Hesitant Upwards

murmuring gesture
           fruited in seeds
                      of search
           eyes whirlpool
of extension forming
           *         *
in three part harmony
          became a verb
          with senses at attention
faded to pale while
           moon burst into corona
           *          *
nothing added
          without thoughts
                     aspired to silence
words at liberty fled
beautiful / obscure
          into reverse
reflected rightways
                      when sight feels so
                                  fit to pass
                      *          *
delicate                    deception
healing                                breath
                      *          *
present time was tried convicted, hung
                      back warded
                                sneaking up
into     upon
                       past’s tent where
                       all vacations
            go       to sleep
            *          *
lengthening tomorrow is shadow
           stretching as sun
           but leaves anchor
                      at toes
moors darkness
           to movement
           to stall

what is to come
           is beyond squints

the hall of shape
            from selfsame self
is virginal, coy, grand and
           always headed
where Noah’s drizzle is no
                     heroic call
where the Golden Eternity
                     has been melted
                               to shackles
where Thought and Memory
                      foresee in the fall
                                 the flames
                                 and fear leaving
           Odin’s shoulders
where Prometheus is healed
and looks to steal hope
           to give back to
                      skeptical gods
                      *          *
every desire is an illness
                      *          *
every fate is affixed to
           a useful cancer
                      to grow
           black into lungs, mar skin.
           spay and neuter
           minor outcomes
before reproducing
                      more destinies to name
         *            *
everything ventured
                                 nothing gained
             gives gut check
             again and again
             by and by

in particular dosage
           strata’s grey rainbow
                     bent over
                     taking uneasy
hesitant point
         *       *       *
charcuterie / crudite
– a spread –
something to nosh on
a bit for biting
between small talk
and getting down to business

something teenagers haven’t had
hearts broken about yet
windswept hair not all textures understand
while air steals pucker from lips
and nail beds go from full to twin

flocks picked up and left ground
comatose where it laid
without a crumb to spare
for cracks
and new ones breaking
forceps, tweezers, pulling, liberating
occupancy is over

caverns took up too much space
and had to go

with cavities gone
it’s back to the plate

appetizers before the griping
gets underway
young teeth are lost
paid for
in retirement homes priced
a meal to cut
in exchange for soup or stew
never be the same again standing alone
winter underway
as snow says prayers
and concrete has no choice
bedroom pop and glo-fi whispers for a child
who has forgotten the soundtrack of dreams
when alarms ring

breaking the solitude of bone bare rooms
and silence of skin a last resort
for staycations from muscles
wrought, wrenched and not yet robotic
but infused with memories
when ideas went away
and mind was made up
into a figment
nothing in the locality could maintain

with the walks
and clean up,
it’s all too little
too late
for souls
who can see over fence
through window down steps
and out the door?
no presence of mold
food left out
still looks good

intuition is bad for the gut
instinct is something the stomach
has no stomach for
plans are the virtue of a fugitive
hopes on the lam
escape is worth more
than confinement’s luxuries
and some light to think by



Kenning (FKA Kenyatta) JP Garcia is the author of So This Is Story (Shirt Pocket Press), They Say (West Vine Press) and Playing Dead. JP was raised on Flatbush Ave but currently calls Albany, NY something close to a home. JP has a degree in linguistics and has studied several living and dead languages. When JP isn't working the graveyard shift in blue collar drudgery, JP is writing cronicas, guessays, short humor and editing for the Operating System, Rigorous and Five 2 One.

poetryBarzakh Mag