TEA LEAF SPOONS LIP READ AGAIN

         

                                                   "Tension of the ‘dead’ in the living, and of
                                                    the ‘living’ in the dead… the sputter of space  
                                                    now. The gibberish of the stars. The naïveté
                                                    of eternity."                                     
                                                                 - Wilson Harris, The Waiting Room

                                                                                                                                     

             Despite being swept over the crest, Fin fast
             Activating / as weed wraps pull us under claiming
             ocean back is what we always wanting / the breast
             strokes . torso Now! not a good time torques.

             Spouting air . hot for portfolios who stops to trace 
             what the helicopter shaft light identifies ? wave people
             like they rubbing up mermaid Earth sucks below
             waist.

             And who hides mishaps in a lab ? like in tea bag     
             skin thin. Core bits crack, futures spread . cries go
             out for bible sourcing, Yes! to painless fade.
                                                   Our island immortelles stir,
             trust a lost responder bends plucks. Salvia Divinorum.  

                                                  +

                   Head pillow helped . fruited body near last place,
             breath herd stampede | flat on slab, the sound of blade
             bone scalping . a scraping sound like plate giving
             up grain remains.

                  *Solar sails sense there’s wind just past beyond           
             even as / gathered in fields Confio en Dios / hands grip
             balls of kite twine; tail razors cloud thresh.  
                                                                               C’est moi,
             Angeline. J’arrive | dust rings form, brighten.

                                                                         - W.W.

 

                 

               

                                   [ In mem.  Jacob Desvarieux . 1955 – 2021 ]

 

              LESSING

               Look, he hadn’t been able even to be bothered
               To fight with his landlady who tried to and did
               Prevent him from moving out without paying
               What he owed her for room and water and heat.

               She had let him have his cage cheap in exchange
               For his driving her to Safeway once a week
               And to the funerals she couldn’t avoid
             At her age on her own stage of cemeterosis.
               A twig of stubborn Lithuanian bush,
               She might outlive her younger chauffeur who knew
               They both were just rehearsing their final drives.

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