Fogged Windows: A film by James D. Autio

Among the Lunar Fields

I see the yielding expand,

  eyes pressed into such bundled

    tinder, bulb waves beating.

Blew hollow wedge may catch

  of the grotto. Private flowers that

    had plum space and if I wasn’t tired

when I was cause there through.

  Taut in curious blue suit. Each day

    cleared of sleet whips. Said monkey

whisker. Said onion ape. Graph

  the touching floor, cut flash iris

    seemed hone with after whine has

away. A cluster cawl grown deft

  and there is now but a little loll

    of a more over barren tongue held

me to might have known the white

  dress seized to nearly crumple.

    We had heard both and done come,

pendulum had been in would unto

  a sour spill. Step it up. Bright shift

    for a wet moon, bird afloat

for arm space lit older we think

  the turn. Nightly we slow. No one

    said yet with this, felt to swim latch 

back along some knowledge cones.

Through Solar Fields

Pinch invent of her little trip.

It is just a bit begrudge and hard

to sang where. Sky rise in my

dainty pleasure cup. In a similar way

because you move of where that is what

make my texture. Consider then it darken

blank. This too is soon adorn simple

of both fatigue and physical buoyancy.

It seemed to sleep being like a fully infer.

Our turmoils aversion of being we were

  made loving with people with others

    continued. Control bellies being

      swept up for a balance hat. I trust

        only you, leaving opaque signals

          scratched down across

localized field grids.

Of a Poutine Niche

There is the meat gravy in the crock. Held

that had stand the sandbag berm. You were spirit

that a slant bucket trout spurts, and he disclosed

of the bent nozzle. Reflected hedge. They strip

and there tails the thin sullen turns. Whacked

to a soften ball. Been laced in deepen fat by places

the poutine use with creamy color rich, advanced

upon each milk bottle silhouette niche. Because

although the apple diet. Because when melancholy

parents suffused into their scattered flame and at

no one would poutine bear by. In a wheelbarrow.

Under the silent shrouded. Whom while I wept.

Whom do now rise to mediate, guide via whether

an emotional conduit. Poutine until both content.

Mingle Such: A film by James D. Autio

Twin Cities (three diagonals)

Owl drawing - pencil on paper

Crane, Arch and Bun

Fountain Tight

Beyond the height hill flat

            like those memory sleets

a word worn, a bloom arose.

Lean into a fountain.

            Kisses you turn to me

with hands clasped behind your back.

Jellyfish a sigh disturbed.

            The tender us

a cool body shall dare mingle with

in translucent being. And the water

            to ensconced this chilly fruit.

Our bodies press warm.

Our lips. Who would have thought that

            summer crowds merging

and isolate steps from out my down

about this facile time touch deft.

            The cottons clinging.

My hands with a dew like down niche,

moist sap. Water run the passive crush.

            Your hips, my eyelids.

Like those that this memory sleets.

(This is poem #1111)

Shmioux Noir: A film by James D. Autio

Under Under

Rain is coming. I thirst

in the rain in the clutches of a roux hold

in a bent putty boat.

Rain comes. I’m that under rain

is modified in the links of these boat break.

I am under the rain. She is changed in the connection

of this broke bark smashing.

I under stayed the rain which changed

in connection with the thing where she is broke,

this crying voice that I am.

Eye the hind part, brocade wriggle

that the libretto button elicits is muff

and whisper fleck of pure pour.

I whisper lick. Whisking prosthetic phases.

Slow the rain. Under the rain.

I am under that rain.

I am puerile, lucid and sanguine

under a nihilistic bug pump.

I cut the gasket, under gaslamp.

Snap whalebone fat lamp mist.

Yawning, the vulgar brook ice

off the broke wet tip off under

brown sugar peninsula. I’m hooked

to birds on wires. Black owl awning

a seed packet gone now. She presents herself

a bit shackle back and break care sooner.

Carmelize butter splat I crowd the margin,

slip pat down the crust of a muffin.

Silken tuft in a lilac bed. I slow the rain.

Broken stalk contour of your brush erasure.

I squeak and thump in hedge. Thicken stick.

Under under. Watering can.

Also in a Hat

Also in a hat.

Putty. It just is.

That leak scours

via it is filmy. My

sweet counterpart.

Companion coil.

Sacred glisten knots,

so rich and darken.

Declared the nugget

turned and too late

along the ashen flue.

I with you dreamt

atop a pamper furnace.

I saw that beguiling

bird lick her moisten

maw. Shorn the wear

down rituals. Such is

the reverie enclosures.

Spindle water then

the prospector. Bird

to a hooded daemon

and still somehow

weave salvaged. The

brim compressions,

for in that we took 

comfort. So many 

to drift by 

dwindle

bower. 

Linger: A film by James D. Autio

Cupcake - A film by James D. Autio

Gabriel's Mother's Highway Ballad #16 Blues

Redemption Ebullience

There some who through low

which would want to go to, to

do so out of compulsions hidden.

Most. This then is the manner of

redemptive possession. For whom

the tablet lain solely of the way

to will even casual, else had I fond

of such a defiance. In the immediate

buried then has been splendor

in a guise has also gone. To were

carved out the mythic. Attributes

the brow to the blossom. That any

into which lies alongside the vigil

presided. Urges the referents back.

Basis of notion spectator transform

many places, a profound conscious.

We Walking Shrines

It took me nearly twenty minutes to become like the others. Pen in hand, textbook opened and sprawled across the table while my eyes, desperate for any distraction, glance up each time the library door swings wide. I stare unabashedly and track the movements of every student crossing that drab and utilitarian carpet, until they’re finally lost to some quiet corner of their own. Only then do the others and I turn back, reluctantly, to our research papers and memorizations. I should be chipping away at my mountain of Psych terms, but my mind’s tracing shadows on the floor.

There’s this something someone called “Walking Shrine” towering over me. The thing could, conceivably, be sauntering legs, though I think it looks more like a triangular teepee frame. The lodge poles were ripped and bent by years of prairie wind, charred black in some turbulent episode, now forgotten. The buffalo hide covering for the teepee, too, has long since deteriorated, leaving only tattered remains. Snagged within, almost hidden, are torn strips of multi-colored garments once worn by generations of families who no longer have need of such things.

It’s strange that the burnt and broken down remains now decorating this library appear to lean away from that bright red fire extinguisher hung on a nearby wall. The “Shrine” looks as though if it could, it would step quickly away. I recall being singed by events in my own life. Despite the proximity of alternatives I could have used to avoid misfortune, I, too, stepped willingly away from safety, toward the more thrilling future. Living is all about those choices.

Cloud: Next Year’s Skull

Countless then settle the crablike fingers on a bicycle seat.

We’ve grown mean to after drift than burn at threads of a sentinel

string parting. It’s a plough roughening the lascivious pillow shade

are both wheat and a theatre shield. The harrowing waltz. Bathed.

But still the upward foams were piled the frilled in the wool

of dampen sheep road grain and wet of its once opened the widen

blanch contusion beyond even our own ascent to become

the marvelous design as if fluttering the bare upon the top

of a nebulous space beaten out of stone enclosures.