Kathaman's rich mix of heat and heart seems about right for our pre-monsoon city scapes, campgrounds, roasting and resting chaotic summer. Is there one word for feeling a society on the precipice?  Enjoy these poems that read like abstract paintings.

June Poem

 

Western evenings question people

in measured, peered time in spots

of grass with brown summer.

Skeletons of angels travel where

August begins.

Streams stand like granite.

Trout wake up at night.

Heat curves over these gifts

speeding for a place in the sand.

The life of dogs end in the pound.

We arrive at the arroyo and pin

our seasonal senses to the rain.

 

Entranced with the green sea

looking for the sound of the surf

where life became sexy and

learned to crawl.

The song of culture mentioned in

silver days.

Paradise tastes of a tablespoonful

of salt.

The top of the sky repeats itself

saying to the dawn of pink and

gold:  never leave the faith of

the glass canyon.

* * * *

Cover Credits

The pebbles of architecture

A repeated electric jazz riff that continues like a dental drill.

I will not write about the weather.

 

A funny male person whose mouth shakes full of small fears.

Who holds his own unconcerned about being the last of his line.

I tell him his genetic code will adhere to the electromagnetism in the air.

 

Notice your outside love or artistic thoughts hazily composing themselves out of nothing.  Go flavor the poor and lost in the endless sea of nature.  Women of the wet lands in the shadows of the sea.  The color of cream is pitiless.  I’m stalling while I rub the crust from both inner callouses.  A scoop of news beyond common sense.  Trapped to the sight from where we tell our failures.  Heads will swell as watermelons.  The height of pigs on nuts will increase.  Dark eyes of the Pharaoh are not to be looked upon.  Down the canyon of eyes, lenses point to ourselves.  I am unable to embrace his sense of normalcy.

 

 

We eat perch and focus on its profile.

Maybe we misheard the list of symptoms the cardiologist

left next to the medicines. 

Everyone comes from an oyster.

Aging spirals on the wind from Mars.

Unseen secrets of living music on broadband.

Back in my skin I climb the narrows of a winter scape.

* * * *

Bananas and Garlands

 

Stones to measure

Stones from the surf

Stones of the valley floor

 

Taro grows wild near the

sleeping cave.  I hum hymns

to my riding horse.  We enter

the heart of the secret trail

into stories beyond reason

and clouds of sandalwood

of 19th century grandmothers

and kalua papas.

12 spectators with garlands

and goats fold into the core

of the lianas.   Bananas and

peaches roll into laps of

peasants.  This is their

mission.

* * * *

Moon Delight

 

The eyes of the puppet

wake-up to a turquoise

green silence.  Another

uniform month of forgotten

harmonies lost in lands

of towers, bridges and

balconies.  The tendrils

walk on the inside to

scatter my existence

beyond 10 sacred

minutes.  I have never

forgotten when I met the

moon delight.  My ears

hang low in the enclosed

dirt under lock and key.

For samples Kathaman's visual art, go to

http://internet.cybermesa.com/~kathamann/

For submission guidelines, see previous pots' instructions.

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