The Twister Forms (2000)
My dream starts to get strange
on The Plains. Blue balloons
drift over my town as rain mode begins
and gusts curve. In one fictive package
hot moves up when I swing my arms
demolishing clever word games.
Shuffled letters soon drown
and my notebook paper
returns
driven back into trees.
~/~
It's that time of the year again here in Arkansas...
Twister (2001)
~/~
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Iconography
Impropriety parsed the postulates, before Pharisees rescinded metronomes and harvested cauls with evangelical scythes. Here hieroglyphics revealed what emboldened those hawk-faced prophets to slaughter their progeny, the better to reap golden stalagmites and silver vinegar, as if everything they touched could become so precocious, it would be hymned eternally. Stung by what the forests opined, phalanxes aligned their fealty in allegiance before these sardonic few through whose epiphanies the feral insane sang in pictograms their resplendence.
It's not chocolate enough, inside this cave of shadows that once were proof of ideas. When the stone is rolled back, the beloved is gone, the grave empty. The mystery remains a mystery. Mist will not congeal into form, and shapeless shape-shifters writhe like smoke from the pyre. As if embers held any meaning beyond their soft glow, only the memory of warmth remains and the longing for touch.
[Disposable Prose Poem April 17, 2007]
Dr. Mike
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