Barbara Klaer / Amesville, Ohio

Barbara Klaer loves Randall’s fields. 

And after April, can Ohio ever be the same?
I wonder, has Columbus yet assayed the wild spice of Amesville?
Where lush challenges verdant for homestead rights –
Alluvial gold is moist and ebonized –
Worms are welcome, loved and honored –
A glen, let’s say, of submersive contrasts in refracted bright.
Wave hello! Wave again. Wave back, too.
Those aren’t flowers, sweet.
They are studies in aestheticized structural efficiency –
Ropes of subcutaneous, recursively conjunctive,
nano-thing-a-miraculous pre-sentient bliss.
Compulsively compounding, confounding and pro-lost
(on me) except as a subset of Monet’s buttery mud.
 
Yes. Yes. Oh yes.
Barbara Klaer loves Randall’s fields.


1.   Barbara Klaer and Randall Fields are married. Their daughter, April, has demonstrated remarkable levels of scholastic accomplishment and ethical development, according to her parents. The couple lives in Amesville, Ohio, a rural area not far from Columbus, and have devoted themselves to the cultivation of fruitful humanity, fruit, vegetables, shrubs and flowers. 

A Meme-o to Logan


Logan! Take a meme-o.
Not far. Just around the universe.
On a leash, Logan. On a leash.
Make it a meme-ory to cherish, Logan.
And Logan, do me – do us all – a favor.
Save the snappy repartee for your next book.
Just because you’re tall, kind, brilliant and married well, Logan, 
doesn’t make you special.

Get that? Good.

You were special eons ago.
This incarnation is fully adequate, Logan.
Fully. Adequate.


True, I prefer some of your blutruenstiger iterations.
But your schedule shows promise, Logan.
Promise.

Once around, Logan. Don’t rush.
You won’t be missed.
You’re a constant, Logan.  A constant.
With attitude. A constant. Irritant.
With panache.

Logan. Don’t tarry.
It hurts good.

Judy Detroit

(aka Judy Kunesh)

















Mythic, miraculous,
a mother, an oasis, a little queer
like the earth, like the stars;
plundered, object to eyes that object,
horse mistress;
too good to waste, too wasted
to be recognized by chumps;
distilled, clarified and rectified,
pure, more pure;
artist, artist’s model,
collector’s piece, masterpiece;
Judy, earth priestess, witch,
oracle, Godmother, presides.

While earth still wobbles, lonely,
on an inky circuit
of the outer Milky Way, spermy
droplet on a suction vortex,
you can bet on Judy,
who never was a virgin,
but always staunch and muscled,
barbaric as this city, pungent,
plain and beautiful.
I’d bet on Judy
before I’d bet on God.

 

artifacts by gsmichaels 

There are so many people who matter to me, some here, some only in my cells. Bless them all, whether listed here or not: artists' hyperlinks and poems as virtual hyperlinks.

SHE IS LOAM. HE IS CLAY.

A love song to posterity,

David & Roberta Chorlton.

She is loam. He is clay. 
You - sand, me - dust.
Over there - night soil. 
Limestone, shale, mulch -
there is no waste.

Our was supplies your will, with joy.

Our ardor is like no other. 
Eyeless. Armless. Moist. Ripe.
We bed your seed, cradle your filaments, 
hug your root...

Absorb all deliciousness
with omnivorous delight.

The View: Mt. Dillenberg


Jack. Man. Dude. You.
Cool. True. Smart. Blue.
Way. Where. Yes. Bless.
Near. Here. More. Guess.

All the winds. All the wings.
Daedelus cries. Moses sings.

Yours. Ours. Vision. Bright.
Lead. Follow. Follow. Right.
Hallow. Hallowed. Faith. Troth.
Ever. Always. Just. Enough.

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