Pregnant - oil on canvas

Jubal Drift: A film by James D. Autio

Sinking

And I felt myself falling,

      not through

the mattress, but rather,

off to the other side.

      Yet my mind was

scrambling for an out, even while

my back seeped down

through dark molasses air;

pot of fear burbling in the gullet.

And the bedpost stood so close,

but my arms, straining against

      the glut of night,

wouldn’t move any faster.

A woman 

in Victorian bodice and skirt

stood at the foot of the bed,

      her hands wrapped,

her spectral head 

cocked slightly askew,

eyes so forlorn.

And I fell through black.

At the Café

      It’s

the way the biscotti

slides back and forth

across the little plate,

as the breeze blows

just hard enough

to entice the trees

to whisper her name

      as if to me.

Snow Day

Duluth (watercolor on paper)

Brine Sludge: an artistic/poetic mélange

Crazy Evil Gorilla (crayolas on paper)

The Misplaced Painting (my first poem)

Milkweed and Wooden Leg (acrylic on canvas)

Andaigweos - woodcut by James Autio

Thee Constructed: A Love Poem

1.   I’ve built many a wall.

Out past the pastures

lies a yellow meadow, lush

with bees and buttercups.

I’ve walked where my workboots are

let down with each soft step

by thickly woven shoots.

It is there where you

and I are

mostly intertwined, melded

like brick upon brick,

my mind to your mind.

My body too is a shell,

a husk you’ve planted, furrowed,

hoed as your desires dictate,

clocking time until I’ve returned home.

O, pity your barrow’s wheel

has sprung a sprocket.

I’m pained to watch you

from afar, your basket

filled with lilies,

the weight of which drain

the joy you’ve held

in your belly.

Your neck, you feel, reacts

with each inch

my carriage slips over

the rim of your former world.

But oceans of tears

are the drip that feeds seeds.

Together, we are that quivering sprig

that juts from bunked earth.

2.   I’ve passed mountains and rivers

to build cathedrals, erect nunneries, but

you are every stone I quarry,

every piece I lay.

You’re an edifice,

a massive house of worship

towering over heathans.

Into the sky I build you.

Were I drawn

to distant Orient nations,

I’d raise you once again

to show the cold world my love.

I’d hire an army

to protect you, defend your

holy places

to the bitter end.

Were you assaulted by Visigoths,

I’d raise a wall. Stormed by samurai,

I’d train wooly mittened ninjas

to repel down your glorious buttresses.

3.   As I travel

you lay me to rest at night

and resurrect me with your morning.

I’m withering and turning to ash,

tired of having cut stone

in place of you.

I’m eating curry paste and unleavened bread

instead of dulling my knife

over your crusted sour loaves.

I miss your yeast

you keep by screw jar

in the pantry downstairs.

In gentle places

and dangerous lands filled with pitas,

your lips mouth secrets to me.

Alone, I hold myself

betrothed to my love of you,

while you are home with our farm—

hands kneading, kneading.

Six Foot Rise

I’d like to build a ramp

to make me more accessible

to crippled children in wheelchairs

and the elderly. Rise established,

I’ll extend the run so they’ll come

from far away with an eye on me

as an end prize while they shuffle

or roll, whichever the case may be.

The climb toward me will not be arduous,

but will require a prolonged commitment

(assuming of course that they have the time).

I’ll stand atop the ramp holding a tray

of sweetened treats. I’ll whistle ditties

to encourage the struggling kids

and even catcall the cute old birds.

There and Back Again

Storm goes for a walk on a Friday afternoon.

The Duck: A Film by James Autio

Bird on a Wire

Summertime

From Rack and Bastion

First,

she was curly

and parts of her

face crinkled

just cute so.

I’d done my time

on the rack,

leather strap

looped tight

over foot and wrist,

been pulled and yanked,

grown narrow through the trunk.

I’d spent years

laid across

an inquisition tableau

by the teen angel panty-bunch,

each screw twist

sending shivers

of stretch along

my unhinged frame.

Strange.

I found my

tensile self

adjustable.

I became metal.

When curly came

I had already

been shaped

as a curtain rod,

and she sang

to me and hid

alongside my draped hide

and bastions. She

stripped me down.

I knelt before her

and worshipped her

at the piano bench.

Then we got tabouli

and the daily news,

and read together

about war.

      *      *      *

First published in Drunken Boat.

James Noir

Sheep with Balls (detail) - Acrylic on Canvas

Oil on Canvas (James and Donna)

Såsom i en Spegel

1.

Såsom i en spegel and in medias res the spider creates

heaven and earth and skirts across the pond’s mirror cloud.

And feet press into velvet moss, and the hill and sky,

the silhouettes of litter-birds as areole the bare limbs of elms, 

and apple blossoms fall like flakes of sun on a stream’s edge.

Sweep.

I’m through the mullion slat, the hazy glass, in an upstairs room.

Adjust to shadow. I’ve seen spiders through slits

of worn wallpaper, beyond the cracked plaster hiding muffled voices

that guide my day like bible verses. Dance. The closet door latch

hangs loose in its untrue jamb, held back by pinch of oak friction.

I reach.

2.

Where have you gone off to now? Stroll the shore while your sheep

bleat their malcontent; hoist your overloaded egg bag

to mount the stile; even splash ankle-deep in the cold clear

to confuse the packhounds. I’ve no mind for this darkness,

nor desire, nor shame, for I’ve heard the crackle of a bush in flames

and quarried stone to lay out a garden path. I’ve pressed seed

into dirt pot, raised window-box sprouts by force of will. Now,

the voices have stopped and I’m alone again.

I’m looking for your clutch of arms, soothing voice. I’m

calling your name to the trees, scanning the sea

for a glimpse of you in the skiff. I’ve even lowered myself

into the clutchhold of that broken boat out past the jetty,

and gone womb-fetal in the dark slant of a shipwright’s dream.

Reach me in the dark.

3.

At dawn, a bird wing flaps in the sun. I sit before toast and juice.

The floor stands in need of sweep, the cobwebs to be dusted. I

wait on the hard wooden bench watching pulp settle

through the glass. Darkly,

shadow spiders wrestle in the cracks and corners

of silvered mirrors. My toast has gone cold, softened with smear

of butter. A helicopter drops anchor out in the yard.

You came to me in that hold and held me through a cold storm,

your skin gnarled and twisted as tree bark. In my dark unsure,

you penetrated me with light and kind. Now,

my mot-valise is packed in the foyer, waiting

on eight eager legs. I’m allowed a last hair-check in the mirror.

Chute Man

A man hung from a tiny parachute

drops into the darkness of an umbrella stand,

and the strange thing is that

this takes place in your foyer near the shoes

and under hatrack. Should one of those toppers

slip from a nub as (let’s face it) hats sometimes do,

the man might be forgotten, entombed

inside an empty death hollow.

Such a man might survive for some time

in the darkness, having no drink or grub, but

at a point the throat tires of the screams, the body

feels depleted and the mind,

once capable of such pretty feats,

succumbs to the heavy black.

And at that very moment, the tv

in the next room is playing reruns

of Ozzie Nelson asking Thorny

that question that seems to stump us all:

            Say you’re driving your car

and you’re supposed to

stop and wait at every red light. What if

you see a lantern?

And that little man who has long-since eaten

every last string and parachute shred

says You think YOU’VE got problems.

First published in Ugly Cousin.