days of joy ride

17 days to reach blue blank solstice
soft & strong
laughter of June
bacteria call
miss bliss quantum
chestnut tree’s swell “dash”
viral lights
drum rotten (pump it up… you’ve got to pump it up)
but through foliage a new envy
to reach wispy lashes of clouds
envy of member grapple

rose bloom still swinging in the breeze
i asked her:
Sister of Huz, define “geez”
she kept swinging in the “lisserat mode”
aspirational comfort wandering up
in french not valide au scrabble


an ouch on M12 street car
climbing the hill, up chestnut street
filled with FFP2 / black & white
young boy nearly whimpering
accepted by a tiny voice:
child in pain says ouch
mother is stroking his head to ease
the fright
inciting a Blow – quite a sprout
raining down on black & white
streetcar’s stop out
mummy takes off his t – shirt
pushing him out
while lady with wheeled walker
pulls down her pants
& takes a good pee
second day of joy
i zip my lips
boy – hoy
what a gemstone
the real  mccoy


let’s think of Rio Bravo
while going down
wieland street
to fetch ornamental plants
or aconitum as cosmopolitan idea
as “runaway scrape”
trade of oberon
the tuft of a beard

yet the sun sets on cyclists
pedestrians alike
creeping out of a chestnut tree
onto the catwalk of san luis potosi
yes, recoil
stop the song
there is little glory in bloodless victory
this filiation of the ombra bong
these mild blue skies of june peace
the empty signal of grief,
mildness, withstanding young ones & elders
member biter, here, dressing
the false front
the revetment
gosh – ghosts
the happy horror capitalist’s wrong address
the lovely american frail
so gladly
isolated within algorithm, alamo, algonquin
in perfect blue


fire & dust on chestnut street
with elfin builders mumbling
deep deep deep …
add another day to the wall
or tell us something about
the blacklisted papillon
they shriek
have pity with this sunset
and early summer fruit
go for johnny come by & johnny come latelies


do you have another project, asked Blue
well, said castanea ozar:
say good bye to magpie
or do the cocteau
you know it’s june & we shed our bloom

here, listening to the remarkable isolationists
i slagged on – got on M12 tram again
yak shaving
to meet up withe the hellman camp
Lillian Florence for good, i said
children’s hour of the fox
pentimento with thin man
but Blue said: davy lamp
no, i replied … ultraviolet
hey, you cannot continue to be a writer
black on white has never been
chestnut tree said: when we do tribe it’s I
when i do foliage, oh, it’s … we …
frequent traveler

—Martina Gertrude Siebert