Religious Experiences in the Library

Observe your furtive invasion as corroborant to your fustian disease.

Preserve or stir. Sinuation has more bob for it. Stew or quest for ease.

See how your narcissism has wrought your embedded paranoia.

Be now, for farce’s schism has brought more trim headed to destroy you.

Imagism will not be found this time around, but continued imbrication will add to scintillation.

Skim the schism wrought. See crowned, his time around fought sinewed implication still fad to condemnation.

Accuse me. I am no competitress, yet abuse me as a comparatist.

Amuse me, Wry. Then,so as we undress, pet and bruise me as welcome, fair, and kissed.

Here, I will gift you. You are a cranky colluder that likes to collow.

Near, sigh still. Sift you, Blue star, a hanky intruder that bikes bar below.

You have converged your agrarian colloquia in fin-de-siecle bush.

You have emerged more a faerie in full yoke; free the man a sticky push.

Wrick your tongue with curds and whey and spin a web beside her, and throw your sautoir away. You’re blind.

Trick for mung. Smith words and stay and bin an ebb; betide her. Stand so your goat, la, and say you’re kind.

Suave qui peut while you prance. Send, Love. She begs for fun sent so hot.

Move, keep slow while you dance and move your legs in your new undulant savate.

1444HRS , EST 29DEC2011
Andrea Rebecca Campbell
©2011 Enoch Pratt Free Library 21214


L,-A

Break an Aloha leg!

Bridge Ices Before Road

Driving up the centerline
of your silk stockings,
over your sacred calves,
Haybaby,
I heard your breathing
blown through your bubblegum smile.
Stay.
Maybe your bird flew
wheezing home
through your troublesome style.
Striving prop,
she bent her line
in milk mockings
over your fake red halves.

The bridge ices
before the road, Pan.
Here, pack this
hula skirt and coconut bra.
We left,
my rainbow heart,
in the Paradise sand.
If you see it,
pick it up,
and bring it home again.
Be deft,
my plain hoe part.
Oh he,
fare of ayes,
planned.
If you free it,
lift it up,
and sing it home,
my friend.
She rejoices,
“He bore the load, man.”
Queer Black Kiss,
fool the flirt hand,
stroke,
or cut saw.

Meet it
in the shake down.
Hold it
in the thunder sound.
Steal it
when you fade to brown.
Tease,
pull her leg,
and yank it out
until they believe
her first name should be
Ilene.
Please, crack her egg,
and bank her mouth
until they believe
her first shame
could be mint green.
Get it
in the break down
Roll it
in the underground.
Feel it
when you go to town.

Haybaby,
disregard
the gender ambiguity
beneath
the Royal palms
Play baby Miss Retard,
the sender,
then hand it to me
bequeathed
in loyal psalms.

1510HRS EST 5December2011 A.R.C.
©2011


L,-A

On the keyboard of my cleavage,
Above
My Heart,
This is not a crossword puzzle,
Nor a versant to be scaled,
But a challenge of the monoclinous continuo.
Why would you mistake a kiss for a fist?
Rally inside the slype, Dear One,
with a lambent tallyho.
It is without shame I shrive.
Your nascent scent is vulpine.
Save those that survive you
From the reeking hibernal shadows
Residential in your soul.
With seemly patience
And apparent, yet deliberate illusory obfuscation,
Colour you, my tamarind, with lake,
And before we are finished, you will look like a toon.
Before we are done, my Love
Everything will be natatory and consubstantiate
Of Love,
Notwithstanding
Your obdurate (sob for it) Moravian apathy.
No seed from the root,
Although we gathered much from your sponson,
I remain
Your venter with hundreds of children scattered
Through the windows, filed, and posted as orphans,
Step, and fostered on the wind
Like dandelion down and milkweed silk.
Mercifully,
I would not ask a blind old man
to witness
Another one of his children
Leaving naked
As they stray from the keyboard.
Yet,
I would feed him Genoan mushrooms
In French olive oil
And make him guess the spice.

1018HRS EST 24NOVEMBER2011
A.R.C.
©2011

L,-A

VoicePost 490K 2:59

(no transcription available)

The Ladder, the Garden, and the Stone
Okey, here, see it is, Darling. The oaked ladder is right here, about halfway down the blooming primrose faith.
Oh, say there, we missed his starling! The cloaked matter, his spite near in doubt, laughed; a clown was grooming his nose spathe.
Dear, will you not hoist her up against the moss covered, field stone garden wall? The ladder, I mean.
Here, still, you caught moister stuff while fenced. The boss, covered, wields bone far in all the matter so green.
Oh, yes, the crepe myrtles still bloom in late November, and the waxy Magnolia trees still wax in the cemetery.
So bless! We stake turtles, fill gloom, then wait forever, and the ax she drags, folie Á deux, will ax in the seminary.
Notice the songbirds roosting in the twilight trees, bone bare with branches covered in wings and feathers fluffing.
Stone us for wrong words, schmoosing in your highlight sleeves. Stone, fair miss dances; hovered, she sings and weathers stuffing.
The ladder rests on the moss icing of the fieldstone wall, and the garden keeps growing even in winter’s fall.
The water gets on the cross, slicing dove. The fields home call, and the garden keeps showing Heaven as cinders fall.
With headstones fixed in the grass and the leaves blown around the stick free yard, we wander.
Stiff deep groans mixed for the pass, while she alone had found the sickly bard out yonder.
The sky stood still and not a sound was heard. Shown the ladder, he climbed the garden wall of moss and stone;
The guy could kill, and bought a hound absurd. Fawn and adder, he signed the heart, a gall of loss- his own.

1754HRS, a Tuesday, 22NOVEMBER2011 A.R.C.
©2011


L,-A

1754HRS, a Tuesday, 22NOVEMBER2011 A.R.C.
©2011


L,-A

Sanctuary

Our truth does not acknowledge opposites, for the outward is not a reflection of the inward,
And we are the perfection of work accomplished with calm confidence in silent knowing of what is manifest.
No compromise will we brook.
You are well. Everything about you is whole and intact.
How you appear and what you are have no relation.
United with Spirit, there is no loss and zero want.

1404HRS 18NOV11 A.R.C.
L,-A

no
attention (attention is yours)

still
boy (as in remain in youth)

THAT GUY rocked.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  
          Steadfast
Eroded on the slippery slope of your extended, crumbling weakness-
Exploded as a jittery bloke while you befriended humbling bleakness-
Lashed to the commitment, seasons rolled past like pins bowled.
Thrashed for legitimate reasons sold fast, your sins told
On you as we were hung up and stretched by your clever lies.
Run through, has she been strungup and fetched by your better sighs?
Most certainly, quite gladly, and unconditionally!  She dares you another round.
Most urgently, quite madly, and fun from dishing fully, she bears you a silent sound.
Oh, no attention is needed in this blind direction, Dear; you are the dancing bear.
Low apprehension is beaded on this kind invention here with your romancing stare.
Yet allow this warning: however much she knows she will, coy, play dumb.
Even now, while mourning, bow, ever touching flows, while still boy; stay some.
Take a load, and lift the Earth from Atlas shoulders shrugged, my Love.
Hop the toad and shift the mirth. Sisyphus, boulders, hugged, my Love.
1532HRS EST  16NOV11  A. R. Campbell ©2011
 
L,-A
 



Steadfast
Eroded on the slippery slope of your extended,crumbling weakness-
Exploded as a jittery bloke while you befriended humbling bleakness-
Lashed to the commitment, seasons rolled past like pins bowled.
Thrashed for legitimate reasons sold fast, your sins told
On you as we were hung up and stretched by your clever lies.
Run through, has she been strungup and fetched by your better sighs?
Most certainly, quite gladly, and unconditionally! She dares you another round.
Most urgently, quite madly, and fun from dishing fully, she bears you a silent sound.
Oh, no attention is needed in this blind direction, Dear; you are the dancing bear.
Low apprehension is beaded on this kind invention here with your romancing stare.
Yet allow this warning: however much she knows she will, coy, play dumb.
Even now, while mourning, bow, ever touching flows, while still boy; stay some.
Take a load, and lift the Earth from Atlas shoulders shrugged, my Love.
Hop the toad and shift the mirth. Sisyphus, boulders, hugged, my Love.
1532HRS EST 16NOV11 A. R. Campbell ©2011

L,-A

After all
These implements
And texts designed by intellects
We're vexed to find
Evidently there's still so much that hides
And though
The saints dub us divine
In ancient fading lines
Their sentiment is just as hard to
Pluck from the vine

I'll try hard not to pretend
Allow myself to mock defense
As I step into the night

Since I don't have time nor mind
To figure out the nursery rhymes
That helped us out in making sense of our lives
The cruel, uneventful state
of apathy releases me
I value them but I won't cry every time one's wiped out
I'll try hard not to give in
Batten down to fare the wind
Rid my head of this pretense
Allow myself no mock defense
As I step into the night

Mercy's eyes are blue
And when she places them
In front of you
Nothing holds a
Roman candle to
The solemn warmth you feel



dear god
thank you for the warm embrace of the golden heart-shaped leaves tinged with red
thank you for allowing me to entertain you
thank you for your uncanny sense of humor
thank you for the spaces in between the letters and the sounds
thank you for the skin of the tomato and the strawberry
thank you for lace-edged thigh highs, waves in the water and of
the hand
thank you for keyholes and keystones
thank you for the wind and the red clay soil
thank you for the magic carpet and jina in the bottle
thank you for dragonflies and the hollow clacking sound of bucks rutting
thank you for the sneeze and the autonomic nervous system
thank you for the baby's breath and the smell of human flesh
thank you for the roof of my church: the sky
thank you for the red dowels of Sun Dance inside my bag
thank you for this Heaven and Moon shadows
thank you for frogs and horses and dogs
thank you for my painter and my singer
thank you for my sailboat and my saddle
thank you for trains, yarn, and butterflies
thank you for my hot water, weeping willows, and oysters
thank you for my sock monkey and his banana
thank you for the humans I count friends
thank you for the overdeveloped antennae you installed in the apparatus
thank you for all the second chances and the preservation
thank you for the corn maze I planted and you grew
and thank you, lord, for nina simone, billy holiday, natalie cole, U2, and Annie Lennox
thank you for starshine and navigation
thank you for the health of the tribe
than you for the lovers of my lover
thank you for my blindness
thank you for the awareness
thank you for Pimlico, black-eyed Susans, and milkweed
thank you for the dolphin and the seahorse and the mermaids
thank you, god,
for Peter
Pan
And
Wendy.
there is more, god.

you know
oh! and thank you for my ruby slippers
amen


Love,
Andrea





0833HRS 11NOV2011 by Frank L. Stellars
Copyright 2011



L,-A

One Nut D.J. and a Public Service Announcement for His Friend
For a wolf, Franklin spins the tunes
while he spins yellow news
of the crooked Cain,
But how could he know,
and why would he guess
the blot of a friend’s suicide stain?
Franklin fills us in on Frazier’s latest blow.
Frazier’s taken a fall again.
Good old “Smokin’ Joe”!
This time, it is for certain,
he says, reporting for the wolf.
Frazier, out like a light, had to go.
Yet, Franklin,“ Bud”,
you could never know about the Hungarian
nine millimeter David would use
To rearrange his depressed tonsils
and spray his artwork:
“Still Life of the Splattered Brain in the Mews”.
No, Dave would not share
his levered suffering
and barred us from a window
on the pain he carried.
Earlier this year, he buried,
full of ulcerated bedsores and cancer,
the wife he married.
Franklin, will you tell them
he was an Air Force Historian
that could not bear darkening Sun?
Will you tell them, Franklin,
the amazing things David could do
with his mouth around a gun?
Favoring your home team
when you call the high school scores,
spewing lineups and size ups,
while talking much too long,
In between the stories, Franklin,
and this useless newsless trivia ,
will you play David’s self-inflicted song?
Will you tell the town about Dave?
He took his lonely life, knowing the PSA
had risen high again.
Will you spin the story, Franklin,
and say it was a tragic accident,
for his children that remain?
 
0949HRS EST   8NOV11   A. R. Campbell
©2011