Time for Fire: a prose poem-in-progress

stains of our existence we were here and there too layers of our lives we undress, unravel the private vision shared through language through paint, through the movement of our arms, legs, face muscles we are riotous, loud I know my lungs are diseased and the future is one mechanical cough after another mechanical cough a cold, germ-slick room in the artwork the man walks in sunset delineated by power lines the man walks into the sunset a room with walls of light rain sings on a tin roof  whoosh of cars (crashing waves, Joni says) dogs bark at nothing or with predatory intent and then silence, well silence and cicadas and a hammer. breath fogs indoors it is so cold otherworldly energy: a serene-faced ghost slow-drags holds the smoke in her discorporate self we are suspended in her delayed exhalation the burdens on our backs dissolve like wings in hydrochloric acid the dead wolf Charles spoke of pads into the woods again and kills the milk-mouthed fawn the raven proclaims it flies off with a ribbon of entrails no one will speak, to speak means death, our footfall silent as a cartoon Indian no twigs underfoot no sweeping strides through gold grasses moon-rise we look up blessed, mournful the fallen tree has gone to rot but seems hard enough to bear us

©2014 CLM

This piece was generated at the February 8th, 2014 Acadiana Wordlab led by George Marks. More info on Acadiana Wordlab can be found here: www.acadianawordlab.org 

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