The Great White Night

Her phosphorescent face, emotive and glowing, breathes out surreal life-rays, the whitish blue irises, the astrological mana. Then, through a breezy smirk, "Let there be night" resounds upon the hardening tundra, equal in all areas, from the deepest cave to the highest tree.

The great white night finds us final in all of our decisions; finds us reserved and implacable; finds us able to withstand its seashore strength. It finds our gaze connected, our knees unshaking, our wills intertwined. It rears in fear, hoofs clashing, jaws gnashing, eyes gushing anger. Now circling and darting, surveying its foe, as we glare back, impregnable.

White. White is its shallow converse, the exchange of the universe, slashing its canvas across the slab that beckons and beckons. White pigment to be seen with rapture, in circular flotation, battered but unmolested.

We float within its fog; we electrify within its cloud, our actions manifest within its dusty sword beams that slash and slay, wavering in the morning.

Treacherous Hearts

A drop of water ripples the screen; her face flutters: a frozen vision, a melancholy freedom. Praising disloyalty, the freedom of choice, the will to desist.

How accusing is her face when one's heart is unclean, when the civil muck clogs and conglomerates in its percolating ventricles. I stare back and quiver, muttering oaths, my knees shaking uncontrollably, bladder pulsing.

A purging pilgrimage, the flame's orange dance, howling faces, sadistic warpaint. Handles wilting, stripped screws, swamp stained steel, appendages whipped and whittled. Viewed, with cocked eyebrows, by ascetic scrutiny.

She's left the gas on, and abandoned the house. Its creaking heat intensifies, and the cabinets sweat, while she occupies her deaf hole in the sky. So senseless is she, staked aboard in the pitch of night, the ship's glue old and rotting as it decrepitly drifts forward, forward, the past smoking in the distance, away from explosions and treacherous hearts.

The Highway

The wind sweeps across the brigand desert and rams us, body and all, sections slicing through our plastic hair, whose greasy arms dramatically flail and flake. Buffeting in the silent night, across illusory lanes, a savage whisper in silky silence, a solemn wail, an ashen gasp, a muffled gurgle.

As the roadside flies, the black tongue lolls, a carpet winding and whirling, gyrating its frazzled dance toward our dreamy destination, whose noise and lights hum specifically for us in this lamplit purgatory. Spirits playfully prance at the edge of vision, their laughing lanterns archedly pouting, pettish from lack of love.

The engine chuckles in its bed, yoked to the frame, guffawing in rotation, gleaming gears grinding, whose intemperate teeth crunch, shimmering heat, fluid swirling. Casting away misuse and the clamors of age, it gains its wind and races from sight.

Quiet Moon

Quiet, quiet moon.

Transported to your ebullient bosom, I inhale the silence, gazing at the unconcerned world from this specious vantage point-- a costly pinprick, the stoic woman. Whose barriers dismay, whose disconnection grieves. Mousy voices undercut the heavy silence, heard at the edge of vision, scrambling like a swarm of insects outside the ear's periphery.

Here I am. Poisoned and cloaked in loneliness, toasting mute grief. I stand, suspended, as the stars unravel, stringing essences trailing, trailing, dissolving, dissolving.

Quiet, quiet moon.

You loom from my scrambled eyes; your grave peace solemnly reflective; acling with devotees. Rebukingly, rebukingly, yet witholding judgment.

We stand entranced, the traffic gushes by, streaming, streaming, fibs of breathing laughter killed in the new, new moon.