Philip Kobylarz
passing impasses
Saying what we didn't mean, stumbling on rocks painted by sea and air. Apologies
planned, never said. In
boxes we go into the Great Wall of silence. No one's there to hear the voice recording
or see the litho plate, have it
any way or none. Throw to the wind, don't bury ashes, kindling, gathered, of time.
aeolianesque
Naturally, it fell apart. As canyons disguise inklings of sea. Theirs was of an unseen, unheard of
togethering without obvious
meanderings. To call it what it will be called isn't a easy as seams. Those places coming
apart, together. Let
fossils be as young as sand. All the same. Driftwood washes shoreward, the sun sinks
into water, rippled
as ivory.
juvenilia
For many purposes, and few intents, thoughts came and visited in their familiar guises: Mister
Humiliation, the brothers shame,
the false Dionysus of fame, Madame suicide. Calling cards, left. all in not, a bad day. There have
been worse haircuts passing
department store windows. In a box of matches, sand. Birds on the shore chewing mastic, trying
to hold each other's wings.
Philip Kobylarz is an itinerant teacher of the language arts and writer of fiction, poetry, book reviews, and essays.
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