Is it the sparks
crackling the music from old speakers
or the single strand of hair hung
by the sun in the broke
down truck we animate in Ohio?

You turn me inside like a snow globe.

Immensity fills in with flakes.
Silence descends like a song
heard from a hallway,
like night congealed in amber at the edges.

My heart: a kaleidescope moon.

The snow melts streets in line
with bees & blue Chevy's.
Both going home.
Black tracks. White Idaho winter.
The angle at which blanched trees widen
from your eyes, a Tamarack iris,
two liquid hearts looking in me.
Cloud's mouth wrapped around mountains.

It was summer
your hair a blond octopus of curls.

It was autumn
the leaves like freckles--

It was 12 years
the shortest distance between two points:
the half-bite of your lip
& the corner of your mouth turned slightly.
_____________________________________________________________________________

Eidolons Of Flight 93
By J. R. Pearson

From this distance

it is a silver shunt in flames of autumn ,
a splinter in heart-shaped sky that leaves
contrails like rainbows, glued to ceiling.
Half-round & fading--

Trace the arc with your finger
the end is where you will find them.

steel tunnel warping afterlife
furious atmosphere
men praying for feathers
the overwhelming deafness of being consumed
by the force that forged the universe
bodies hold to vinyl
like scorpions onto crickets

Papers pushed with wind in weeds,
a brief shuffle of empty feet.
If you squint, for a moment
you can make out opal silhouettes
head tilted left, then right--
bending over their corpses

J.R.Pearson is a poet living and writing in Dalton Gardens, Idaho with his wife & 2 pups. His work is currently featured in The Indie Underground, The Cherry Blossom Review, Byline, Dogzplot, Ditch, Tipton & many more. He is a member of an experimental group of collaborator's called Orzel Transtextual Poetry which engage in, among other things, combining Flarf with real-time emotions. He was born in Lansing Michigan and still dreams of the Great Lakes.