Thursday, December 2, 2010

3 poems || Philip Byron Oakes

Canticles of Tweety Bird

The dawn humbling the ugly in a subplot to breakfast, the vernacular over easy. Succumbing to a caress in absentia left as legacy, to roil on the anesthetic plateaus of a common sense. On the crystal balls of those feet that know where they’re going, when the fire alarm sounds like the call of the loon. A whimper still bursting with flavor. Stippling the remoteness of cherished moments. The safe side of a callous worn as armor, to atherapy for tender feet in the quicksand of sensation steering the bus towards the beach. A vista one blink removed. Paradox with wings and a flight plan. The russet apple in the weathered hand with bones shopping for the taste of home. Tactile theorems only touched upon in pointing out the window. A jagged variant of a pulse brushing up against a time, for turning ploughshares into a music you can dance to.

Medias Res

The fruit flies factored in the calorie
count of dessert, when eaten on the
run for roses upon the grave matters
that lay before us. No if’s, and’s or
clauses mauling grizzlies with
connotations in the wilderness. The
minty concoctions of the pastoral
serving as a stipend, for a shepherd
of souls in the kitchen taking the
heat as a blessing to heart. As it
may seem without seeming so
much to matter, in the end that is
the middle with no beginning at

That Could

The dogeared mesmerist chanting mantras
to rhythms the railroads made famous in
scrapbooks of noise. Marking the spot where
the world fell to earth, as if it had been there
all along. Always leaving someone left
standing, without a precipice from which to
jump for joy. A distance prized for its brevity
in getting to the point of no return. Hanging
curtains on the rubble to spice the light
looking in, on a privacy collapsed under
the weight of a secret, taken as a
window on more than the world
can hold.

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