Christopher Calle

melting dragon
on his gray mat
flat
under the crying sun
gravity leaves the universe once more
wailing despair for the angel to fulfill God’s promise
any sign
on their glowing screens
we yearn for them
to return from the fields of rectangle grasses
filleted angle curbs
round out the king’s tongue
without hostility
but for the contemptible dragon
mamushi and hornets
black, silver and copper
next come wolves
howling at the golden moon
and the panther goes down
through the hole in geography
to the house of the dragon
sailboat in styx
in
into the rotating magnet
into the fabric of time
another dusty patch
another sleeping dragon
another lamb
another hopeful laugh
under the crying son
a lantern lights the path
calling them home for dinner
gravity comes in waves

We are the wave and the board
And the invigorating water clock wading into shore
Cool as granite boots
Moon tide gravity oblongates mooring ropes on the monger’s indifferent vessel

Do you know the first rule of fishing?
I ask the untamed light
Walking over soothing board’s creak
levers
smooth shafted anchors
Go where the fish are.

Near the long barrels
Past the riptide sandbar
wandering ray berm
Time reaps the hope of incautious optimism
And she paddles out to sea

We are the infinite sun and salty air
We are the solitude and the rhythm
Surface tension pulls itself into a molten mirror
Heaving with energy
a golden thread in the caustic mist
God

We are the seeker
Digging into this boundary between two worlds
A soft pong
Binaural beats

Gravedigger at the Fair
Socialist miracle
Multicultural spectacle
Hey, we can’t use these tickets
You want’em?
Piglets and lambs turn into sheep and bacon
Hopeful youth turn into bookkeepers and headlines
Concrete is the 3rd heaviest carbon footprint, I read
Will we be done by Friday? she asks.
Do you want to ride the Crazy Mouse?
Of course, I do, or whatever you want
The ride you’re asked to be on is always a good one
We celebrate commerce
Mastery over nature
Youthful indifference to responsibility
Cotton Candy harvest
We are concerned about x
y and z
I’ve got 500-mile legs and a bridge to build
And so far
A pen

A dialogue of light and sound
Carbon credit NFTs
The only nonfungible thing
is time
and maybe an idea
except anthropologists believe canoes were independently developed
in different corners of this erstwhile flat village
until they wither, and fade, as any hustle eventually does
except real estate
and the corrupt
Who trade wealth for notoriety, and the legacy of an interesting tale;
The black-hearted artist iconized for their relevance, in history after death
Incentives
Wealth
Two arms lengths of compassion
I ask her why she paints the edges of the piece
I ask her why she doesn’t paint the edges of her piece
I ask myself if this is real
Is living between flashpoints a choice?
And if so, who chooses?

A Tiktok Meditation

She tells me it changed her life
That she has the profound secret to wealth

He tells me to call this cell phone number
if I am an Accredited Investor
And if not, to enroll in this class
for a limited time

I remember that people watch Facebook
to see videos of puppies falling off logs
And marvel at the highest, best use of freedom

Saving money is for suckers, I learn
Dude
You gotta put those stocks to work

The house pays for what you want
Wearing your Lambo
multifamily Ferrari
Checked shirt luggage in the front trunk

Baden Powell tells me it’s not about money
Self-indulgence or success
It’s about health and strength
And utility

Water and sun
A fishing pole
A splash of wine and ceviche

You can take that to the bank.

You gotta figure out a way to make it all work.
A symphony in two parts
The type of crescendo that leaves you wondering.
The type of connection that
Before the 30-minute happy hour couldn’t have been forecast at all.

Roll down the window.
A coastal breeze
Off the asphalt sea.
Dandelions crashing into the shore
Of 60 grit polishing wheels.
Open palm to the rush
And high five from god
To turn up radio math on the sundial
When I needed a push over the threshold to concentrate
In 4 week revolutions
Google says what the moon’s doing tonight.
And in colorful patches of day’s infinite possibility
We both see the backstop:
A wildcard.
Who at any moment
Could push all in.

wake up wet
head slung low, and stalking
a bolt of lightning
down the line
digging deep into tufts
of synthesized light
pumping ozone
into carbureted freedom
get with it man
no, i don’t
and i don’t
and then, i do
a catenary wave
progress, regression
these quickening exhibitions of lost control
to play and slay
a car on the railroad
chain of life

Check out how much stain this drier sheet caught.
If entropy had a color, it would be gray-blue.
I consider pristine white fiber.
Peaceful softness
Before being scoured of its fluffy edges.
Becoming dirty on the way to becoming clean
I want to believe there’s science here
That I am not second-hand victim to the patricians’ savvy;
To my own fool’s errand – principled endeavor
That it’s a small loss
And a meaningful win
And following harsh discord
Pull the lint catch
and roll off 2 feet of gray-blue tinder
Soft en route to the bin.

I’ll never unsee you, she says.
Desiring for a moonflower
In a barred mist fog
An Unbound cube
The pattern is chaos.
Then falling faster toward potential, or mass,
To settle upon a velvet leaf
Perfect potential is green.
An Unfurling tendril
A color with no name
A natural satisfaction.
I know you know, and so do I.
The mysteries of our construct
Space no matter for symmetry
Distance no heed for data
Entangled, the singing stars
Ours

The market is a wire-haired dog
A wild and untamed beast
Refined with time
The lovable lug
But also a bitch
What does Rover do all day?
excitedly ate
The contributions on her plate
And searched for more
She wandered around some
Walked the same path until it was bare
Barked at the neighbors to remind them she was there
Evidence says Rover is the capricious sort
Snuggling up close when you’re winding down
And shitting on your porch tomorrow
I wonder what I would think of her if we had never met
She’s the best breed
When her owner’s pronouncements define her
And in the cold air of night
When quiet rests its hand on the shoulder of the seeker
I realize she’s just an animal
We all are