She walks this underpass
embalmed with the graffiti
of the broken, the glass
bottles blue and broke
on cigarette dirt -
where she disinters
glints of rusting rails,
the steel line parallels
of a western yesterday
and gold melded dust.
Although nonplussed by
this tunnel's twilight eye,
this lying catacomb echo
of a locomotive ghost,
she must get out, escape,
breathe California magnolias,
and leave her solastalgia ache
to a west wind,
a golden state.
But it's all she feels,
this millstone of loneliness
chained to the selfsame shame
that came with breaking
her mother's sidewalk spine,
the crab leg line of bone
beneath her very own skin.
Protect one iconic heritage.
Preserve a Japanese meadowsweet,
a flowering garden
and its landscaping beds.
But beauty is more than a garden;
it is a purple blazing star,
a dew covered bluestem -
the open bald summit on the mountain.
from dust
the mortal mixed soul
of a hidden man
crawls woeful, slow
out of the valley
of dry bones.
sorrowful, alone
he spills red
the blood, the heifer,
rubs its ashes
on sackcloth skin,
and water washes,
to atone the sin,
the dead,
he touches.
to dust
he trembles
immortal.
James Taylor Probably Hates Richmond Too by thirdim3nsion, literature
Literature
James Taylor Probably Hates Richmond Too
James Taylor’s a fair companion
when echoing the loneliness woven
between lines, lines best read as though
I always thought that I’d see her again,
but she lives in Richmond, that city
of second rate attractions, distractions,
destitute detractors of dreams that
scream like car alarms at 4am
for the owner to protect them
from burglary or wind blowing
just hard enough to trip the sensor.
Perhaps she only knows these same
sensory dreams still wake me up at 4am
and I howl scream into the sheets,
sheets that she wanted to sneak in
to clean because we had dirtied them
years before she left for Richmond.
Whether she knows or I dre
Will it surface
like a pocket of air
trapped underwater
or a lie laced secret
in a single heart chamber?
She can’t help but remember
how her hungry eyes pulsated
as I trembled with midnight poetics,
and our heart wires intertwined.
She’s seven years scratching at the surface,
and I’m seven years silent,
holding the sole strand of this
wire frayed heart chamber.
for the transient ones by thirdim3nsion, literature
Literature
for the transient ones
neolithic fires, labor lit
and weary warm, fabled
the starless grot sky
where cave drawings
of spears laid waste
to beasts slain bloody.
and in Babylon
they carbon scribed
civilization on papyrus,
reeds harvested from
the earth's black mire.
even the mountain voice
found a Moses to stand
with open ears and hands
holding twin tablet words
writ for the hearts of men.
but we wear the wrinkles of our fathers,
the efforts of age we never thought
to fold in between parchment pages
all while a senescence howl whirl
haunts about the once sacred temples
of our minds and leaves us sepulchers
without words or epitaphs or legacies.
She walks this underpass
embalmed with the graffiti
of the broken, the glass
bottles blue and broke
on cigarette dirt -
where she disinters
glints of rusting rails,
steel line parallels
of a western yesterday
and gold melded dust.
Nonplussed by
this tunnel's twilight eye,
this lying catacomb echo
of a locomotive ghost,
she must get out, escape,
breathe Georgia magnolias,
and leave her solastalgia ache
to a zephyr wind,
to elysian fields.
But it's all she feels,
this millstone of loneliness
chained to the selfsame shame
that came with breaking
her mother's sidewalk spine,
the crab leg line of bone
beneath her very own skin.
So she ta
we met under the stairs,
under the stars made of bone.
you brought a book, there was
coffee in my hair, we shared
a drink. there were children who ran
together in a blur. the moon
was a face i had seen
before.