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enjoy this Mark Fleury writing in this 6" x 9" 2011 ISBN# book Angel’s Syllable Is Good Boss of Devil’s Spine		Enjoy this second book in Scars’ Mark Fleury poetry book series as a 6" x 9" perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book! Click on the cover or any linked text for the book Angel’s Syllable Is Good Boss of Devil’s Spine

enjoy this Mark Fleury writing in the 6" x 9" 2015 ISBN# paperback collection book Seeing Strangers			Enjoy this compilation book in Scars’ Mark Fleury poetry book (of THREE books!) as a 6" x 9" perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book! Click on the cover or any linked text for the book Seeing Strangers

A Symbolist Poem

Mark Fleury

God’s the poet.
I’m just confusion

Opened. Else the slice
Of moon, roughly stop sign

Shaped, used to plug
The hole in the ocean,
Would’ve burned

With the wicks
Of my birthday cake candles,

Wax melting into the cracks
Of the Atlantis streets that were built
With the wings of flies.

Or maybe of stars, also full
Of blue ice. The streets littered

With orange peels and watched
By the gray skied eyes of fire-flied
Syllables who know open’s

Feminine, talking bubbles
From their now shadowless
Mouths,

Spines evolved
To the lengths of freeways.
They’re telling stories

Of oxygen masks revised
Into circus tents and of clouds
Raining alphabets.

When I blew out the candles
I noticed that each cloud
Had a broken yellow highway line

From which chicks hatched. And each sky
Was framed and hung on a wall. And shadows,
Each cracked from a separate

Buzzing, fixed the ocean’s leak
By sharing the reds

Of the four different stop signs
With dusk and dawn, crossed.

*

Also the green
At the compassed core
Of the moon slice
Matched the centers
Of the evolving
Sunbird’s pupils.
Changed from sound

To light.

*

The Grecian glow of color-greedy
Stained glass on the entrance

To the pier told of clear skied

Clock peddlers
On the Golden Gate’s
Fishing boats. One said to turn left
At the corner of the purple fog’s
Third, more darkly tinted icicle
To find the shape of the ocean leak’s
Flaming spyglass.


The tide seemed to end, there
In Sherlock’s detective bag,
Held in his trembling grip
As its mouth unfurled its flag
Of white teeth, perfectly aligned.

This mystery solver
Had fangs, gnashing symmetrical
With the brow glow

Stemmed to the human
Behind the sack of skeleton
Keys and satellite slices.

The sleuth shuffled a deck of cards,
Made of steaming blue ice,

With the hand bones of his mind’s
Eye, only to have them

Fall into the ghostly glass
Of elixir planned for the execution

Of the leak maker.

*

Droplets of tears
Fell from the spinning bone wheel.
Heaven curled up
And cried under the weight
Of compassion for whoever’s poisoned.

That was the highest blue
In the stained glass. What watered
The storm cloud

Seeds after the fall.
And what, finally, is the hub?

The Serpent said:
“Simile is that Angel’s wings
Are in Queen’s Light.”

He said this to Eve and Adam
Just before unzipping his costume
To reveal himself as THE MUSE.

*

Plucked from the propeller

Like petals off of

A flower, the blades

Showed the airplane
To be outside
The root of form,

Same outside as where God
And content are a plane
Of light, sphere, Ground,
For kissing Angel’s wings

Of sound, together zero flapped.
Everything creative, held in
At top of Angel’s spine.

That’s how the poem as pure ego
Lands safely, where Muse opens, here.

There’s confusion, so the airplane-flower

Bleeds until no one wins.
The fall’s leaves colors

Across your eyes, where hull
And stem, war

And peace, are the same hollow
Tunnels of sight.

Feminine oneness transitions
Toward the moon. The flutter, balancing

The sun’s rage, good at being in charge.

I can only allow the poem
To grow; I don’t have access to it.

*

Bleak and bleary eyed,
The cliff edged blown mind,

Emptying stars
Toward itself poured

Their milk, shaped

Like tongues and flowing pink too,
Out toward heaven’s

In from eight different red,
Mandala spinning pitchers.
The coast got cleared
By these Milky Ways.

The reds photographed

Eyes of loved ones who’ve died.

Sparks of yellow and orange

In the flow, the talking dead
With foreheads pink and white

Tides ending in the foam
Where flash meets

Diamond on the ring
Of the ghost that blocks the paths
Of the flooded stars.

*

I don’t need to drink it;
The milky ocean

In my Angel door centered thought.
It’s a long one, seems to go

Down forever
Though I’ve only the nipple like
Center of the beam.
A crack in the lens of tomorrow.

All the falling
Spinning whiteness
Is cracking
Open the elevator shaft
In yesterday’s desert.
The angled tunnel connects

With itself to form a medallion
On a necklace worn by

The Goddess of Sound and Light.

*

I mean numbers aren’t just
To numb the mind, each forms a picture,

An image less real
Than the nothing, the zero I worship,

Being only worthy
Of that lowest center’s consonant;
It takes to the sky,

Only to fall again
At the vowel’s next appearance.
The Thread’s that tight.

And Devil as duality
Is just a misunderstanding:
The two wings seen

As separate. Like myself,
These poems will be returned,
As offerings, to the earth
That they came from.
White tide other side
Of Angel Ghost’s form.

Poem child of time
And The Thread words can’t express.
Muse – content – holds them.

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