Open Field Poetics

plucking
precious
notes
from each string
Suspended
so delicious
with delicate precision
Basting color
in
arching sweeps
Flamenco skirts
their red
dusty flavor.
these come these come
and I am lost
my voice is small
my voice is
growing smaller

quilted silence

we are ear to ear, arm to arm,
barely room for elbows, limbs and arms.
my face is thin, eyes set too deep, skin a garish geisha white.
Lisa, my skinny suicidal, drunken aunt tilts her swollen neck and smiles sober.
this was back before she leaves Dave and the kids
before she leaves the yellow house and her garden,
before she leaves her homemade soaps, lined up in brightly labeled boxes.
I wonder if he glimpses
through that lens
the months ahead of fiery accusations, packed bags, relentless tears, empty drawers.
we crush into the frame
with elbows, arms and fingers mangled in embrace.
I stretch my dusty lips into a trepid strip. yours are painted wet.
poised behind, the house swells with cedar breath,
colored blue.
we stay up through the night
sharing secrets beneath the sparkling Redmond sky.
daddy touched me,
you say
with a moon-shadowed calf peeping dully through the folds of our scarlet summer quilt.
I rock our tired frames, sprawling weary, aching,
sharply in that old cedar swing..
you’re just going to sit there, you remark
as my legs begin to tire and I picture grandpa‘s bible and his pastor and his church.
I draw my bare, unpainted toes from the yellowed, springing planks;
the swinging slows.
you’re not going to say anything, try to make it better, fill up the silence, you whisper.
and we sit there, slumped, limbs interlacing red, luscious cotton.
And now you smile as the creaking silence sweeps across the porch and down the stairs where it bursts into a flame of yellow anger.

Saki Seto Miss Shuukan Shounen

Saki Seto Miss Shuukan Shounen

Saki Seto is a popular model and actress Born on June 21, 1985 in Japan. Saki Seto claim to fame came in 2003 when she won the Miss Shuukan Shounen Magazine gravure idol contest

Color Desire

At night I am still a child.
My mind studies the day a million miles from my body's desire to sleep. Restless, weary, tied up and tied down by strained, stressed and knotted blankets- my eyes remain the amber attraction of floating particles, illuminated in a copper stream above my bed.

The cold smell of blue moon rays, piercing through my sheets, bursts into fruit flavored nostalgia.

The foggy lamp light outside my cold bedroom encloses the night in a hazy shroud, not unlike the spindly exhalation of a wet breath against a cotton candy sky.

Reaching toward the thick, smoggy light, my hand is precariously encased in saran wrap textured glass.

I bend and I fold outward,
downward,
toward the spongy landscape of cherry blossom grass and sparkling clean footprints, rising like Lego blocks and checkering the scene for miles.

I have yet to spot the luscious light of my first stirring.
A powerful, skulking form makes its way across my weightless, crayon-box path. A tremor seizes the tree to my right as the heavy night sky opens her mouth and swallows the mysterious mass like a left over bon bon.

Finally, I recognize the cinnamon bread light suspended before the cedar post, dropping crumbs of glowering embers, like a careless, cookie-munching child.

Thickly, I tear a portion, throbbing with life and breath and lust in my palms, just large enough to fill my mouth

open, warm, waiting.

villainous exchange

toes precedent to heel- feet land gently.
additional limbs hang limp until folded onto the ground;
Billy rests safe; a silent form of breath and sweat and dissipating fear.

the rippling, thunderous hero drinks in the view.
he notes encroaching clouds, threatening to burst from heavy bellies, a torrent of acidic rain.
alert eyes pierce through dense, night air
with high-resolution, amber tainted night vision.

he studies the boy’s tarred clothing and black, scuffed converse,
evidence alluding to a recent struggle; resistance.
not more than seven, eight at most,
without aid, the limber child would not have managed long.
one round, grapefruit-colored cheek smashes down into the sepia toned cement
causing a bubble of flesh to swell across his lips, nose, eye.
a quick scan of the area gives assurance of safety.
time to go.

yet he is drawn towards the flimsy cotton t-shirt,
his unbiased vision detecting a glimpse of amber-gold beneath.

his heart maintains rhythm
his breath does not catch
his brow knows no perspiration;
he is, after all, a superhero.

a bat figure,
a small, lifeless pendant strung along a worn, leather string,
glares red now, like a tail light or a stop light or a sign spelling out
E-X-I-T.

his child,
his child,
His:

wakes alone
to invasive pellets
of heavy rain.