Active Art Is Always Overhead

Ron Androla

Thin
brush-
stroke
clouds
expand
the ribs
of a drenched
watercolor
sky split like a
barge's
wake.
2 southern
cloud-
streams
penetrate
atmosphere
with their
penile bull-horns
made of chopped
wet rocks,
moist dawn fog,
& tenuous moments of fleshy
veiny northern
dusk. Mountains
of discarded
skulls spit &
blow flames,
apocalyptic
confetti, fanged
lightning
bugs, &
quantum-
shifting
UFOs.
I whittle a confused,
phosphorous-rich,
match-stick head of
tadpole sperm
into a microscopic
knife
that stabs
& guts & pulls blackberry-
bloody
summer
ripples
overhead;
the ripples undo
the pulse & the
breath of me,
they cut wide
holes out of
Lake Erie's
trout-shimmering
surface reflection
trimmed
in old
peach
light;
what
stays
evening,
what's old,

evaporates.