Aberrant Cuneiform I. Another season, another dream dancing dust from graveyards, particulate matter of old bones, chants liturgies to deities in the wind. Detritus of lost civilizations swirls across tree tops, whispering secrets of winter wind, of memory forming and fading, triumph of the mind's eye, this victory of night air breathing dust through lattice or orange, yellow and rust, soon to be crumpled on earth beneath frosty white where fruit must fall before seed grows anew. Slow as the inching of roots under soil, slow as moonlight casting conifer shadows in forest mosaic, filigree of moon shadows, surging nocturne of dreams, moss and lichen jewels. Rivulets of earth blood sparkle, spinning gush of plankton and minnow. II. Crawling through summer, the grasses were sweet, the sun warm and yellow. Wild dreams danced before the quickened breath: lost awakenings in a dark season. In bone-deep chill: the frozen image rose and lilac gardens elusive now as birds flown south. Nothing remains but cold grey daze. Morbid underdreams scratch the soul and cannot be reached. Little ones turn their collars up and walk backwards into the wind, shoulders stiff, hands tucked in sleeves. III. Here the city has no shelter only speaks the sounds of strangers living, sounds of automotive animals cruising accelerated egos through streets: un-muffled mating cries disturbing a peace that can only be imagined as sirens slash night, screeching pain: someone's life, violent, unnerving. The city coughs its winter nightmare just another season of carbon monoxide, washed-out winter hazes. Memories dwindle into street corners. There is only the trash lady muttering to herself in the alley looking for something she'll never find IV. Here in dark diesel reflections of chromium mirrored monoliths, high tech intelligence data, strained to speed bombs toward great enemies who learned to duck and cover in school air raid drills just like us. Here the sea heaves life and death onto ageless sand: vacated husks of living things, sludge-soaked seagull black oil on wing. The ocean has no answer, only washes away the aberrant cuneiform. Here we bury our dead, dig hard earth with fingernails, turn red faced from graves, tears stuck, brave smiles. Small cataracts form over third eyes. The workman sighs in the kitchen. Heavy feet tread postponed dreams across linoleum. |