Four Pieces - Keith Carr Walsh
Love Snippet
we harvested in a berried sanctuary of anklets. harvested silvery turnings, pink buttons. feeling was spooling out from a golden dot pinned to the burnt sky, relayed between our eyes, caught in them, little gellies filled with light. time passes, running through. sentient touch touches my heart. touch of mellow bliss. touch of melancholic ash. a crown in the sky, stick street was the daughter of cassiopeia’s domain, the daughter of cepheus, andromeda, on the rocks. beauty reverberates here, ear worm eating through my chest.
Greenish Shadow
the glowering of the foliage, its million pointing lights, against the silver light of the stone blue sky, is a scene of the playful converted into the technical and its processual failure, even the visage differential’s stance scrapes around one spot, one single tree, decenters.
Semaphore
Sound’s removal gestured to what could be, what could be out in the open, caught in fog running thick between walls that made magic of sound. Sound at that moment before was compounded with sight. We sprinted toward the well of joy we knew lay in the grid made of sense, frigid and sturdy as iron. It wasn’t that the fog was real that made me love love like a lily loves the water lulling in stillish ponds murky as any beginning, because even the group of dots that motion for an end don’t make up for what the fabulous fog doesn’t give and only sells, bilious in its recondite speeches, aleatory as an old conundrum beat out in a piece of scrap from a can.
There was no luck that made me go on, I went forward, speechless. To go forward like that was to count my blessings, wonder about what made up this stuff of dreams. The fantasy was so quick, went deeper and deeper into my pulsing heart at a speed faster than gravity’s differential, insinuated staying. Power was louder than the fog’s silence. I went off to where love had been. Fog peregrination. Fog kingdom. Curves that I watch now curve, in this moment after, into my gleeful thoughts. We have walked to the vanishing point, grabbed a star, stuffed it in our black and red canvas bag. Later, we will rummage through there, turning the moment over, spinning the instant, piquant in our minds, double, faster than it happened, and snap out of the previous bliss we still hold, missing the solid details. Wondering how to love, we will bring out the star again. It will blind us, throw rays so straight we spin on our feet, a moment of complete invisibility made into color without shape, a downpour, a hope for a jasper stone under our blanket in the park.
Because at the vanishing point we were subject to endless picnicking, made to love each other endlessly, the place we were, the nothingness in our black and red canvas bag. What a problem. To be banished into the vertical in-between space of a future where sight and sound’s traffic light was busted, a semaphore swinging without sense, only marking heaven, a running joke between the world and the rocks that said plants were replete consciousness. The plant is dragging, rushing, doing the right thing by reaching for the sun instead of quickly, quicker than the impossible, pushing a pyramid out of four-dimensional space by throwing a pile of clothes on its blue bed. Anthropic world, you will be mine.
I Wake Up To It, Then It’s Gone
as if to go to, to jump out onto and stand, on some faraway heaven, i tapped out a perfumed morse, morris bells clanging with hanging honeysuckle, pungent as heaven’s chances of rain.
Keith Carr Walsh is a writer living in Long Beach, California. His writing is inspired by the Black Mountain School, philosphy, and jazz, and explores the intersections of death, love, and world. He enjoys walkings.