Secrets: Notes of an Online Journal

”Secrets”


When I write certain lines
to particular verses
in slow motion,
I use
an old outdoor brush
dipped in a bucket
of unstirred
oil-based paint;

Its thick bristles
separate
when I apply the
pungent ocher
on the original surface
of “canvas”
where the words go.

I want the
separations —
to see between,
and be reminded of
where the
poem is from;
Its origins.

Like the planks from
a fence,
a panel off a peeling
‘56 Ford pickup,
a mannequin’s
sexless torso,
forgotten moments
off a weedy grave.

An old woven
Easter basket of a
little girl,
who went to an
egg hunt in the park
out by the freeway.

But the park
keeps its secrets,
and the
basket handle
was never found.

And the latex
seals
the truth away,
while light-headed
from the stench.





NaPoGloPoWriMo 2019