Stephen Mead
Stephen Mead

portofolio on  and


Mostly the hours
dance, nibble ear lobes, coax
a bubbly pressure up arms.
This floorful of clothing is data
of that, oil slick rainbows on backs
of whales. How long we've been happening,
aqueducts gathering waves outward to pour
a seizure of watery applause. Constant
as clots
the days retrieve shape, our pulses,
suffragettes conspiring in hope. Tongues
paint pictures there, press cider, the glow
of pearls--
Every droplet an oasis, some distinct source
of light. Is the wind history, prophetic?
The mind a conscience, whispering, whispering?
I've written from its dark, for years part
fantasy,1\2 paper, 1/2real, a Quasimodo, block-
head, goof ball in a parachute.
Now a novice to accessible belief, carrier
pigeons spring forth from thoughts , dawning
ivory and, free of alibis, feelings swell
to truly peal. Oh what were we captive to-- 
Only solarium latticework, the sky's envelope
littering, like junk food, stars, pennies
in a well. But, bonfire dollars, no one owns
air. The Ouija current of peepers sounding forth
possible possible is some man in the park
playing his kazoo.
See? Hear him? In spats, the tilted halo of
an angel, all god's children need radios,
those grave rubbing's, pueblo pictographs, Anasazi
fingerprints, such wall scribbled visions choosing
who to rely on, whose message is this: we were,
we were here.
Brother Apprentice, bring me to them, then leave
me needing, ready for the generosity of moments--
This smell of coffee, taste of cigarettes, our legal
narcotics tempering adventure and flesh after love--
Waa Waa Weeee--
The museum-boxed Sphinx nose, didn't anyone tell you?
Reality's a hurricane.

Shoo Fly 

Jade globules throbbing
a bit, their flawless flab
a slug's limpid shine
exclusive on skin, wings
roosting to taste the
gelatinous center of
pupils tearing the
inexplicable into clar-
ity as about the infant's
gem-decorated stare a
chant of nature, without
mercy, goes humming.

The Quintessence Of Fire

Enter flame, its elusive petals.
They become real & you could drink them,
be lit with their hues.
Such nimbus's pulse, drawing air in,
luminescence wrapping round,
a vampirism kiln
sucking, swallowing, reeling
back out...
Such hunger
gives off a sulfurous aura.
Cobalt gas yawns, an unpredictable
breathing thing.
It lives as turbulence, truth.
Its blazing is nature, opposing
neutrality, glamor, rituals.
See it grazing, moving across lawns?
Bursting to eddy, the conflagration
seems sacred. To focus on its bowels
means discovering Pompeii, the burnt
ends, the ashes...
Falling, every tip drops
a climax, a kiss.
Next they head seaward,
having cleared the landscape.
Here regeneration's bleed, wavelengths
of burners, their innermost eyes.
The evolution is fascinating, an enigma
to behold. Imagine it
separated from gaseousness,
thrown into cold space---
Fire, a sphere, that coin
twirling, twirling,
this side of it, a black hole,
this other.your door.

This Is Not A Mine

Is it thunder, that rumble, or more heaving like
How many days it has been since the ceilings slid,
sealing this basement. We were fortunate in a way.
At least here there are tins, pickled preserves, & my
sister with her candles, with her jack knife, who
When the tremors started she said it felt like a
and hurried us, all of us, even the cat, scratching
while being pulled along. Later, we waited, in fact
are still
waiting now, singing songs, telling stories to ward
the silences, those claustrophobic coats. How much
time is left? Did our parents survive? What's it
up above? Listen. Again there's that shaking, dust
from the rafters, the baby crying and, "Move to the
My sister orders. "Or the archway. It's strongest."
How can she do it? My god, something's clawing,
cracking in---
voices ,
a flashlight.
I thought I was too numb
even for these

And On

Heaven's escalator...bony
nebulae filtering fossilized flotsam...
particles...starfish arms...the re-generational
ancient sea seeds sprouting
weedy plankton for brine
Here, just out the back door,
a field of waves...milkweed yards ascending
mandarin...onyx stained glass
monarch wings...each singular but
a crusade over
oceans...between canyons...a sound
scheme of color whir-
ring silvery light rain...the spray splayed
some scrim to be worn...exoskeletal
snake skins, all chameleon survivors of
oxidized through a circle...
sacred...singing...beyond thermal currents
and Hasidic martyrs shaped
to bark shavings....
eucalyptus mottling...fallen feathers about
winds gold with pain
continuance absolves

Thanks to Jessica Maxwell