There is a voice in the trees
i can hear it from the asylum window
the priest is at odds with himself
about my condition
there is a voice in the trees
it hovers just beyond the river’s bend over there.
the world is at odds with itself
about situation like this
there is a lady in a room of no windows
there is a lady in a room purged of love
i am at odds with priests and worlds
there is a humming lady,
in a room,
in the trees,
where the river bends,
over there. – T C Cannon
He had an eye for these things.
But I had the soul.
The art of the moment, wasted with lies.
With all the chatter of aperture and metered light.
Exposures in a dark room.
You, looking for that idyllic covered bridge.
Me, searching for meaning to the words, ‘just live.’
As your dark room comes into contrast with my life.
The question still remains,
‘what of the devil you tried to tame?’
With a generation, come and gone,
I will right your wrong.
with all your attempts to school me…
All your photographed Rockwell ideology…
The shuttering speed of Americana.
All this and more, such great expectations.
Not a single tutored self-portrait.
a guild full of
Petals in the pines…I have come here…once again
with your loving colors for the fevered mind
And, the circling of blackbirds to speak to me of the shape I am in
A little girl’s dream of…
lime and lemon hue
Spinning in the dance under the moon’s harvest
the autumn of sun’s riches
the blinds of my mind…lilt
a storied plot of disconnect and bad vertical holds fresh with scant static
I interviewed, repeatedly…the main character on merits
on fishbowl houses
smiling goldfish with one shoe
I keep coming back to these indoor graveyards
scrutinizing testimonials from dead poets
at graffiti’s basement of cheap thrills
stirring up banshee’s with last centuries news
I have lit this vigilant firecracker so often just to watch it explode
would have taken a powder by now
but this actor, this skinny cow reminds me
overturned stones eventually turn cold
I will come back at least three times more
first, with a left hand cane to pry open all the good that remains
second, with a stronger back to carry a weighty blind frog
third, with Wonder Woman’s eraser to remove my name
Dark the wood aching for sun
So many conversations we have had
Derelicts of the times, both good and bad
You and I, cloaked in a nasty game of hide and seek
In this, warring courtyard, curves and cushions of fodder
In this, crumbled down streets, forks and flexure and fixtures
I bend to breathe
Hollow becomes my rasp
Sharp is my bath water
Obstructed is my throat…
I quarrel with the words I say
Naked and ravenous, I take to the sodden road
drained of your city ways