stroll

Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 43

essay cover chalice

“A Morning Stroll in Bridgeport, Chicago”
(Sunny, Light Breeze, 71 Degrees, Birds; Sadly Beautiful)

I dream the unlived Sin-
Clearly: he’s enmeshed in the low-
Tall piano jazz amounting with-
In Sunday window’s screened-in scene, in-
Where, at an inflowing ashen depth from the framed
Open pane, perhaps even seated out
Of this sidewalk-sight, below the framed water
Color of a bare bent back (gray and grayer
Strokes – 10? 9? 8?… More? – tinge the viewed
Atmosphere with a spine soft-arched down to its fray
Between hippy, nonchalant, rump cheeks,
A light bodied cascade of split-ends fallen
To the bold-lined platform of Chicago

Shoulders—
No neck;
Arms and thighs –
O! Imagine those calves!
Unseen but understood

To be tucked against her innie, into her breasts’
Stud buttons), where his eyes, in puckers, eye
The tweed perspective of the Hechtian inking a tea
Into taking a hit of moonshine in its stove-top coffee.

… I dream him, the unlived pluck of a harp
String over tall grasses tilted in the twirls of the Age
Of Chivalry’s zephyrs that reach into the shade
The trees give themselves once brought to the appeased
Enmoistment that is the summer’s ‘I’m cool with self,’
When leaves touch their own shadows to the shadowings
Of the undersunned sun-meant sides of the sunnier
Leaves before them, those even yet behind
Those that take the elegiac air-prods first-

Most and were always never
To have both sides coexistently
Shaded, but yet attain this due due
The plushing acrossments of sword-
Wielding-times’ blowings of wind.

Such vision strikes chords. – I dream of Sin-
Clearly, unlived, denied the romance of the days
When inking was the act of scoring shade into skin
Amidst the quivery barbs of a dead structure.
 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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