Outside Your Faith


outside your faith.
Stop peacock strutting
and ram butting.
Tis the season to
study the thousands of I-am iambs
about-face, and the buzzing
extant; cults cutting each other:
no reason, just rant.

What is your judgement ?

Rabbits wrapped in magic
habits numerous,
numinous but misgiven,
circumspect of standing erect:
kneeling to much,
feeling and such,
|dead before living|
the wind from the veil
arrecting melenky hairs;
the fabric lifting: untouched.

You may judge harshly,
—heathen, heretics against heaven,
heresiarchs—, darkly.
As the chronicles of history
[by troth, a pamphlet
drawn up from the edges of rivers
and metallic ages
—dipped from conquistador inkwells, never
tipped by broken quills, those who fell—]
page past sound scrutiny,
even if found lacking

semicolon however comma

once free of the liturgy
sacred, formal;
gods of thunder storming,
naked nymphs transforming,
sky chariots warming:
mountains and volcanoes,
rivers and seas,
the moon and the sun—
physics and phenomenon:
various normal.

Without the shield of myth
circumspection circles
the seared lobes
of the hoodwinked;
condenses and soaks
the desert cracked.
Left.                                 Alone.
In the moment,
the scene green.           Now,
                                          In the beginning . . .

*[ WSB ].



eashells on the seashore
tell of sea swells
and fish that soar
                                          and swish
with the flash of a tail.

*[ WSB ].



by golly,
nigh gully
cutting a
swampy lie.
spiky with
knobby husk,
body burly
full of knots,
wobbly top
softly sighs,
topsy boughs

*[ WSB ].



Horns do not blare in the early bluster
that switches papered leaves from birthright rest.
Popcorn trees stir in the bleating woodwind
fore the gusting fanfare of carnivore.
Clouds like witches soar across the Worm Moon—
crow-shine dance—from caverns come nightcrawlers:
a sacrifice. Hoofbeat aft the curtain
rising: the steeds blaze from the underworld.
Dusk entombs the dark stillness of winter,
as the night-song quiets before the dawn
of spring that will color the bleak landscape
when life teems within the eye of Horus.

*[ WSB ].



“Crest”: Vermillion Whimsy [2022]

First the scarlet cardinal,
the father, we peddle;
then the little poof
clambering aloof:
who turns out
cardinal, the slightest
of crests atop his
peeping crown,
no red feathers yet,
just drabby down.
Then comes the squawk
as my daughter scoops
him from the nature walk.

Housed in a previous cage
piping hungry with rage,
more feathers tube out,
as he flits about:
with tail sprout,
and chirps cracking songbird,
soon to be colored,
face blacked out.
Bird is the watchword
for turnabout
from net to nest:
will there be visits
or just question-mark reds?

*[ WSB ].

Flying Saucers, Mostly


The fairy-blue book fell
into the rose well,
fathoms deep.
Lore rises on the smell,
yours to keep.

Like a flying insect,
it hovers exact,
darts around
sharp-angled in aspect.

metallic mandala,
sometimes a cigar,
yields crop art
and third-kind encounters
probing arse.

Worshippers in tin foil
testify piecemeal
of cabals
masking aliens real,
scales and all.

*[ WSB ].



Detail. Version of Photograph: Justin Kerr (Mayavase Database)

The drumbeat awakens the ancestors
asleep above the ink-infusing skin;
and just beneath, the shaken blood bestirs
chronicles milling in chambers within.
Like the shield of Achilles, the patterns
alive augment and account biography:
an expressive graphic novel scattered—
the canvas quickened upturns privacy
public |shifting art topological|.

*[ WSB ].

through a night


Passage through a night in the “seemetary” moreover palpably embeds in human experience a sense of what it is to fall down “dead to the world” and to undergo a spectral transit through a dark “noughttime” at whose sunstruck latter end, after encountering shades and shadows and sometimes harrowing hell, one hurls back an immobilizing rock and undergoes a resurrection of the body into the sun’s day, at the pearly gates of dawn, under an eastering blade of matitudinal light: “Array! Surrection!”


from: Joyce’s Book of the Dark: Finnegans Wake

//John Bishop//

*[ WSB ].

Affine Transformation


A    spheroid pulled at the poles
—a pointedly comedic effect—
can wobble or flip when thrown,
or easily slip from the grip,
and the angle of bounce is unknown.
But keep these features in check,
and spiral this prolated shape
of dimpled pigskin when letting it rip:
then lo the rotational ellipse
arcs through the sky with grace:
zen of quadric face.

*[ WSB ].