Hidden eyes discern
Nostrils better interpret
Beyond the quarry’s boulders,
Heavy as any burden,
Trees weed upward, all gnarled,
Hollow knot holes filled with darkness,
Open mouths forever silently screaming,
Shadows harboring sentient eyes,
Glowing gold . . .
Ghosts float past an autumn-tainted moon.
Distant Mack Trucks faintly growl.
A tired skeleton, growing old,
Stirs through the mist—stops
For some odd reason at the dead-end road,
Beside the smashed pumpkins—
Toothless and broken maws,
And scans a freshly crushed possum.
Some say poverty is a black hole—
That bottomless pit can never be filled—
Others simply offer too many, too many
Mouths to feed . . .
People missing pieces,
Pussies, or things with “legs up to their necks”
That make a skunk ape shriek—
Children, empty mouths,
Game for the next shovel-full . . .
A hairy arm parts
the age of the forest is negotiable
at the edge
It is likely the Bronx. Battered housing projects. Stretched shadows in groups. They’re the frame. A spontaneous memorial sprung up of mourning candles sputtering. Most have pictures of Mary or Jesus painted on their glass. Some withered roses hanging on there.
The police have cordoned off the crime scene. Mothers are weeping. Neighbors have come out in their robes. Whispering. It seems it was a child caught in the crossfire.
A gang banger with tattoos drawn like a religious text scrawled up to his chin says to no one in particular,
Head bangs, laughter and dancing. Live streaming Foo Fighters at the Roxy.
shared joy finds its way
E. L. Blizzard
Today I want to see how many cars go by. It’s cold outside and there’s not a soul around.
Neither a passer-by, nor a cyclist.
This is the rush hour.
A car arrives. It moves slowly. I think it’s someone who lives nearby and comes home after work.
Others should follow.
from one lockdown
Mama’s coffee sucks. Chicory-harsh with powdered cream. On a scale of one to ten, it’s a three. Better than Pop’s brown water with powdered cream. It’s a two.
E. L. Blizzard
Dinner flip-flop-flips on the hooks. They climb the bank to their fire drum. Salted, sizzling skins are popped in mouths that grin warm-belly bliss. A mutual moment of plenty before tomorrow’s rumblings. Reading lines by flashlight from second-hand journals is their nightly home entertainment. Laughter stumbles over spoken word, interrupting their recitations with impersonations of celebrities.
Cold fingers share communion in this private camp. Praying over one another’s skin, their joined bodies sing hymnals. Two voices rise and call and hush into exhaustion. Sleeping under rainfall, they do not dream.
A cough and another. Their days tighten into wheezes and fevers. Wrapped up holding each other, they sleep in fits and starts. Sipping pine needle tea and breathing in its steam, their comfort word offerings weaken. They are together alone and scared.
a hike find
E. L. Blizzard
bow down but the arrow
pricks the phallus and bleeds
flare up the wind and fire
– is it the end
– no, the beginning
– creator sleeps over flood,
toe in mouth
the synapse rings
The earliest records of the Mesophile refer to a Creation Myth: how they emerged from the primeval darkness and, thanks to the Sun’s bounty, moderate temperatures and an adequate supply of oxygen were able to take root and thrive.
By their reckoning thousands of generations had passed since The Great Sprouting.
Mesophilian culture had passed through three stages: the coccus, bacillus, and spiral. They were now on the cusp of advanced civilisation.
The ancient seers spoke of the Dark One, whose coming would blot out the Sun and plunge Mesophilia into blackness.
Then Craig came and binned the mouldy cheese.
the universe turns in on itself
a thought trips the synapses
and an eternity passes
At what frequency does this thread vibrate?
Bach at twilight
the spider’s choreographic