Amy Souza and Tom W. Lewis

Amy Souza
In the midst of life, we are in death

Digitally manipulated photograph of found object sculpture
(tree stump, garden detritus, wax crayons)

Deerfly terrorizes
By Tom Lewis

Inspiration piece

The deerfly terrorizes while the lime tick stains the tablecloth.
The Buddha of windowglass meets the blue-green angel.
Where the nameless Tao buys tobacco from gremlins,
and sexless Anchorites with frog-heels of tornado spiral
and wash out the tidal blow (paralyzed, at attention), there
the maintaining girdled virgins of the spare tire glade
stomp the optional howler, the stately monkey-king
and his consort—Regina Vulneorum—under leaves.
Buffed out like a grey palm, the kitten-purr form races
across the rasping windowshade. All speaking no English
for a year, all serving at the Temple of the Groves,
all mothy mouthed and sloth-brained, breezed by goddess
and gorged phantoms, shadowed like the mayfly, the night-bat,
the moon creatures coming to give libation and vomiting out in stream and valence—
……………………………………………………..All wind, all wind, all nirvana.
Call the station of service before the woods cross the stake,
the gall bag of Jack-in-the-Green blooming, blowing waste
on the house-gods’ roof-shrines and acroteria. All parrots
and mittens sprung through air after seething pagan liturgy.
Houses are again crumbling the toast of domestic goblins, taken
with the sighs of dreamed spectres, all shaded, under moss,
with mushroom and gale. All the sailors come to shore
with nets rattling on the sides of their land-wagons: gaping,
gabbing, necks ajar and feet clenched, the doors dropping hinges
left here for threshhold encounters, with the songs of sprites
and shining albedoes, god with spikes that shimmer and condemn
form, every semblance of it, the breath of horse the hastening
of fast laps each counting spots and dapples, the source of
language, the counting of syllables, the sliding riverbanks
containing round stones and salmon like a fairyland
brain in millions of wet diamonds over the rocks, Mother
of Wounds or Mater Littorum—
……………………………………………………..Encounter, reckoning:
the air stills the scene shifts the light dims the fading comes
the space widens the lids shut tight and then the shades go to sleep.



Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Post a Comment

Your email is never published nor shared. Required fields are marked *


You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>