Philip Byron Oakes


Making Them Understand

A gray area laced with tourists
come to see rainbows fraternize
with the night. The bats burst
out from under the bridge, by
the millions made posing as
charity to the widows of the
telethon crying for more.
Putting the egg above all the
chickens ever counted upon,
to defend the fort in these times
of gloaming skies. Boastful
complaints of complicity in the
anarchy destined for a picnic,
in the park and ride your bicycle
to that special moment waiting
at the kissing end of the toad.


Sweet Teeth

Lollipop suckers sticking to stories thought
licked by forebears in the growing up to
snuff. In the grand tradition of the special
things that go bump in the night. Candy
coating karma for the taste of the town
painted red in the facing your fears.
Unavailed of emotions giving the dinghy
ballast, before raising sail into headwinds
of the probative. Fighting mad as hatters
topping off the day with an ill fitted crown,
to sit atop what can’t be quantified with
a shrug. An oopsy daisy freshened footing
Bill without a leg to stand on niceties,
cutting the distance between a bloody
scream and a knife in the back at ya.
Looming over a village of simple thoughts
brewing conundrums with a threat the
flavor is real. A sucker punch fizzling to
licorice, taken from the baby blues with
no rhythm to the rhyme’s the reason the
sugar tastes so good.


Aerial View

Pilot’s license to speak of clouds as answers
to the clarity a mirage affords those seeing
what they believe to be. Obstacles in
attire consuming the look of amenities
unable to perform their task. Welcoming
interpretations best suited to nudity when
stripped of its accoutrements thought
necessary to deceive. Blinding whoever
can’t be dissuaded as to the necessity
of a time to look the other way. That
taken by those who know they’re
right to have taken first steps first,
above all else or other means
of feeling safe granting
rights to the storm.


From Within a Framework

Vacationing on the edge of a feeling neither pain nor pleasure a factor in
the playing numb when called. Stumblebumming clues as casualties of
puzzles, leading nowhere by variously circuitous routes. Scalloped to
conform to the curve, the bell lends to those who hear the tolling coming
their way. The funhouse lost looking for a home to land in laughter’s
echo, at the sight of weather rolling up sidewalks for the dark to come
again. One axe that might fall afoul of the tree, in getting past the forest
to see the Taj Mahal. To anchor the skiffs in the lagoon of weepy luaus,
without second thoughts getting in the way of the third so easily taken
for granted to be alive. Eschewing the ephemeral for even less than that
which this stands in for in a pinch. Why the heretofore sustains the next
with a stipend. A fruitless panoply of repetition saddling its echo, with
vows of perpetuity filling the moment with collusions as to the color of
the sky. The projected texture of a tapestry moving the otherwise
insensate to all but say they understand. The choices accredited to
objects found lacking the nutrients to feed the curiosity grown fat on the
mystery of life.



Philip Byron Oakes is a poet living in Austin, Texas. His work has appeared in numerous journals including Scythe, Country Music, Moria, Hamilton Stone Review, et al. He is the author of two volumes of poetry, Cactus Land (77 Rogue Letters) 2009 and Sard (Otoliths) 2010. http://philipbyronoakes.blogspot.com/
 
 
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