___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Tannen Dell-

The Park

The mist
turns streetlamps
into stars, ones that could
be reached illegally by ladder
and Babylonian determination.

The pine trees
Baulk as if a toddler
reached to their boughs
with a plastic shovel and a
tear for my burning cigarette
crying fire on a rusty lid. If birds

weren’t so
ecological this
side of Oregon I‘d
leave it and walk the stars

into a mourning bruise,
into porcelain flowers,
into blended earth-scape,
Where Andromeda feasts on fog.

_______________

No Noon for the Moon

Like weather fucked branches
I storm through your glare
I lash back with nails
I repent and you smile

I storm through your glare
When tugging off collars
I repent and you smile
Like from my dew lungs

When tugging off collars
My pupils stare dune-ward
Like from my dew lungs
I catch a wet breath

My pupils stare dune-ward
When constellations fight
I catch a wet breath
And I’m left in your wake

When constellations fight
I lash back with nails
And I’m left in your wake
Like weather fucked branches

_______________

Blackboards of Discovery

There is a room with a blackboard; it is energetic, full of coffee, inertia thoughts and gravity.

He will be shot
He will be famous
He will remembered
He will misrepresented

“In time, new trees will grow my love and we’ll dine in the forest.”

_______________

Grin to the Dawn

An idea,
when divided
makes quarries of you.
A land fill of anti-depressants is what you breathe. Watch as what you see is brimmed with shining receptors. Notice. Your pupils recharging phone batteries and taste the bitter varnish on your lips, your taste buds sigh and your throat fuses an active bomb. Light up a smoke and hope the flames catch in your lungs-
One
Two
Four
Eight.
A multiplicative boom goes up into shrapnel words and holocaust sentiments. You transmutate your world into concentrated synergy, without a host.

_______________

Cliffs of the Sphere

The sky is a busy street, blurs my page and eco-dome in blue. Why is it I am so tolerant of rain like a child questions incessant in patterns like math in an owls talons, buried in rusty triggers and cogs, hung on a sill, a sill by my bedside leaning to the outward ying-yang of eleven dimensions superimposed in the rainbow praying mantis wings dipped in fossil fuel and left to dry on the eye socket skillets of my three-pronged idealism?

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Tannen Dell is a writer from Tigard, Oregon. He edits at Indigo Rising Magazine and PCC’s Alchemy/Alembic. His goals are: bringing more art programs to schools, continue to write and never run out of Coffee.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Advertisements