Thursday, March 17, 2016
2 poems || Philip Byron Oakes
Vagabonding with others woe to behold.
Visceral samplers tickling tempers tuned
to triggers pulled from the crowd. A hand
in making the most of a foot in the grave.
Under suspicion of skin. At a cost of
inklings crumbling in the knowledge. By
any measure deemed modern to a purist
sense of touch, gone mad with burlap
for the right to feel nothing at all. Pitting
proof against the pendulum for the swing
shift of fortunes, made to do their dance
in a trickle down to tacks. A perpetual
likelihood of odds evening out. Priming
footprints on the floor to feeling able to
walk away on a cushion of sunsets.
Stalemating with ancient urchins of the
dirt, to propagate a brooding scowl
framing an issue to suit a shiver at the
thought. At the behest of dimensions
invisible to the science of the time.
Harnessing the sparkle in an eye, for
equivalence in the pall of blinks and
blemishes in the dark. Holding fast
to the slow burn, a stumble’s
redemption in the fall for
gravity’s primacy in the
What comes so small it makes giants of us all.
Mired in commas putting stutters to the test.
A stippling of a little this a little that breaking
precedent in for the long haul. To a t crossed
getting to the z’s. One non sequitur after the
other, corralling the tangents for the journey
back home on the range. The breadth of a
point made to linger. A collateral haunting
conceding wealth to the emptiness of
hollowed’s gift for resonance. Swinging both
ways of the world. Subsequently without
pause as an excuse. Thus the page turns on
itself. Having once but never again. Effectively
mirrored in place of being quoted as saying
in pictures that wobble the mind. Down
south of a feeling for what makes the
silence tick. The doorbell ring for both you
and the you you want to be. Or so the song
goes oompah loompah within the gutted
carapace, over the crippling hysteria ofthe noise.