Thursday, July 5, 2018

Nathan Spoon & Colin Winborn, Unaffected by Strong Force

Democracy of Flower
(acrylic and paper on wood; 11 x 14)
image by Nathan Spoon 

Unaffected by Strong Force


i will accomplish nothing. will

  take in joyfully the glow of

    this maple in nov(a).ember while

      thinking about biscuits.


am i the failure i have always

  wanted to be. since nothing

    could be let,s

      hope? snow is arriving soon.


On the page.
          Stars fell.
From the sky. In the night.
                                        Fell as snow.
A page is our heartbeat. A page is our breath.
                    Our blood.
Look now.
Unmeasure. Now this vale.


Under a blanket.
                                        Of snow.
          Of stars.
Carrots grow.
                    In earth. Through which.
Worms whistle.

In sightless unison.


from vessel.   you sieve
               within             nothing kept from

tomorrow. doing         a domain

bounded through.  to

                         leptons anointing
               a slave mission

fizzy filigree
            snatched quantity. of attic

kleptomania up
        braids your hair    still set

                my hands

        are pets


               ear canals

         my vassal


They are tiny. They are few. They are snowflakes.
Pack a horde together in time to blink
                    the world astray.


From a lost future: smoke.
Beneath a stone: a


Snake. I put the toe of my shoe

behind its head and, gathering it up

between my child’s forefinger

                                   and thumb,

carry it, like a golden rope, home.

Once over the fence and returned

                              to our back yard,

     I return it eagerly to the vatic


And grassy ground. Watch it crawl like

a shoestring of imagination. Put

                    the toe of my
                    shoe again behind
                    its head and reached
                    down into the darkness
                    of its impossible

swivel where it struck my

forefinger with its

babycopperhead fangs.

Here: spliced


tail end

which is.




    lying. in

what state

           coppice and  
salty waves   -


   way    propped

the snow







allows flesh

        a hostage

intuits   bardo           within


at                 the

               meat stash      suffers

stares   down

      the alley/    way   inter


               all night

          a hinge    a pivot     i’ll


          by that

―Nathan Spoon & Colin Winborn