On abandon, uncalled for but called forth.

Extreme Wisteria

BY LUCIE BROCK-BROIDO

On abandon, uncalled for but called forth.

The hydrangea

Of   her crushed each year a little more into the attar of   herself.

Pallid. Injured, wildly capable.

A throat to come home to, tupelo.

Lemurs in parlors, inconsolable.

Parlors of burgundy and sleigh. Unseverable fear.

Wistful, woke most every afternoon

In the green rooms of the Abandonarium.

Beautiful cage, asylum in.

Reckless urges to climb celestial trellises that may or may not

Have been there.

So few wild raspberries, they were countable,

Triaged out by hand.

Ten-thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets. Intimacy with others,

Sateen. Extreme hyacinth as evidence.

Her single subject the idea that every single thing she loves

Will (perhaps tomorrow) die.

High editorial illusion of   “Control.” Early childhood: measles,

Scarlet fevers;

Cleopatra for most masquerades, gold sandals, broken home.

Convinced Gould’s late last recording of the Goldberg Variations

Was put down just for her. Unusual coalition of early deaths.

Early middle deaths as well. Believed, despite all evidence,

In afterlife, looked hopelessly for corroborating evidence of   such.

Wisteria, extreme.

There was always the murmur, you remember, about going home.

Bill Schwab

seen through your eyes

The Art and Poetry of Mark Erickson

It's music in paint, it's "spectrum" and curves. 

Anatomy of Flight - 18x12-canvas

the single sheet of lyrics

in the temptation of nature

her tree limbs sway

the leaves

swirl along in the rhythm

of the wind,

the ground underneath

folds amongst the rocks

and the dirt,

while the bugs climb through

their forest of grass and twigs

the size of skyscrapers and towers,

secrets hidden under the pebbles

soaring into the mountains

as the sun pours down

in her naked body

cooking the land

her legs move

her hand touching

in her single sheets

of her lost paradise

by Mark Erickson

For more art by Mark Erickson please go here.

Thank you Mark. xx