A struggle with this
Without any interest
These letters and spaces
Waiting for the mood and blank canvas
To lead the hand and body
As globs of paint of red, teal, black, gold and others
Are spread across the plain surface.
It is mere chance as to
What shapes emerge.
Splatters guided by gravity
And the flick of the wrist.
Some sand to add the texture
Of a roughened beard.
Several nails, old house paint;
All to give some character
To the taped down canvas
Spread upon the bare garage floor
A song to pull me
Toward the past
Distant and gone.
A song to lift me
From one of many 90’s
Car drives, music blaring.
Picking and strumming
Basic beats that carry
The mini stories to their conclusion.
I stroll down moving stills
That reflect a blissful ignorance
That kept difficulties at a distance
Which only now
Can be reflected on
With solemn observance.
An open gate to
Bridge reality and
Virtuality is found
Upon a shelf surrounded
By many coded tales
Blocked from view with
Blocky text saying, “buy
After receiving an invitation.”
7th Door taunts and teases
A young viewer who
Is thrown a ladder so she too
Can join the journey to
Discover the ultimate level
Behind the seventh door.
While traversing an ill marked trail
A fat body faker stood in the way.
With his tail raised high and his eyes glaring
That signature sound of sand against plastic
Signaled his presence. Closer inspection
Reveled the truth hidden by that false rattle tail:
No rattlesnake, but still just as deadly.
A few pictures for souvenirs aid jokes and
Retellings of how we walked past slithering death.
“He came at us!”
“He was waiting there when we
Doubled back!” Wide eyed, slack jawed
Strangers and family members nod, agree,
Even shake their heads at the encounter
With the American Copperhead.