ditch,

the poetry that matters

Philip Byron Oakes

Philip Byron Oakes lives in Austin, Texas. His work has appeared in numerous journals, including Otoliths, Switchback, Cricket Online Review, Sawbuck, Moria and Taiga. He recently published his first volume of poetry, Cactus Land (77 Rogue Letters).   http://philipbyronoakes.blogspot.com/

Armature

A shy archetype retreating from a mischief,
foisted as activity surrounding the center
long since marooned in the shapeless.
A balloon against a backdrop of gravity
insinuating itself, into predictions as to
the outcome of a soft landing. The
tantamount to a nestling in the shards
of an explanation, as to why the circle
has run its course in elementary
physics, why the birds have blithely
walked all this way to be here.
 
 
 
 
Aside
 
Should things as things are wont to do.
Allowing light its little optical illusions.
Holding welcome mats hostage for the
time being what it is in the trenches.
A rudimentary cognizance of warmth
in fingers ventured, beyond the thinness
of skin in the story of touch and go.
A panacea for the hypochondria of
normalcy, setting the standards for
illness at a premium only the dead can
afford. Tainting crime scenes with the
bluster of a pointed finger at the blood.
Feeding polar bears the remains of a
snowman of his word the weather
will change for the good.

 

English Variety

And the sparrows whistled bird colonels to sleep with what’s left of center ice in the spring. The far too common anomalies, foundering on the ears to the wall grown great. An armature swimming in a pabulum of fat warranties; the ephemera of monuments to the longevity of who is who, jumping from the bridge over the river in denial of the splash. Cumulatively barren, commandeering the sand with edicts of chaos trickling down to those with nothing to do. The geologic time of their lives. The uselessness of the essentials. The pitfalls proctored by a guiding light, conforming to the prevailing theories of the visible.

 

Captive

As the bullhorn squats on the rights to the absolution of silence, like an indigenous people trespassing, on the beauty pageants of ugly americans wedlocked away for life. So kwai me a river. A festoonery of tassels on a fine pair of pantaloons, playing pendulum to the pit of alternative despair, seeking venues at the center of the melee. The truth squandered on a bright idea. The dandelion wines of an unkempt will of the people, morphing into their favorite characters, as the tributaries conflow into the big kahoona, lapping at the chinny-chins of the white bellied ambassadors from the burbs. The tokens of a familial immediacy backlogged to quantum tiddlywinks, as the bluster of ingenues shines through the overcoats on mackerel skies, brimming with the ominous contours of rain.

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