at forest edge oblivion
       strips for our departure ? forgoing all the blood we let
       angels restart ~ Merci, cellTower ~ particles of odor vie fly
       here there encrypt in screen swipe nowadays.  

                 Some air shows like Sahel dust propel face
       touch infinitesimal; it matters you don’t think until
       solitary the viaducts choke . migraine shields mock Hope
       you’re happy now.

       Clam shellfish types set up mausoleum webs . in stuff
       their resumés ? like Egypt pyramid relic wraps to carry on
       over.
                          Who D’cries box burial ? grounds not fit
       for hair loss care; get the Premium Conditioning package
       all that permutation . closer to home Economics, don’t
       presume après the sky falls.

                                                                   Knowing nothing
       knocks to wake you for the gate sleep keepers, why
       bother ? schedule post Op ash Wednesdays.
                                                                                      Flat
       line order the Fin d’oeuvres : ask the Cloud play All
       Season standards / Dig in! / taste what the wiped plate
       rim secures . at which point ? what could go wrong.

                                                            – W.W.

  
     

        

        
        LESSING 

        Stepping out of bed, he yawns, stretches and bows
        In the Sun’s direction, ironically at first,
        But next, not so, his blood rushing to his head,
      Pressing him to transmute his gesture like base metal
        Into the gold of genuine surrender
        To the outer gold acknowledging its twin,
        Reaching off the varnished floor to his bare toes

        Whose feet are suddenly flooded with a need
        To affirm their actualness by springing
        To a rabbit-like hopping around the room,
      As though racing to a point of goodbye to themselves,
        And, hopping, Lessing feels the fascia under
        His latest skin flapping like a gusted flag
        Dying to be freed from its skeletal pole.

        (from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan)