Posted: February 28, 2012 in Burn Poetry
Tags: , , , ,

on Union Pacific Canvas
or red brick mosaics;
brushstrokes sprayed,
creation un-spayed.

Words spoken bravely aloud
frayed edges of a script
glued together by dented microphones
and speaker’s speakers.
Catching inspiration on the tongue
like an earthbound snowflake.
No two are alike.
No two are alike.

Fingers flying, tap dancing across clattering keys.
Artificially lit.
Organically grown.
Whirlwinding from heart to head to hands,
ricochet thoughts turn to
keystroke morse code
until the pounding of words
turns to circle of drums;
cascading echoes that
neon mist,
in the steel canyons of sky-scraping concrete
and pool,
licking at the ankles,
near the Braille of chopped corn
on the fields on the plains.

Tightroping dancers,
as smoke from a flame.
Liquid steel bending
into fiery sign language.
Grounded flight.
Dervishes whirling,
gusting wind
kissing a fledgling brushfire.

It is these words,
these art gallery ambushes
and willow-bent bodies.
These songs belted into cheap acoustics
and heard over cheaper drinks.
These uncut diamond dreams
compressed from the coal-like night of
the inspired.
These breathless iterations
that ebb and flow like the unplacid tide,
that are the combustion that fires the engine.
Keeps the squealing,
heaving, chugging machine
firing down the causeway
to the rising sun.

Take the wheel.


  1. madhat says:

    I’d love to hear this one performed as “spoken poetry”!

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