Week #49 – Cold front
|Near Nanaimo by Bernard Heise|
|C/old Front by Dorothee Lang|
of life –This stack
of b/oxed hopes,
of I th/inkG/rows
a little higher
a little edgierWhen win/ter
we w/ill leave,
by the hidden mean/ings
of our words -all those layers
we haven’t been
|Hypnagogea by Eryk Wenziak|
|The table’s pants are long. Too long. Leaving it unable to run far. Nor fast. I sew it a new pair. A shorter pair. A pair the length that when worn would prevent me from catching it. I approach the table from behind. Clap my hands. Warn of my presence. I give it the newly sewn pants. The first leg in. Then the second. Followed by the third and fourth. I pull a gift from my leather bag: a checkered, green and white flag. The table grabs it and runs off. Disappears into the horizon’s curvature. It will be waiting for me. Many years ahead. At a finish line drawn in fishbone powder. It will wave the checkered flag upon my arrival. Congratulate me on my endurance, while remembering to throw in a few lines of ‘appreciation’ for my generosity ‘all those years ago’—thanks ignored at the time. But I always understood the table’s intentions. It was young. (And the wood it was carved from was also young.) I will pick up the flag and trace a figure eight into the high sky. Like a child burning their name with a sparkler. The figure eight will fall on its side. Become infinity. But this time I’m sure I’ll never see another finish line. And my sense is the table will already know that, and will no longer wait. No longer draw a chalky line. No longer give me thanks.|
|To the Trees by Nicolette Wong|
|Cold front is you on the morning I cut through mist. Around the park where old men wave their wooden swords in unison, blunt-edged glory boiling in their veins. I tread a path of oval stones to haunt the trees, reading their names & spirits to make them my allies.
I must reach my stop before the sun scorches my eyes.
Since you passed out from too much alcohol in my bed, I have turned it into an ummarked grave. I shoveled dirt over your blonde hair fused with grey, your blue eyes burnt by past phantoms while you ran up the tower you built around yourself, panting, holding onto me for lights from a distance. Every step of yours made me cringe; it made me run to that snowy landscape where a fox smiled & flitted past, a reminder of your false love.
Now I must run to the last tree I could find & wrap my arms around it. Only its embrace could save me.
|Watch How the Slip Tips by Piet Nieuwland|
|watch how the slip tips itself over and flies headlong into a dive that wings into an arrow riding on the force of the throw and the magnetism that large objects emit, following the curve of vectors and wind resistance, the shaft vibrating through hillsides of toetoe torched with lightning, the satin plumes splinting the blue horizon with fire stippled bursts and shards, trapezoidal crystals and zags.
in my mind is a wave, a surging crest of intelligence breaking upon an open sandy beach on the western coast, it rolls up into the shallows and foams into a long line of surf, tearing open the pent up energy of a large ocean crossing, pulling a net through the deepest passage of currents and tidal floors, enveloping the wisdom of fish and seabirds that plunge through masquerades of reflections, the wave it bursts and throws out incandescent showers of sparks and glowing particles in an effervescent mirage under a dome of mirrors repeating themselves thru infinity by factors of prime numbers and combinations of polygons and floating orbs that drift slowly like bubbles, and coalesce
|Virus by Stephen Hastings-King|
|Words write themselves on my walls. They creep into paintings and photographs, erase elements from image, replace with themselves.Words take shape in clouds of cigarette smoke. They fill up my ashtrays and pile up on tables.
Some days I trail them behind me like a smell.
When I get home in the evening, words are hanging in the air like dust. They stick to my glasses.
The cabinets in my kitchen are full of nouns. Stale verbs I never eat sit in boxes atop the refrigerator.
Words accumulate on my wardrobe like dandruff. There are fragments of stories in my sock drawer. They might be better than this.
|Cold Front by Susan Tepper|
|On the eastern border of Siberia they say nothing grows. Not even a cactus says Tootie. Oh will somebody shut that kid up. I want to kill him. I hate the way he eats. He slops his food like a little hog. I would like to take him to Siberia. Lose him in a big snow pile. My brother says Tootie is something we have to live with. Why? Why do we have to? I have seen other things go by the wayside. The turtle we named Fastie, for instance. It was put on Gramp’s old record turn table and spun off into space. We searched the whole room. Fastie was gone like a snow melt.|
|Back to Wk #48 – Tainted love
Forward to Wk #50 – Home sweet home