...... Stephen Mead
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Chagall & The Sky Heaven is blue, blue as a plastic coffee mug. Other colors empty in, get brush swirled. Beyond this there's nothing except an apex where songs fade. The radio is comrade. Each night I make a point of stacking myself up, a heap of canvas reaching forth. It takes great exertion. Flesh, faces and voices flake off at a pitch higher than the whistle for a dog. Memory, that intractable event, is pried at like a wax blotch that a candle once was. I'm simply another medium, receptive as a screen where the morning's mist is milk & honey, an elixir of dew, the usual bird racket, an ascension from lips, eyes open on the distance. Floating above, further always, is a sea of deep cobalt Rosabelle's Bad Dreams (for Rosabelle Houdini) Morning forbodings, a sense... What is? Behind.. There's something. Movement,. almost,. but not----- Instead,. is it----- A door... Hear quiet cat scratching. That poke, prod,. premonitory, dragging its----- sores,. innards,. this cord. Follow the----- a tongue,. metal. Chain? But light,. light,. silvery. Necklace,. key ring,. some receptive mouth passing... Houdini,. the trick,. secret offered while . (as if) Vaulted. (under ice) The trunk, muscles (bubbles). tautening to breathe,. break,. surface... Oh ghost,. daredevil... lid. clawed. dawn. dreaded .. why is. water. hinges get out. rust out submerged. pandora moss fingers o-o-opening here. here now. now there is. nobody ...........................Almost Falling Step ............I. say ......................Step ................................This. way........................I Step ......................................Way .......................This. step ......................................................................Say.......................step Step.................................say ............................Just..................................keep This . rhythm. going Main Page
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