New Iridescence / by Laurence Fuller

Poem for the new year by Laurence Fuller

Art by Tomomi Nitta, Tomoko Kashiki, Yujiro Miyazaki hangs at Mrs. Fish in Downtown LA


Bashed up kindle washed up by the shores the savage seas swill its froth building in bubbles like the hot boiling temperatures surround her body. The tide flowing in and out with her breathe. Heavy breathing there it is all this under the bright light of the moon. 
Sleep through it all, those sheets and short dressed to the best of all. That golden fabric weathered by that year of storms that beat the bow from when her mind betrayed her heart and threw up bounty of the unconscious rumblings from the deep to see the sea. The wharf she left behind for the new which beckons all, from the struggles of those tunnels, it was a journey there to find.

Wrestled with all the unconscious fears that jumbled thoughts through the antithesis of the real, nonsense clashing reason like sand between clutches to see which way it falls, it scattered not knowing where was home. But for a whisper on the breeze which guided gentle armies over land. Sinking into sand she slept, with it there she went and down with every step she walked, her dress now wet and soaking in the waters of complexities of the natural laws of life beneath the coral reefs and rafters.

A shark swam by her feet, its rough skin tough and scraping her soft ankles yet, she lifted her feet to the side of the cave, she jumped and sidled with reservation her years tick by, the shark regurgitates the pages it swallowed from another wharf, popular opinion now in tatters, it dashed back into the dark passages of the past. Placing the footsteps in place of where he walked before his courage she now felt. 


A cave, that river, the footsteps she recognized his boot, she saw in its imprint, determined this time would not give up. Tiny spiky nudibranch wriggle their way to the crevasses of the doorways to question continence, where fares the direction of this buried intuition?

Stalactites twist downward like the paradox of life in a complex candelabra with many shards, what way it swings will be the light of time to come which set its pace to chord. Twisted candelabras bubble down the ceiling, where they fall will be determined by whose eyes they touch. The beholder is not the light, but the kaleidoscope it churns. All the blistered temperament we know bellows in Europa’s shadows of the unconscious that dramatize my feelings in the thoughts of other dreams, perceive my demons made mysterious. The impressions fade like shimmers but the mark made on hearts from the honest thrashing of the fins, echoes in the waters to the skin. The wrong assumptions of others are not yours to answer for, they are yours to forgive, take care of your actions, your reputation ripples outwards, that mistake is yours to make.

Flurried darting constance of the merry days preparing for this moment they knew would be bursting for the escapades the waves today it showed its face on their fins, scales which flashed one shade of color turning in paradox the direction of another. Which one to believe? She asked those skilled creatures with humility, but the mind can never tell what the heart already knows, as it scurried down that passage towards the peaking light, bouncing over his footsteps to the new blessed morning lumination.

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Open out to see that great oak he planted in the ice that year before which calling from beneath the surface giants of the soul ring their song that sings it’s leaves to beat the breeze. A flock migrating east chirp new harmonies to conflux spilling out & flourishing branches from the ruins of history, radacility personified, new aspiration left fears by the wayside in the long forgotten caverns of the past. That dress dried out and with its ornament blessing daylight fabric flutters in the winds of change, ice glinting cracks over melted fabric of the now rich paradise manifest itself where life begins anew.