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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Young Johannes keeps his theory
dressed up with petty pink
flourishes and tucked inside her
wicker basket. She plops fat on
a spangled, off-center perch
while surrounded by tangles of
circular mirrors, each reflecting
his fragmented eye. “The fluid
mechanics of my camera’s
lens imbues its gaping human
subject with a soul,” this caged bird
sings, just as he’s coached her.
She doesn’t require very much
care -- a few scattered meat-filled
husks and white space for flapping
her clipped-tones -- but reluctantly
Johannes must set Prolly free
to wing it openly upon
the waves of patterned noise
his vacuous glass can’t see. |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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I don't know
where we were headed,
but the sidewalk did,
and its smells had been
liberated by a hot summer rinse.
You grabbed at my pendulum
arm, and jerked
me back before
the gap grew us
out of being a couple.
My penance was
a hair-shirt stare
and a smack with that saw:
"Life's about the journey,
not the destination."
"Sure," I said, "but the end's
a crappy cul-de-sac.
I wanna see what I can
before we smash
against it."
You summed me up,
mouthing the three letters
you drew on my chest,
still not-chastened:
"A-D-D, Humming bird."
"There's no deficit
of attention here, Old Crow.
It's just this
plugged-up world's got
a surplus of stimuli."
It was one week
later you left,
taking a whole
slew of savory inputs
to the blank without you.
"Everything
happens for a reason,"
you'd tell me.
Knowing the cause,
never changes my effects. |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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He peels an azure rind
sure to find click-clack gears clocking
tin-men's timid-toed steps
But these clouds conceal gut
taut strings rain drops plink, teasing out
hours' palsy footed jigs |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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The swampy heat draws swarms of bottle-glass
eyed flies who I'll buzz with their Christian name:
dragon. They hover, dive, then skim tall grass;
Cellophane wings beating hurricanes. Game's
afoot, but where? I've seen the solo flight,
pairs mating, but never so many flames
bounced off blue-green foils by the sun's white light.
Their gather's a check for black plumes of beasts
gone unbalanced to these hunters' delight.
If on mosquitoes they make seasoned feast,
my meek blood inherits to this world's least. |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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You could put it down
as youthful folly, or spit out
the hackneyed line about
pride and what goeth after.
It's true, I over-reached,
wanting to limitless kiss
the sun's crisp lips.
I did hold her glowing cheeks
firmly in my palms
for one exquisite breath.
Can you, rocking there
in your comfy prison,
say the same?
There comes a time to sit
astride clouds and burn off
the waxy buildup of childish things.
The weightlessness before
the plunge feels
like it will never end,
but, I can tell you, it does. |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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I want to paint it
this plaint
I've worded
one thousand
unrecorded instants
only to see both
the deep and tinny
syllables I thought
vibrantly tinted
dissolve into
pale, gooey-bottomed wails
I should pitch it
this paste
to patch an unfrocked
eye searching
puffy tears for atoms
escaped within
abandoned margins
as narrow as
the difference between
my white canvas
and an emptying hand
I have to plug it
this post hole
bored by my frantic
inattentions
and stencil a sign:
bold letters below
a starched cuff,
its pulseless finger
pointing out
there's one way
round sniveling sounds |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Sea lilies
I see as silly
sprawled and feathery
arms lift: either
a birthday child's
happy waves
or the crone's
hunger-mad flailing.
Ethereal, they sift
nervous ticks
drifting down with
the dwindled since
carboniferous
seas rose from
an obsession's
bad-mouthed drought
to my sorrow's
sadly doubted drowning.
The miracle of
this one thought
circles up to me
at a glacial pace. |
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