© WayneSL 2016
Some things you can’t undo.
Sometimes it’s just too late.
The legs undulate.
They move with steady, rolling motion
To no effect.
Perhaps the effect is just to ascertain
That they can move
Will move when commanded
But by what?
What is it that commands these legs to wave in the air
Then stop a while
Then wave again?
The body’s black and yellow stripes
The wings awry
Curl into a memory of force
Against the hard white-coated metal
Of the newspaper dispenser
The news inside already old
Before it had been printed
Hard, harsh glossy white
Enclosing printed paper that
Only a relic from last century would consult for “news.”

And the legs move again, coordinated, marshalled by some instigator
Some motivator feigning life
Crystals grow.
Muscles twitch.
Clouds fly.
Suns shines.
Life… is it memory?
A mud puddle retains the mark of a foot.
Is it thought?
A Traffic light presides over the comings and goings beneath it.
How much does this shell that flew
And ate
And mated
And daubed mud
Differ from the dervish
That spins and roars and skips a trailer
To flatten a house
And howling suck the roots from the root cellar?

I think therefore I am
But when I cease to think
Another mind may give me substance still
And stillness
Is it death or pause?
Death is just a longer pause, perhaps.
The fall does not kill
Yet being dead is not what hurts,
But landing and
Anticipation of the landing
Death is calm, complete, content.
Undulating legs
An experiment on
What is and is not


Existential Moment

Black Hole

Black Hole

2014 WayneSL

That existential moment
when finite and infinite
eternity and now
can, will, might
and probably not
swirl and swell
and do not come to rest
yet we persist…


14-5-210-405 -118 by WayneSL

14-5-210-118by WayneSL (2015)

WayneSL 1988

Leaning forward Skijump Stance

jawset faces cutting wind

chromeplate eyes scan grey-brown haze.

Out of the mountains we ooze

in a rolling rush downhill

to coalesce in painted metal rivers

spreading on the shrouded valley floor.

Roaring rapids, chrome and glass

spray and steam and smoke.

Eddies swirl at on-and-off ramps

Rubber ripples shining wet

reflect the sun’s weak penetration

of the brown-cloud glare.

A barracuda’s darting dance

flaunting lane-change pirouettes

taunts the surly diesel rhinos

flouts majestic ocean liners,

manic minnows fawning in their wakes.

An open lane, a gush of gas

A carom off a gravel truck

slomo flight, wheels spinning airborne

graceful leap across the chainlink

a somersault & a half twist

Flying in formation

with a dozen spinning shards of shattered plastic

and windshield glass spraying like rock salt soaked in red.

The river curdles, standstill spreading from the snag

up and down the grid the grinding jam congeals.

Engines whirring idle, gnashing teeth, hot tar and radios.

The smoke begins to rise

and reeks of hair and gasoline and rubber soot

and I’ll be late again and likely lose my parking spot.


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