Each month, write a new collection.
EdgesBuilding edges fieldCivilization edges natureSafe cubby edges mergeWhere is my place?9to5 edges laid offHierarchy edges dreamTech speed edges hermit speedLimelight edges darkShadow everywhere.No people visibleLandmines kill most lifeCartwheel the tightropeAngles will guide.Home.
That's a really interesting poem. Would you send that to me?
Flight over the passI recalla memoryof mine where the quilted landscapewas tranquil with greens and brownsas I flew in the backseat of my dad's CessnaThe people were very ant likeas I wondered what they weredoing in the daily routines of their lives, with laundry, walkingas we flew over Tehachapi and through the pass along to BakersfieldMy bladder was about to explode andwe had to cut the flight short goingback to the airport as I recall the landscape with golden hills and itreminds me of when I was in the back seat of my dad's Lincoln Continental as we were driving to Modesto with the dairy farmsand the rows of plants for miles and miles I would watch the rows move pastin a clockwork fashion before myeyes and imagine the rows looking like long walking legs clicking by ina stilt like way moving as the car acceleratedpast the fields of rows and the mounds of dirt moving fast running by keeping up withthe carspeed
Love this man! You really capture the feeling of this.
The Stand-offThe clutter is pushed up against wide open spaceslong shadows from captivity loomfortresses of progress stand like guards at the gateblocking the entrance of the peasant grassThe neutral sea stands by, a witness to the stand-offits rhythmic waves keeping the peacereminding them both with hypnotic soundsthat it could easily wash them away
Great. I love the parallel to the sea!
City Scape I, Diebenkorn 1963, Cooper 2013: A Continuous Redistribution of Hard-To-Replace Materials and the Stratification of Land-Masses into Territories of Exploitation for Profit, Scuffling Sustainable Growth and all Future Livability in this CaliforniaWe Claim to Love Wanted: Cheap track homes that annex the field to glut the red wine for as little as possible in return as we sit in the splinter of the wild—concrete shoe’d among the blooded and water-starved grapevines. Around the corner—the scab-white plank wood and rebar scaffolding belt the 7-11 and the Payday Advance—throw back the light from the gum saturated walkway so that workman can rebrand and repaint the building; over-watch provided by the Fast-Evict-Law-Group which sits behind red-rod-iron and concertina wire covered fences protecting a herd of stray unpaid in-pounds. Glut-skin algaes the mute storm channel, makes its advances, connecting Baldy to the LA basin like a low slung freeway of stagnate traffic-scum. The deepest place our anti-freeze pools is in our ground water. From there the Jimson Weed stalks from its fault-splinter bursting the concrete into fracture nebulas. It is no secret that shadow lights up the raised places un-pooled around our depressions.
I love the cerebral-ness of your poems here!