"In Defense of a Friend"

What of the
cognitive functioning of
the Octopus, that grand
gesture of gesturers, as it
slips one long and wispy tent-
acle down the clear plastic
tubing of an aquatic
Knossos to delicately discern its
direction, and after escape, will
undoubtedly recall the route upon
prodding from those cephalopod
seers supping on the tasteless,
arid "out there"?

Or how its problem-solving skills put
most human children--and many of the
not-so-young--to shame, morphing text-
ure and hemming its hues to
coordinate with the coral, a hedge
of rock, or even a grid laid like
a gauntlet at his eight-folded
feet--where is his
"Theory of Mind"?

Acrobats and escape artists,
pranksters preening in mime of
greater prey than they, three
hearts pumping great escapes as they
satisfy an uncommon curiosity for
cameras and deep-sea divers, all those
tasty fish swimming so short a tank
away, so why not slither and slime
a course across and pay one's
dinner a visit?

I'd venture to guess that
should someone shine too bright a
spotlight upon my bedchamber at
night, I'd also direct a precise and
powerful jetstream to short the bulb and,
well, if it takes the building out also, so
be it, but you won't find me twiddling my
tentacular toes, only instead the inky blush of
my immediate retreat, hiding like only
I could would I were as brilliantly beaked as
this intrepid intellectual of the sea, under-
estimated, undefined, deserving of
devotion I can only render writ large,
if not, at least, with
longing.

Tall and gangled, leaning
solidly rightwards on the
interstice of cane connecting
with wood, indentured to
injury and skeptically scanning the
faces forested below.

My memory spasms, then
falters as I study the
hard-edged lines of this
seeming stranger's face, a
familiarity aching from
pictures past, days spent
clutched in the menacing but
brotherly grasp of another
time, a not-so-other
place -- could it be him?

I wonder if perhaps he is
not so tall and gangled
enough. I search his ears for
the gauges that once
gaped in open greeting as
he strode down astride shops and
street kids, of which I was one.

I stare solid and un-
blinking into the steel
silence his eyes return, and
wonder, "Is that you, John?" If
it was, I am sorry for saying
nothing, for refusing to rattle the
fermented foundations of both our
younger days.

If not, then thank you,
stranger, unknown soldier, for
transporting me back, through
no effort of your own, to
a time when all seemed lost,
save, except, my self.

"Encounter"

Mustachios point out
two seemingly divergent
poles, his eyebrows
arching recognition from
over the nibbled remainder
of his muffin top, and mine
do the same, a greeting
whispered from the shore of
my lips against the foaming
waves of my caffeed confection.

I could make a
great deal of all this,
some analysis of the
quality and quantity of our
facial foreplay, but instead I
think to let it go and
simply bask in the
fleeting attention of the sex
opposite my own before
we all, as such frivolous
creatures do, turn the flashlight
of attention toward
all the other maybes we hope,
finally, to yes.

The Tucson Poems -- Part Deux

Back, and back with more.
Onward:

The Tucson Poems

It has indeed been a while, far longer than the 45 days I was ensconced in Arizona for treatment in a chronic pain recovery program. Not to say I am recovered, but it was a great experience. One of the best parts was the amount of writing I did, including over a dozen poems composed in concert with a friend I met, a lovely lady named Abby. Most were crafted on the basis of daily keyword prompts. Here I present a few for perusal. Now if I would continue the trend...