Bold as bold and shimmering gold as the sunlight fights through humidity, stacking the layers of weather then dying black as holes, until you question whether they’re alive or just the blemishes of mis-laundering. A small constellation of flies rest and lick salt from the jogger’s brilliant orange shirt where he sits splayed in the air, the locals find chilly in their jeans and sweatshirts and my northwestern bones consider comfortable safe from the overly familiar embrace of New Orleans
the no-see-ums have been at my ankles so each time I stop walking my skin prickles sharp pins then I scatch expecting a wound to rise blood to flow pain to abate but it stays watchful for my next step possibly enjoying the sweat and rain running down my legs as the camera flash lightning strikes away north exposing painless fish several feet beneath Lake Ponchartrain coasting until hunger awakens their fins and drives them forward to find their prey or eat the young of their own kind
a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
That satanic streak of tireless undressing of a hapless monarch. Wings were gone. Cannot fly across the tree of hypocricy. A footmat for the suicidal jump from the elegant hierarchy to grainy lies. Why are you turning ungreen? You will
John Walker served his country in WWII It was something he felt obligated to do. In combat he risked his life Even while he was facing strife He wrote his family back at home While he was on another roam