HEAVEN DOES NOT EXIST, but there is a Hell, and I am in it, on it—The Highway, the non-stop traveling to a destination that never arrives, the terribly greasy fare of the Stuckey’s dotting the off-ramps every fifty miles, and although demons do not cavort with pitchforks in geothermal caverns spitting flames, the heat oppresses, the air conditioner inoperative, summer always—global warming complete; must get there today, the impetus seems implanted, the kids tire, the wife complains, the car smokes—vacation sucks, the regimentation, the time line: and miles to go before I sleep, miles and miles and miles.
THE SINGLE FISH that is different dives straight down out of the emergent school of fish balled up for protection from the dolphins and diving birds . . . the rest, presumably die, as the unique fish rushes toward the safe rocky nook that swallows it. Hidden. You rock fish.
When a cat is held by nature
with flowers and flipping butterflies,
whatever is the vision that enters
through trained ears and slivered eyes?
Of course, she can see much better at night:
a chiaroscuro scene, brightly lit;
but less colored, blurred, when daylight
pries through her subtle iris slits.
TENNIS CONSUMES SCOTT AND STEVE, friends from high school. When the rain allows—they try rain once: the rock-heavy ball skips across the court/lake, water slinging centrifugal.
Now, Steve is Lendl, Scott is McEnroe, in this future tennis champions’ pair: Steve, methodical; Scott, apocalyptic.
Racket innovation spells the end of the wood-framed classics of yesteryear, but one day a broken, tangled mass of abstract racket of this ilk is uncovered amidst leafy debris by the fence edge.
Henceforth, instead of the usual anger outlet of launching his good tennis implement, Scott would intone:
— Bring in the stunt racket!
THE AMORPHOUS, QUANTUM IOTA pulses expectant like the opening measure of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, the crescendo surely to come. The choral explosion carries creation still. Joyous, but furious, the harmony of the spheres cycle through the four movements. The falling strains in the finale signal a reset to atonality.
to be marked up
with lines and stanzas,
verse laid down with guidelines
strictly observed without fail,
the cadence of syllables met,
just the right word at just the right time—
a collage of phrases all puzzled out
for aesthetic effect when quoted out loud
or inside the mind that marvels at connections
between ideas and metaphors that draw meanings
of subtlety from some overarching theme or motif,
employing the tools of craftwork, literary devices
that jazz up the poesy and highlight the vision with precision
and with lyricism that reverberates like bells in a courtyard,
the toll floats on the late breeze toward sunset and fades out into echo.