In Tongues
by Joseph Armstead
Voices raised, our words,
streaking through the air
between us like meteors
afire,
burn,
leaving sizzling contrails
in the demilitarized zone
of space
separating you and me,
the inarticulate
screechings
of angry primates,
primitive speach
insufficient to properly
render
and define
the true complexity
of this picture
of our fractured
reality.
We speak and it is
the diary of a monster
blinded by moonlight,
an atonal opera
relating a tragedy of errors,
a tale told
in sonic booms
wrapped in the last sigh,
burning cold,
of a dying flower.
So incomplete and yet
so decidedly classic.
A flood
of audible
desperation,
words
beyond definition.
Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock:"Broken Glass" by Friday (Tatiana Morozova), dreamstime_17124657.jpg
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Blades of Black Grass
by Joseph Armstead
I lost my childhood
in the shadows
of steel towers...
It sleeps fitfully
outside
the farthest reaches
of the steel
and concrete
urban sprawl anthill,
this dream of the ghost
of the ancient
rites of summer.
The fields are black there,
ebony with the wild
grasses of twilight.
I lost my innocence
in the drab gloom
of skyscrapers...
It is almost a forest,
almost a country,
in and of itself,
an entity
born of passing fantasy
and melancholy
wishes,
it calls to me,
whispers my name,
pulls me back
past the gates
of Time,
a daydream
of soft magic
and secrets
I abandoned my youth
under a mountain
of glass and metal...
The fields there
are black
with the wild grasses
of flowing twilight.
Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock:"Abandoned Office Building" by Tupungato, dreamstime_9784566.jpg
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Affirmation and Regret
by Joseph Armstead
Get your act together.
He stands staring down at the floor, nose wrinkled
in distaste,
as if he can see and smell the bitter aftermath
of your anger and sorrow, as if you had no right
to let your caged emotions
erupt
after you heard the Truth, facts and impositions
masquerading
as Reality
in a cascade of misfortune, releasing
a torrent of raw unfettered You.
Your startled guardian angel
is recovering
from a pie to the face.
His face is unlined stone, his eyes are cold
glittering marbles, masking
the inscrutable workings
of an uninspired, judgmental
brute-mind
and he is looking square at you
waiting for you
to do something,
say something,
anything really,
to erase the shame of your loud,
all-too-public display of humanity.
Get your act together.
Something hot in your stomach squirms, agitated,
and whatever remained of the joke
between your legs,
crisps like burnt bacon, and crumbles to ash.
Don't look him in the eye. Breathe.
When at last you speak, the words come out
through clenched teeth
in a bitter croak...
"It seemed like the best solution at the time, sir,
but, looking at it now, I can see the flaws.
Count on me to do better."
Yeah. Sure. Grovel. It's hard
to save face when you're an
anonymous, featureless
cog in the almighty machine.
Nothing good can come from this.
Your so-called "act" is strangling the life from you...
Your guardian angel screams,
disappointed and embarrassed
at being anchored to you.
You discover that Hell is wanting to belong.
Get your act together.
Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock:"Humiliation & Stress Concept" by Vilax (Aleksandr Volkov), dreamstime_13818881.jpg
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Rain Dream
by Joseph Armstead
The slow sound of my
footsteps,
through rain puddles
sound like sands of Time
splashing in whispers
onto the bottom
of an hourglass.
Here but not here, Now but not now.
Dawn poured silver light
across a drowsy sky
and the legendary,
proverbial butterfly
of Chaos and Causation
flapped its wings
in Alaska
and
a wet storm front moved down
the western edge
of the Canadian coast.
California dreamin'
on such a chrome-metal day.
Traffic tie ups, three accidents
on the bridge, a bike race
postponed,
public rail experiencing
twenty minute delays,
crowds of miserable commuters
impatiently wishing
for the arrival of an early Spring,
and all the while
the surreal, insubstantial
remnants of a morning's dream
haunt me
as I feel cool water
slide over my hands
from a leak in my umbrella.
Here but not here, Now but not now,
a shiny Indianhead nickel,
Thomas Jefferson staring
into undefined distances,
left lying in the street.
Something unbearably bright
hides its searing brilliance,
celestial reassurance,
behind a rolling tide
of thick, dark clouds,
a slave to clockwork
atmospherics,
Time held at arm's length.
Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock:"Face" by 3quark, dreamstime_8492309.jpg
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The Straw Man in the Flames of the Sky
by Joseph Armstead
He is burning in a sea
of blue burning night...
............no birds haunt the sky
............no feathers of Heaven
........ litter .................
............the bright fires rising
....... from churning soul ......
of the Unquiet Earth
smoke
the color of a spring memory
pours
into the open void, well of Time,
that looks down upon
the lone figure
of a paper-doll
scarecrow
raging
against his Fate.
All is changing,
All is torn, rippling
through an ocean
of wind,
light,
and enigma.
.........gravity is a candle.......
burning in the vastness of his senses
He is a blue burning torch
lighting the dark seas
of flickering change.
Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock:"Dancing Demons" by Jasnemo (James Nemec), dreamstime_1106593.jpg
