What do I do with this?
This surreal collage of letters
Meaningless in solitude
Together an impressionist’s stroke
Five characters locked in a scene
Conjuring phantoms of me
A different face for each reader
Unique to a time and place
There is a soul in these letters
Reborn with every reading
Immortal as the page
-T. Weeks
(A response to “What Am I After All”)
Watching little legs chase a patchwork ball
I wish I had remembered a chair
Crispy grass pokes the back of my legs
Kicking laughing clumping crying
The small group tumbles around the field
Nearly finding a goal with almost every pass
I recognize this madness
But are they just like us or us like them
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Unfolded out of the Folds”)
Just before evening two riders mount tired horses
After a scant feast and less chatter
One riding west and anxious to move on
The other riding east and leery of the clouds
Dry air drinking up their thin prose
Just a few sighing words about how it all felt wrong
Crow-footed gazes spreading to the horizon
The way things are is not how they ought to be
Swinging up onto old leather, cracked and shiny
One rider croaks out his dusty dirge
In another time when the paint was fresh
Colors and intentions were pure
Ah, says the other, that must have been nice
I heard them walls was always faded and flaking
You ever wonder from where the color came
Who painted the town in the first place
They rode on
-T. Weeks
(A response to “To a Pupil”)
I’m free to move
To fly like a spark from the wheel
Flashing in any direction
To my own applause
To the curiosity of the passerby
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Sparkles from the Wheel”)
Somewhere between Mars and Jupiter
Black irregular rocks hold hands
They have no folklore
Neither winds nor moons
No immortal namesake
Looking with pity on their planetary cousins
Lonely with their lunar companions
Unchanging and at an arms distance
Seeing only one side of the sun at a time
The dark rocks
In their toroidal metropolis
Together bump, nudge, dance
Neighbors always at hand
Together see every side of the sun
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Miracles”)
Moving and not seeing
Acting but not finding
Pissing in the hall
Tripping on a chair
Ghosting to the door
Waking and oblivious
Longing for a trophy
Nodding for the dream
King of nothing but a mess
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Thought”)
Simple encouragements
Sown in simple beds
Peak above the soil
Saplings take root
Maturing or dying
Furrowed bark
Forms cracks
Monuments
Horizons
Shaped
Long
Ago
By
1
.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “I Was Looking a Long While”)
Cocooned beneath
That glacier capped peak
A magma-powered bomb
Sets and resets its own trigger
Old growth forests
Shroud scars of bygone doom
Deliberating over hues of
Misting falls and permanence
Below we navigate
The gentle drizzle of flipped coins
Picking our way through
puddles of heads and tails
-T. Weeks
(A response to “To a Common Prostitute”)
I’m a candle melting to the floor
Through my feet
Soon I’ll be a puddle of spent wax
In a pile here between these two chairs
And a wall of music
One with this place
One with this room of strangers
All the universe is now
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Laws for Creations”)
We’re all just tumbling
In free fall
All destined to splat
At about the same time
Let’s ride the wind
While we can
Let’s drink the horizon
While we see
Let’s link, let go, and reform
While we’re free
-T. Weeks
(A response to “You Felons on Trial in Courts”)
Life Immense 