Philip Byron Oakes

Amulet It Be

A favorite contortion shopping for a box
from which to emerge a factor. An open
ended cold sore on the piehole of a saint,
culling the pudding from the proof of
boohoos in the dark. Islands taking a seat
at a map to the heart beating wild horses
in the paddock. Rabbits to the punch at
the back door, of a revision to the whisk of
the tale left behind. The muted sacrament,
putting the onus on the shelf to keep the
peace the hell it is when done right. One
lucky charm removed from the jungle
creeping into the community garden, at
the geologic pace of progress through
the tunnel’s promise of light.

Moon Rule

Stippled insomnia spreading measles,
to a spotless land in need of points of
interest to scratch. A plague to purge
of baby fat, creeping up on chubby in
the valleys making all the songs come
true. Deathly shady beneath the
eyelids, doubting themselves in the
struggle to relax, from the turmoil of
what lives above the covers. Beyond
the pale remedies to gloom as a
soporific in the clutch. A looming
prescription for a smorgasbord of
blank slates, written upon in a
scrawl defining the portions allotted
an appetite for licking wounds
sustained in dreaming.

Back to Forth

A lost motive promoting fraternity in cemeteries made
to look as if the sky were red. The sandman caught
looking past the obvious into the noble recesses, to which
the mind takes retreats in slippery devotion to well being
yourself. Any gallant collapse of the edifice into ruins more
malleable than the original. An abandonment of seemingly
transient intentions, to behave in accordance with what the
barometer divines from lost coordinates within the
menagerie. The rarefied must to due process of slouching
into the proceedings, as if the bell tone were set in the
snivelling abnegations of a stony remorse. A blinking wither
of the blue vervain doting on rosy calculations. An anxious
posture to a seminal journey through the crowd of
thoughts to the contrary cleansing the record
of any freshness to the air.


A salivary quotient to spitting rainbows past
where color might do some good with crimes
against decorum in the eyes. At the bottom of
a search into the need not to see too far. The
hard edge of a nocturne from the dungeons
of a nod and a wink. Passage made dragging
anchor through straits in the mire lapping at
the shore of a lazy heart. The shapeless finding
their hats to wear, giving a head a place to
come home to. A slump’s true leanings tilting
the verandah, to conclusions made of more
than wood. Attempting to corral the wizard’s
musk with a metaphor, capable of climbing
trees in the maelstrom with even less to offer
the fury than the fog.

Philip Byron Oakes is a poet living in Austin, Texas. His work has appeared in numerous journals including E ratio, Moria, Blue & Yellow Dog, Otoliths, et al. He is the author of two volumes of poetry, Cactus Land (77 RogueLetters) 2009 and Sard (Otoliths) 2010. http://philipbyronoakes.blogspot.com/
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