Untitled Note Beside a Still American Flag

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1.

Palette of light rain in October bluffs,

trickery and island signs,

vote here vote there,

this square that square,

orange to red with November’s

dawn. Poached eggs on the porch,

I see western smoke as we dance with copper

fallings. This American flag in light rain,

three colors to sprout

the running fields of rage.

The dew is heavy,

a consummation of fear.

2.

Drinking alone watching my spit

slug its way down the pole

I think of my friends

far in various states

of this nation. Cast

into the November winds

as we sit in the colors

of October. An empty

well quietly takes rainwater

as the horizons are overcast.

The poor moths in their brief

spark. My fear of 72 hours

chasing light comes to me

in malted tones.

The rain coming, coming

harder as people sleep and I 

sit discontent in the night.

My loves and their butter

bread cracked and whole.

Every time I see you,

I love you more. Fabric

I didn’t know could be sown.

Where are you all in this

crisp hour? In bed? At the studio,

contemplating our hours like I?

Are they walking streets, making

love? My spit stain eyes me

from a bubble on the wood

post. From its look I gather

I have the answers I need.

Mucus cyclops less than

a dime in size.

It sees right thro me

and back out goes

my reflections.

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Liam drinks coffee bubbled out of a Moka Express and will happily share a pour. Liam enjoys poems being read out loud and a good coffee shit. They think dancing is food, and Miles Davis's Cooking At The Plugged Nickle is an ideal record to make supper to. Fresh herbs are highly recommended to enhance flavor/image. He's currently attending a university in Boston, studying under the umbrella of English as weather greatly shapes literature.

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