October 2-8, 2017: Poetry from Kelli Simpson and Sam Silva

Show and Tell

I tell because I cannot show the
crisscross cracks in this stained glass soul; the
flower felled by hobnail boots; the
depth and thrust
of moons.
 
I show because I cannot tell the
truth of us half so well as the
bloom of us scents my hands
and stands as all the
 
proof
I need
of God.

One

There is night and there is day.
There is here and there is there.
There is I and there is Other.
                                         
These are truths so self-evident
that we left them undeclared,
but what if
 
we finally let the world be round?
I sleep; you sow.
You dream; I dare
 
another day in my little corner
of everywhere.  Our everywhere.
Here and there is meaningless
 
when I inhale the dust of both
our ancestors with every breath.
And, breathing you, what can be left
 
of I, but a lie that profits
the tellers and sellers
of difference?
 
We all cradle a child like a miracle.
We all eat, fuck, die,
and "why" leaves its taste on every tongue.
 
Night and day.
Here and there.
I and Other.
 
One.

The Art and its Honeyed Poetry

In the lower level of the house
next to the flat earth or underneath
this flowering of plant and language
…paint and words…idyllic birds

…this is where illusion is shattered,
near the ground
and under the snow
with uttered sound
and such profoundly visionary spell

…the art and its honeyed poetry

magic and dust!
Heaven and Hell!