From: Margaret Perkins
Embrace the Wonder
Archive for the 'POETRY' Category
WRITTEN FOR THE MAN IN MY LIFE-a wonderful Scientologist!
by Margaret Perkins
From: Russell & Susan Salamon
Sent: Tuesday, March 28, 2006 5:16 AM
To: Susan & Russell Salamon
Subject: Sip Kisses Poem of March 28, 2006
Russell Salamon
Sip Kisses
Her skin felt thought as he moved
his trains loaded with dawn choirs,
flute players, bassoon women, tea
water gasped steam. Cold rainfall.
Fresh buns, loaves of wind bread,
chickens, ducks, eggs, toasted wind.
She was an instrument on whom
to write smell of coffee, hum of
people waking up, wrapped in
wool scarves, berets, impugn
morning news. A clear sound
scraped through the alley.
The kiss was snowfall water
petal moisture, blood water hot
light. Sip of kisses half-awake,
immersed in fresh morning time,
fingers moving along her streets,
gaps of light cut clouds. Towers
grew solid out of rain fog, lights
flicked square patterns, lip sips
on left arm.
She turned her moist streets,
soft breasts into his embraces.
He drove incoming highways,
forests, outlying farmlands, groves
of wind, plowed wheat lands, light
on the river flowing, deeper lakes.
She could see mountains, closed
eyes, sip kisses, cheeks.
He stood up, a whole city, her
streets steamed in rising sun.
Two cities, lips slipping words,
truth something something truth,
delicate water in moths, birds,
mist inside wind trees, spheres
arriving, awareness, kiss fresh,
a map.
Russell Salamon
March 28, 2006
From: Russell & Susan Salamon
Sent: Friday, March 24, 2006 10:06 PM
To: Susan & Russell Salamon
Subject: Human Lives Poem of March 22, 2006
Human Lives
Some kind of night has entered
my foot, faces leaning into a bonfire,
stench of heretic in the air. Snow
melts at the edges. Priests in golden
robes smile to have corrected god’s
word among the people–having rid
the town of one more imagination,
reality is restored.
In the other foot psychiatrists save
children from attention deficits with
poison bonfires, while we lean into
the white fire with earlier pure worlds.
We have been saved, with no souls.
We kneel down to kiss matter under
the boots of tyrants. It is good for us.
I cut off my feet and stump off
to this springtime glade, stream
frogs gargle love grunts, groak,
groak, as I slowly bleed mankind.
I must be some kind of bad breath,
garlic on angel teeth and a tongue
fit for extraction at the truth trials. I
have tried the silent treatment but
it does nothing to the dead cities.
New truckloads of night roll off
the mountains, here are the dead
souls, here are the dying children
in big pants and small brains, here
are our leaders passing out baskets.
We get in and swing in the winds,
the abyss is deeper, new and
improved, we have learned tyranny
and call it freedom of speech. The
lies look so much better now that
we have no lanterns to see them by.
It was a long descent devoutly
crafted to leave all signposts
behind, invisible in history, in fog
of hypocrisy, for small wages of
betrayal, one soul one pence.
Was it we that throttled the neck
of Life? Excuse me, I know we are
perfect beings. Must have been
the enemies of man, must have
been gold coins in the blood of
serpents, couldn’t have been us.
I drop the remains of the body
into the fragrant meadow, on
the lush perfect green transport.
I leap out of the blue sky dense
in the ocean nightwater. Stars
keep forgetting our footprints
no matter how often we step
into their hot truths. We also
forget our first faces by looking
at them with human lives.
Russell Salamon
March 22, 2006