THe editors of FIVE WORDS are really encouraged by your bravery and commitment to fun. ...posting stories to a page under an anonymous guise...not seeking recognition...believing in the idea that art is its own reward. amen. amen. may the circle be unbroken.
this week....five words from an interview between two of our favorite interlopers. Keith Richards and Hunter Thompson.....obviously engaged with more than words...inebriants and souls were involved.
week six:
speculation
clouds
identity
bizarre
angels
have fun writing. leave it here.
this week....five words from an interview between two of our favorite interlopers. Keith Richards and Hunter Thompson.....obviously engaged with more than words...inebriants and souls were involved.
week six:
speculation
clouds
identity
bizarre
angels
have fun writing. leave it here.
13 comments:
RADIO, RADIO
the speculation is this:
bizarre angels
seeking identity
form Americana bands
driven by clouds of song
united in plot to free
souls
Jedediah, Come Home Please
one of the lost angels
a runaway gone
too long to hobo town
brother of the shadow
bizarre hidden identity highway
cloud perfect
there's no speculation
on the dark back roads
there's singing around the fire
wherever Jedediah might be
soul snatchers
aerial
identity thieves
lurking
behind casual clouds
these bizarre angels,
renegade now
watch and wait
for you or me
unknowing
of their intent
we, as we
know ourselves to be
...gone
then again,
this is only speculation.
WOMAN AT THE OCEAN
I'm looking at a photo
of a woman on a beach
she's on her knees
with one hand cupped
between her thighs
her left hand
holding back
her hair
as she looks to the left
it's my speculation
she's looking for
angels of the sand
the hidden ones
as bizarre as that sounds
her black and red and white
bathing suit gleaming
in the sunshine of the west
all her skin
translucent
majestic
I imagine
as she sits
looking out forever
on her blanket
with her cupped hand
and her brown hair held back
she's aware of her elegance
knows her own identity
senses joy
beneath the distant clouds
The Sugar Trail Motel News
A slow news day. My eyes moving across the road to the Sugar Trail Motel. I did go to Yuma. Have to say, sweet Marta Louise. Bizarre dreams. Angels in my head. Not so lonesome this week, now. My identity a little more well-formed; no ghosts on the road, no interlopers, no unmarked cop cars as I traveled. I have a speculation about the rebirth of this town. Love to see that motel pool filled with tourists again; can't shake that thought. High clouds moving across the desert sky.
speculation: ive been guilty of it almost every day of my life. its all a guess..whats tomorrow, hon? Hotcakes and sausage, baby...wash it down with cold milk.
clouds: i dont respect people who envision streets of gold above the great expanse that covers us. heaven is inside. a choice.
identity: ive used over six different identities on the internet...always thinking i would restructure, rebuild, re-connect. i still have all the email accounts, but only use three on a regular basis. sometimes i feel divided by three. feet below, genitals on the wind of a new attraction, head bursting among the firmament.
bizarre- often used in place of "ironic" ...i once watched my ex-girlfriend at a party ..it was after midnight and she decided to lie in the road with a crowd around her...a back country road, where you could hear engines from miles away...she insisted i leave with her, or she would let a car run over her. we stood around and laughed,drinking beer, and she screamed her conditions again, out into the blackness...the words floated above the crowd that had gathered to witness something unusual.when i think back on this, i see bats above our heads.
angels- its embarassing to admit that one believes in the invisible ...its so hopeful, so driven by sentiment. i will admit, there have been signs in my life-- strong bumps on the head, scrapes, stitches, heartache...some of it, seemingly devised by unseen hands.
but sometimes i awaken
with dream sugar on my tongue. the room is still, and im pretty sure
someone is pouring sunlight on my head.
RAISED BED, DRIED FLOWERS
All speculation
yet the shadow angels
sneak in at night
these are the hidden
flyers
angels who wait
angels who guard no one
though they have true courage
and any identity they have
is made of song.
There's a bizarre story
going around the southwest
around the Sangre de Christo Mountains,
the Blood of Christ Mountains,
where the spirits of the mountains come down to town
at night,
get into the hearts of men,
and make them weep, unexpectedly.
Now, no one is admitting
being possessed by spirits,
the men of the southwest are outlaws, or cowboys, or renegade artists, they sleep at night
even in the Superstition Mountains,
where the clouds are so thick,
and the owl sounds so strong,
it's eery.
Pump #2 had the appearance of being slightly, perhaps dangerously, defective. The swirled colors moving languidly over the surface of the volatile fluids puddled on the pavement there made of the reflected clouds a sort of garish childhood fantasy, a celestial backdrop perhaps too artificially vivid to inspire a curtain call from what Honest Abe called "the better angels of our nature."
A haggard looking yellow Volkswagon, looking itself slightly (perhaps dangerously) defective, was parked there to refuel. In the driver's seat hunched a sad-looking little man with bizarre, wispy hair, who was uneasily shuffling through several days' worth of telephone bills, credit card offers, insurance forms, or some such documents; a person could almost assemble an identity out of such flotsam.
The fellow in the VW appeared somewhat agitated, damp with sweat around every suit-swaddled crevice, and probably late for work. Suddenly remembering himself, he jerked upright, violently twisted the key in the ignition, revved the little 4 cylinder engine up to a piteous whine, and screeched out of the gas lot without paying.
Somewhere behind the bulletproof plexiglass of the poor, pilfered mini mart, a poorly-paid employee was cursing his lot while his supervisor cursed the poorly-paid employee.
There was no surveillance camera and no plate number, just a wisp of exhaust cloud and speculation thinner than the VW driver's curious hair.
If the technicolor puddles in front of pump #2 had captured any telltale reflection, they did not elect to give it up
Gone
my man done gone
gone again
nobody seen
the following
gonna say bizarre
gonna count to ten
gonna stick my head
under the cold water faucet
and scream
my man done gone
I got my speculation
he's up again at Wanda Jean's
men think she's one of the
angels or a queen
my man done gone
gone again
gonna stick my head
under the faucet and scream
it worked for my mother
when daddy left her
and she always said to me
girl don't get mad
get better
go on with your life
get your own identity
don't stick your head
in the clouds
when times are bad
stick your head
under the cold water faucet
and scream
LAST CHANCE ANNIE
it was a fat chance
and it was a last chance
Annie always came through
bizarre nightmares
wasted heartaches
blistering sun
wind nowhere
divining rod guitars
men on speed and greed
it was a fat chance
it was a last chance
Annie always came through
my ex wife told me one time
for real she said the only drug
that ever made her feel normal
growing up was LSD
America America
angels everywhere
though I have a theory
that questionable wars
and excessive violence
ruptures the fabric of identity
so the culture creates zombies
werewolves vampires
as compensation
and it doesn't really help
but who knows
maybe
I have no proof but this
clouds and more clouds
you and me and all of us, too
it was a fat chance
it was a last chance
Annie always came through
my sister in law
got another master's degree today
it's all speculation but I would say
she's on a roll with wisdom
I have brothers in the woods
singing
I have sisters travelin' around
singing
it's a fat chance
it's a last chance
Annie always comes through
this is a poem for Bob Brozman
a slide guitar man who traveled around and is gone
gypsy jazz
calypso
blues
ragtime
Hawaiian music
Caribbean songs, too
it was a fat chance
it was a last chance
Annie always came through
MERMAID
sea shell bikini top
hair swept back
bizarre scales and fins
with a kind of zipper access
the myths don't tell us about
wandering the sea
sure of her identity
speculation has it
from the mythologists
that this half sea woman
half ocean goddess
is a bridge figure
a way of honoring both
the conscious mind
and the unconscious realm
it is rumored that at night
she searches the beaches
for a forgotten blanket
to rest under the stars
like a woman of summer
one of the shoreline angels
aquamarine
sea foam green
surf green
sonic blue
colors of the sea and sky
she reads the clouds
with her hands she moves
and does hidden magic
she believes in the wet world
CITY OF ANGLES
In the beginning, I was one of the ones issued a single set of wings. Mostly, that was true for the others as well…but then there were a few given two, even three, extras…and thus it was that official differentiation between angels began.
When floating above clouds…only a single pair...well spread…truly catches the wind…while the increased weight plus the intricate maneuvering required of multiple wings prevents all possibility of celestial soaring toward any visibly glowing expanses of gravity’s more bizarre and immodestly seductive revelations.
However…come sooner…come later… all angles descend …regardless of wing count. There are some who claim that back-up wings have slowed actual earth contact and this is defining. Even reduced but sustained ability to remain an inch aloft counts…they say.
Bizarre angels,
their identity
only a speculation,
scan the clouds.
Angels,
their identity
only a bizarre speculation,
scan the clouds.
Their identity
only a speculation,
angels scan the bizarre clouds.
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