Passenger Unresponsive

The collision felt accidental, but it was inevitable. 

Our poor vehicle with bald tires, creaky brakes, filled with acrid and consuming exhaust fumes was totaled. The opaquely crackled windshield obscured the scene from inside and out.

I thought I’d died in the front seat. I saw him close his eyes as he was thrown from the car.  After the sound of screeching and the bash of implosion, I heard only hissing. It was coming from my chest as I tried to breathe.

In hindsight, the campaign had damaged the road under repeated heavy truckloads of disrespect, anxiety and disgust.  The location: the intersection of Liberal and Conservative.  The time: late in the evening after we’d met our last obligation.  We'd lost control of the vehicle as we swerved to avoid the election. The destination, never arrived at, was acceptance. 

Perhaps if we’d left home earlier it all could have been avoided.  

99% gibbous haiku

Round moon in near pines

as smooth a face as water

washing clean your cheeks

Rainbow House

...Two writing workshops, a retreat in a multi-colored cabin in Big Sur California, and the book The Artist's Way, and this is all I have come up with:



Rainbow House: 

I cannot name for you all the colors I see,

because Mauve
is next to sage
in a velvet pillow
softened
by uncounted bottoms
meditating
the Great "Om".

because asparagus green
is covering rough planks
under-painted by a sky-blue
and bleached
by sun and wind and bare feet and hands
in yoga poses
like "downward dog"

because the shadows hold
molded corners
trimmed with lavender
next to seafoam catching
sunrise beams
at just the right angle
under a cloudless
sky

because the water
in the bathtub
is shining across the splashes
of Monet's, Margaret Lofton's,
Don Louis Harrington's
paintings extending
reflections

because the orange I loathed
is re-birthed at every turn
in cantaloupe duvets covering
hot pink sheets
raspberry pillows and turquoise
drapes

because a door is a window
and a cabinet is a pie cellar
and a window is a ship's hull
and a north wall is a mirror
multiplying the colors
in a corner

because lamps
are gossamer balls
and ceilings are parasols
and corners are 4+2, or 4+4 or
4 plus
one

because the paint on the wood
is a palate,
in progress
of never the same two colors
over never the same two adjoining
surfaces distinct only
in connection to
the rainbows
cast

in light.

rewrite: Spring Fever's Touch

Sonnet to Wrists (1)

Some might say they wear a heart on their sleeve,

others blush a facial rush so red they bleed.

Others' secretive heat of embers rise

from an ancient hearth, deep within birth’s bed.

They burn an inward brand, through met eyes

to hands withheld beyond cuff’s end.

As collared dog will snarl, chained and hackled,

so damned pulses surge to hands and pretend

in tingling wrists bound tightly by shackles,

unsurfaced, unread, unheard, unopened.

How does one release passion’s hidden lock?

It requires no key, nor combination.

Thine own hand’s end unties the binding knot

by mere touch at hand’s origination. 

Spring Fever's Touch

For when the heat of embers rise
secretive beneath birth's bed
or burn inward through met eyes
to hands withheld beyond cuff's end

Just as a collared dog may snarl, toothful and hackled,
emotion's pulses surge to hands upended
as same as bound by shackles
unsurfaced, unread, unheard, unopened.

To release passion's simple lock
requires no key nor combination
for hand's end unties the knot
by mere touch at hand's origination.

The clouds before the ground

The sun warmed the clouds before the ground.
Inside the diner, the air preserved the
food from the kitchen to the table.
The garlic in the food was spicy on
two plates, one paper, one china.
The calling of the children and
the workers clattered our teeth.
But the sun outside warmed the
clouds before the ground.
Our feet were crossing roads but
words moved us forward.
The houses passed us by but
our lives unfolded.
The sun melted the chocolate in

your eyes for a moment.

Sunday 160: Alexithymic

Alexithymic I vacate a vacuum of vocable volumes. Verily a void of values is in view. Viable visions all too few, very vile vapid vicissitudes are vulcanized.  

This is a Sunday 160, a short story in 160 characters, spaces included. If you can make 160, post on Sunday and tell myself, and our host with the most, Monkey Man http://petzoldspracticalprose.blogspot.com/">HERE

Ha! have a happy week, I'll catch my muse one of these days......

In the meantime, please send me yours!