The Mag 158: All Is Spilled

Photo by TheFoxAndTheRaven

All is spilled

There is nothing more

I romanticize. Not bath

nor sleep. Not the ache 

of empty night. 

The voices are of no comfort.

They press me awake endless hours

Is this an inquisition? 

Must I answer? I am pulverized, 

strained through a cauldron 

of one sided talk-

I look to my wrist

I look for answers

I look, I look...

Michael A. Wells

The Mag 158

  

Squall

Squall - Andrew Wyeth - 1986

Gray rolling over swelling blue.

White foam cresting, dropping;

slapping the blue over and over.

The sky darkening quickly

a smokey gray, a dirty dray,

bullet gray and now charcoal.

Winds swirl my hair every which way.
My scalp actually pains under pressure.
Waves whack shoreline rocks repeatedly.

Each tide washes higher- a mist rises over me.
My face wet, my lips taste of salt. 
I lean now with the wind.

The water, darker now
seemingly has swallowed the sky;
the two joined in force- rolling in.




Michael A. Wells

The Mag

The Mag: Paranormal

Midnight Snack - Curtis Wilson Coast - 1984

The stomach pings

which I ignore. I can

stumble over time 
lost in quiet darkness.
But when the growl comes
heat engulfs the region;
I sit up in flames of hunger.
The body answers 
where the mind holds back.
A light switch finds my hand.
The kitchen acknowledges me
but I will wake in the morning
and know nothing of this.



Michael A. Wells


The Mag 139

The Mag 135: Venus Has The Hots

Venus and The Sailor - Salvador Dali

Venus has the hots-

her dancing shadow passes before us.

Swishing her dress about.

The seductive danseur-

she can lure us into her orbit.

We easily feel connected

if not by want then curiosity,

brilliance in the morning

and evening-  

Even mid-day she can flaunt

in our imagination - or is it?

The Mag 135

Michael A. Wells

  

The Mag 133: The Women of Summer Night

Summer Night - 1913 by Albert Bloch

They gather in secret

in the garden of delight

they leave behind 

much shame

and every other form

of constraint-  real or imagined

in the twilight of tenderness

they speak of no evil

they harbor no disdain

they are hear for each other

they are hear for themselves

they are here and this is why they come

The Mag 133

Michael A. Wells

The Mag 132: Off Limits

Big Room, 1948 by Andrew Wyeth

I get the chills here;

this room so open

voluminousness of air.

Even the grand fireplace

cannot cut the impersonal 

feel.       The stark neatness,

not thing out of place.

Nothing ever happens here.

People come, look, but never sit

or stay. 

The Mag 132

Michael A. Wells

The Mag 131: Detroit's Past Through The Fog

Under Windsor Bridge by Adolphe Valette

Entombed in the gritty fog

rolling under Windsor Bridge

the past hangs heavy;

smells of damp basement.

Thinking back in time I remember

how many young men crossed this bridge 

north bound to Canada 

placing themselves in a sort of purgatory

not knowing if or when they might make a return trip.

Those were dark times in America

even darker for Detroit;

smoldering nightly somewhere in the summer heat.

A big time city eating it's own young.

Cannibalizing it's inner soul. 

The decay remains evident today

in areas blackened

that have not and never will come back. 

That's what they say.

Funny thing this city, 

where peace-nicks 

flowed to Canada;

while in the heart of old Detroit

riots raged to burned out store fronts;

skeletons of Detroit made cars smoldered.

Motor city became the capital 

of civil-disobedience & of civil-unrest.

The Mag 131

Michael A. Wells 

The Mag 130: No Shell Game

Image by Francesca Woodman

Don' t dare look past my flesh self

ignoring what discomfort troubles you.

I've come out so that I can be everything

I truly am-   the co-worker, the mother, the friend

the wife and the lover.

I don't hide my intellect behind my body

anymore then I will shelter my flesh

with intellect or my personality.

I've shed my shell;

these breasts, the curves-

this flesh and bone

this is my architecture-

I embrace all that I am.

The Mag 

Michael A. Wells

The Mag: Waiting for the Car

Artwork by Jack Vettriano

Another event-

the compulsory

making an appearance.

When does he dress

for an outing with me;

hang like a doll from my arm?

When do I get to show off

his fake smile?

The Mag

Michael A. Wells

The Mag 125: The Same Beginning

Chilmark Hay, 1951 by Thomas Hart Benton

Golden goose-bumps rise 

from the sagging country side

awaiting collection.

They are the remnants of harvest.

Cured in the sun - their sweetness

locked in.

Here, everything comes down to earth.
We plant in it, work it, extracting from it

feed it to the livestock.

It's a simple life.

Not an easy one

but it always cycles

back to the same beginning. 

The Mag

Michael A. Wells 

MAG 123: ONE MAN'S RELIGION

Photo of Orson Welles provided by Tess Kincaid at THE MAG

Along an egregious path 

beset with noisy sociopathic notions,

came a man with the raspberry blue sugar sticky 

of cotton-candy smeared about his face.

One hand groping his wants

the other loaded with Jelly Bellies—

practicing  his holy belief of entitlement.

© 2012 Michael A. Wells

The Mag 123

MAG 122 ~ Likeness

Puddle, 1952, M. C. Escher

Likeness

A puddle collective on the ground.

Mirror images mired in detail

reflective of all that's around.

Tracks and footprints form the frame

to cup and stabilize the fallen rain

of splendor in a muddy marsh.

Michael A. Wells


Mag 122

The Mag 113: Visions in Red

Red Roofs, Marc Chagall, 1954

Visions in Red

In the night of my many sighs

I see the roofs of our village 

rushing with red

I sit along the way 

pretending not 

to see my wedding day

this way

I am both in my own view

but along the way as well

my bouquet in hand

but I smell nothing 

though the taste of copper

is strong in the air

like I'm sucking on coins

my groom stands over us all

and ladles the blood of every Passover

on us all - even the Jew we call the Christ

I am clothed and yet nakedly vulnerable

before my groom, before God,

before the whole of the town 

Michael A. Wells

Mag 113