Philip Byron Oakes

Purple *

Ballast as a premise, assumed as a debt, cross-pollinated with flotsam to parent something lurking just beneath the surface, growing kelp like whiskers on the chin of a belated mariner. The senselessly jovial convening in the transparency of giggles, killing laughter in the cradle of the joke. A misguided liberty of gentle souls behind the shower curtain, handcuffing an aria to the interpretation of dreams in the rain. Immune, in the parentheses of the hour. A quiescence before the boom, mixing cocktails in the caboose of a long train of thought. The candied relics of a freedom to sing the threnody.

Making a Circle

Accumulating radii, to reach conclusions
birthed in the sacristy of fears.
The crisp of darkness. The learning speed
of light, to conform to what we see.
Semantic voids parking ultimatums.
Little victories in breathing.
Fading memories, acquainting novices
with the fog as it was. The reach of
cooings into the roar of the crowd.
Beneath gremlin skies, rolling cigarettes
with thunder translating gibberish
into Greek. The wingspan of the
quietude. The no one who anyone
can be.

and 1/2

heartfelt anointed liniment burning toxins bridging the blue in offing of
the heads to beautify one lost lurking in the life at margins acquainted but never there to say good morning at those meaningful tangents to the
pumpkins in the fields of endeavor to breathe as if easy comes as goes
the wind of whispers to the contrary all for naught but for what never
brings to mending fences climbed as caveats in getting to the promiseless land of opportunity to unfurl the rudiments of a flag to fly all to fly a flag to fly away away we go


The lone wolf polygamists of the rocky wetlands howling at the many moons to serenade with wedding bells. Between the resurgence of Oshkosh and the fall of philanthropy. A mischief loitering at the speed of sounding wise. A vision adrift on colors coded in Braille. Populating a gallery of phobic faces, riding herd on a basket of quivers. Like jack-o-lanterns among the bright eyed telling bushy tales, of shrubs grown winsome as the very trees obscuring the forest. Suicidal centenarians applauding the amenities of naptime in a world of dangerous dreams.

Philip Byron Oakes is a poet living in Austin, Texas. His work has appeared in numerous journals, including Otoliths, Switchback, Cricket Online Review, Sawbuck, Crossing Rivers Into Twilight, E ratio, Moria and others. He is the author of Cactus Land (77 Rogue Letters), a volume of poetry.


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Blogger Raymond Farr said...

I like the intensity of these poems.
& how detail is dense & moves the poem along.
Great stuff, Phillip.

9:18 PM  

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