Poetry spills from painted hands
tumbles, rolls to storm drains
where they lay
amidst cluttered leaves,
fermented mulch.
Why do words of jubilation
wither from consciousness?
The internal world marinates
in soft tissue, blood;
even the sun can cry,
shed noxious tears
like sheared wool from a ram.
My phrases drip in melancholy
liquidate into greens and yellows,
joy squelched by anxiety, fear
places familiar, comfortable
like swaddled in a lined mink coat.
On the surface
smiles light in cerulean seas
filled with optimism, potential;
underneath, the earth quakes,
fissures appear in tectonic plates
foundation clamors,
sucks in the land, atmosphere
dwells in doldrums.
Yes, I feel beatitude,
but what I know is change occurs
in a wispy blink
as the past incubates demons
who plan to haunt my currency.
It is Fool’s Paradise,
but I stick with what is understood.
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