a simple answer woulda

having mouthed a saidfull about comfort creatures and

therapy scents

his sonicfication of 

ambient harshness came

in its

undulatory locomotion 

melodic as a pneumatic drill

a blaring cortège in serpentine along unguarded senses

(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead 

our Lewis

the inn –

with different things   

showing

cleric and epic and

deity

off to Europe

with no money

for untiring fluids

bought

is the first half of a place for 

our Lewis, as said

“it is a lot of

fire in unguided wiles

to the is”

when a quick look wheels back around to what he said

said was “urgency to intend a good idea, if ever, to chide

as when

I met Anjali

she being an heiress

in a good job

       l do mean to the whole”

(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead 

 

planting onions

four rows of onions

in for sorrows 

with

each bulb pushed

into furrows

along

mounded rows

went a wee bit of trouble

tiny worries gathered

throughout the day 

ensconced 

within a chrysalis of

earth

waiting (as we are   all)

for transformation 

to begin it’s work 

(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead

Bewilderhof – 40

Chapter 40

– hypo 

his needle is

is to stay

in excelsiored dreamscape,

a final conversation

always a playback away

         but the rooster

         sticks to the only

         plan he knows

a rumpled man rises to

notice a sickle in the sky

it brought to mind

                 the moon

as it was the night he realized

there was to be

a portion he

would have to

leave behind

a segment of his youth

the ages

would have to decide

             a proper place for 

now he        (     if

captured in archival footage   ) 

            

     would be observed

     seemingly to be waiting

for certain years

to die, finally, a

good

quiet death

guard bird sings truth to an audience of dawn and the one

destined to spend

his remaining time on 

this stage

(cobbled from coffin planking

& emptied book shelving)

balancing clarity 

(a plate spinner

in monochromatic perpetuity)

trying to forget names

trying to forget numbers

trying to cold turkey 

an addiction 

to the rewind

(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead

Bewilderhof – 39

Bewilderhof – 39

Chapter 39

– sloth’s puzzlement 

laying

        in dream

inducing 

garden

in front of the porch

                      he

       (being of scientific mind)

tried to piece together 

proceeding days

with logic

             mathematics 

however

having been drunk

Tuesday,

         so long.

wed. never arrived

another gap in existence 

another overlooked clue

     a poppy can 

quiet a mind     instill

   an

instinct for reverence 

(the trick being 

– locating proper point of  emersion)

((& recognizing 

misdirected preference))

as name implied he moved slow in getting to his feet

and turning toward the sound of the tractor emerging from the barn   a trick-

    of memory a moment moored by a thread 

       of clearer head

       of hand on handle

       of candle and seal

a remembrance straining against 

hold of the cleat 

time to adhere

to notion of passage

       little more

before 

the line snapped

& into a drift again away

sloth kicked empty bottles aside picked a bloom for his lapel mostly because he figured it Friday and there was tradition written down somewhere of celebrating that day in one fashion or another though it was actually Thursday and his adornment was just another out of place icon to be defended with churlish blubbering’s 

Bewilderhof cut the tractors engine and climbed down to attach a hay wagon just as sloth was passing

“how are you with change?” sloth asked

Bewilderhof didn’t look up

addressing his answer more to the hitch than the embodied hangover doing the asking

“I’m all for it…

but not around here”

climbing back into the saddle he finally acknowledged sloths presence by tipping his cap

          B: hey,

          s:  hmmm?

          B:  what’s

                with the     

                    flower?

(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead

seismicity

mistrust that seeps

into

cracks 

in any mantle

will always

lead to slip

along the fault

(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead

within

sky, this morning sang

harmony rises from rim

of the bowl I’m in

(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead

Bewilderhof – 38

Bewilderhof – 38

Chapter 38

– a meeting concludes 

– been,

                       he had

since youth,

swayed by       this

director of unending

tutelage 

           stayed

unbent

to be, covered (as if rime,

these arctic utterances)

if not warning,

         the zest of one then

– derived from scrapings

of evidential dilemma

& taking up residence 

in the 

bitter portion 

    of tongue 

repeating 

      (as circumstances demanded)     circumstantial 

          pejoratives

against the simple

and weak willed

repeated and again

should a stumble 

into the alley

of forgetfulness   leaves

the agenda unattended to

there is a pebble collector 

to be considered 

one who wants answers from

daytime stars

but refuses to listen

        even to his own

        circuitous 

        devotions

that he mutters

walking the hedgerow

      – the line of possession 

or drawing a cup

from the spring

a beachhead ahead

        if taking into account 

        tattered banner

        fractured mast

rising above horizon 

these thoughts (forming as quorum to drive validity)

were 

the thing

that maddened

his days

she left him with 

a kiss and a caution

he left a 50

picked up his 

      keys

and shaded his eyes

against 

the impulse of the sea

(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead

easterin’

Kiwi Oxblood

paste &

towel 

          my mother had 

          cut one into strips 

          for the buffing

on the floor before 

Davey & Goliath 

lilies on table

a spot of chocolate 

(to be covered

by a clip-on

just before being

corralled into

the Impala)

then off to hear

the tale retold

   with bell ringers and chorus

and a stop for more baskets 

(ones my mother bought and planted around her fathers house)       on the way

                             home

I could sense in her

joy        the

aspect of

rebirth    not that I could tie that phrase to what

I sensed,

but the mornings pageantry 

seemed to leave an

impression of floating 

Dad, well,

he was harder

to read

unless it came to

fishing or coaching

little league

for him

spring was a rototiller

lawn chair evenings and

a 16 ouncer or two

before cooling

of the air drove

him inside

the first Sunday after the full moon came late that year

so he lucked out

it was warm 

even after sundown 

so the house was quiet

when I heard him come in

and laugh about

something with mom

I’m sure I gave a quick security check under the plastic grass

before I fell asleep 

I knew

     there were

scoundrels about

the sanctity of the season

notwithstanding 

(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead

Bewilderhof – 37

Bewilderhof – 37

Chapter 37

– a question of surface tension 

how many times

can a man drown

in brine of self imposed   

    delusion  before resigning

himself to 

       simply

                   float 

until currents bring him

upon brighter shores?

this question

– nowhere among

  files in overflow

scheme as panacea for a less placating curriculum 

              modus cogitatio

his, his

as moss replicating

behind towering glass,

his

whilst

citified corpuscular 

crowd

moves in arterial confusion

      never stopping

not for lights not for pedest

-rian 

not for rest nor right of way

they in 

the hive         thrum

     if

with occasional bend of 

neck to follow 

      angle of        dusk

they

may catch a pane

         that does not reflect 

last light

               of day

& he may catch the squint 

        & be raised by it

sustained by their

       wonderment 

but who can be certain it is not just another in a growing chain of false risings

a momentary surfacing

of nostril 

above the breakers

before 

sinking

sets in again

(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead