Birthed Anew
by Joe Wallace
The retro stomp and base beat line in time of a vibrating subwoofer humming
And string instruments with the same wine as a florescent page changing
Clarity!
Of Digital magnanimity that flickers faster than the slides of a life time ago
And the base matching beating head of the wretched and divine
Plugged, black rubber buds in the drum receptors receiving
Bumbum, Bumbum, Bumbum, Bumbum!
In the shadow behind shades of a room swaying to the rhythm of caffeine and loading screens
Until like a hammer anvil spilt the air and broke a cloud in two so a drop of sun fell stretching
Like a drip of honey
Burning!
Unperceived by the black pit pupils and colored rim that without light is not color at all
Onto the pail cells of skin starving in darkness
Like so many people raising their hands screaming “Save us”
Came braking the imaginary landscape of pixilated tress and visual representation of wind
To the smell of dust and the realization that he had hands.
The scalp tilted on its axis shifted and needle thread through the eye looked through the Blind.
Like a splash of green dye in a bowl of milk
Liquid growing through a peddle entwined came to life.
Dilation of focus
Exhalation of Ah!
Natural undulation of baritone cords sing in silence pure identity
Rode up dull against the insulation of poly-petroleum byproducts
And the wires made of the same synthetic rubber attached to his own living face
Gripped in his hand taken to a degree defying gravity
Pulled with unpracticed strength
Pop, Pop!
Cast out precision to undefined power of sound
Silence!
Thrown open the window and gripped curtains ripped to the ground.
Like a gust flood poured splashing
Against the dank floor and stale air gold
Contested both shadow and inaudible white,
Absorbed in the pours
That overwhelmed every sense until the walls were broken down
And head filled with the pressure of self sang
Bumbum, Bumbum, Bumbum, Bumbum!
Hair in the wind of steaming fog crawled
To the backdrop of trees and emerald glowing leaves.
His knees planted, roots
His finders like woven oak
In soil closed and wouldn’t let go
Outstretched his hand to the light
Wrapped around, down his wrist and held on too
And everything grew!
Smell and Memory
Evening breeze,
Honey dew, lilac, and mint.
Scent of purpose through being
Come back to me.
Peace in beam, the bee
Hums the sun energy,
Refresh and soothe,
My being be
Come back to me.
Past, the past
Of feeling, friend, hope, and dream.
Love?
A feeling.
All else
Come back to me.
About The Author
Joe Wallace is a New England writer currently living in South Carolina, working as a freelance writer, personal trainer, and life coach with his older brother. He attended River Valley Community College in New Hampshire, majoring in the creative writing program under poet, Jenifer Militello.
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