Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

The author put his characters' guns away.
He could almost hear the sounds of disarmament:
the click of a revolver being opened, cold
bullets falling into his hand. A sniper rifle
taken apart, its components placed in their case.
An old shotgun that stuck in wet weather, opened
against his knee, so ...

If we could sit by the river and watch
the alders age.
They're leaning against a backdraft
and the fire of my anxious thoughts.
One saying says we should enter life without
fear, without caution, without doubts.
But it seems whenever we listen to plaques
we end up wrecking some possible paths.
I ...

The collection agency that was trying
to collect on me just filed for bankruptcy.
The neighbors up the street, on an
adjustable mortage rate, have not yet
been threatened with foreclosure.
But their smiles seem strained
when they entertain. When they
slump outside to bring in the bill,
the sun seems ...

Dude, yes. Amen!

The images you string together are charged with amazing colors and movement! I'm just reading and rereading and loving it!


Thanks, joel. I've been reading some of your stuff, and think it's great. When I have time I'll have to go back to your poems and post some of my thoughts.

doreen peri wrote:You, sir, have a way with slinging a phrase. Good writing here. Love the images. Welcome to the Studio!

Thanks, Doreen.

Little birdie told me I might know you from another board but I don't think so.... or do I? Hmmmm.....

Think about squirrels.

I can taste this one's sting.

Pushing with their noses,
solar fish nudge craters open.

This song marks the beginnings of a bridge
rising over the roadway. Pink hail
freezing in a rainpipe.

Words sharing one bed, a spangle of bracelets
broken. (the muscles in her arms roll;

her paste jewelry comes down in pieces)

Dylan:

I might be that cool. And then again, I might not.


Jack:

I wonder if Lubbock's own Buddy Holly thought that before his plane crashed. Rock and roll, baby.

I'm shed off the amoeba known as PIP. I haven't been on poetry sites in years, but a friend convinced me to join up here.

That sounds like a pretty cool collage.

Did that actually happen? I'll let you draw your own conclusions. However, I'll just say, sometimes poetry meshes well with fiction.

Spiked with a sense of the inevitable,
he masturbated off the 15th floor
of the Westin Diplomat hotel. Tumescent
no longer. White strings frothed.

The ocean close, the surf distending.
His body swaying in the sun-scattered sky.
He follows the ocean's rhythmic dancing. Like
crumbling sand, cities of ...

:) I understand, and appreciate that.

Thanks, tj (not tijuana). This one came out after seeing a really cool, really sexy photo of someone I will never meet.

click. arch. click. living
heat done artist-ice, a border
of gold leaf, a hammering beat,
a tv without need, a signal,
a pulse, a click-arch-
CLICK! her hair, a
sculpture of air, is there
a there to augment the here.
the shore is behind the glaze. i
can't see her face. glass.
her waist. her ...