The Silence Shh. the pencil slightly writes. bright, dark words splat the page. round sounds dot the spot. what it is. what it’s not. sss Upon looking at Van Gogh’s last self-portrait squeamish dermal lines screaming thermal cries in aqua marine fire. sss soft creamy hues singing the blues serpentine lines rhythmical rimes keeping time with heart strings pulse tender things flesh and bone groans and moans asymmetrical stones all in a row just for me for to see. sss sinews cringe. cringing sinews hold. holding, the cringing sinews laugh. sinew. sss Taj Mahal This enticing image of a sun-colored cupola floating over the horizon . . . floating upon a plain, near the Ganges and Agra . . . to hold the late lady of one of the khan’s late heirs . . . You carve the air, splay off the sun’s waving rays. sss with just my pin head bobbin’ upon the Pacific blue, cold, I warm the sea. treading over the mountains of valleys teaming, simmering with cold, lean, hungry life: meat on a hook. sss Frustration in vain we circumlocute. the world idly spins. to bring us age. every step we take seems two back. blemishes we erase only reappear. what could we possibly create that won’t be cast down? and if we landed on some upstream shore, how long would we stay even if buried there? and even if we touch some other inner soul, how long could memory last? are we not stranded on a sandy shoal alive to build castles?

Copyright James Phoenix 2017

updated 5/7/2017