FLAG OF MY DISPOSITION

If it could sing,
its gasp would sound
before the trample
and spring back
on the wind
with operatic joy,
love unchained
from benthic depths
to saturate, dominate,
obliterate the earth,
the sacrificial strength
of nourishment
bestowed upon
a carpet of creation,
green as life itself

 

 

Brooklyn, 2020

TO UNDERSTAND THE HEAT

Lay upon the afternoon
with savage intent,
not quite here, there,
but waiting for a gap
through which
to plunge your scepter


Under wings of a pelican
the world appears aloof,
raving to itself
for cessation of the sun


Could it be I found my place
atop the table
when all the seats are full?


I’m not quite ready to go
or stay, let alone return


Fire has a way with words;
let them burn, indefinite—


This may be your
only chance
to understand the heat

Daytona Beach, 2020

NOVEMBER VISIONS

No tengo nada por hacer


I set out before the rise of jaundiced blue dawns, Sonoran reds unfurl
          periwinkle innards


I wait with meditative shivers on Ascension steps for the Gate to be
          unlocked


Old balloons sleep off their buoyant festivities in a bed of dry leaves
          under the BQE


I am indulgent and love life, and therefore beware myself,
my capabilities and leanings seen all too clear in the rapids of rivers
          past


What is this conniving urge to acquiescence that’s ladled all this slop
          over bygone years till I hardly recognize the contours of my
          soul?


Do I want to recognize my soul?


Dreams of music and alternate memory,
days of shed layers, accumulated body odor, restless respite,
grimaces molded by adherence to the respectable flow of patterned
          existence,

swaying a-foot with Whitman morn and night under rivers & the
          monstrous isle,
trapped in the paradox of animate stagnation


I must love the hair on my toe as much as I love the grass, for both
          savor the sun but give it up for seer’s feast with delicate hints
          of growth eternal


I smile at all who pass—some are receptive, most are not


Reflections of a cracked ceiling in a toilet bowl eclipse

Brooklyn, 2020

G. R. Bilodeau is a peripatetic poet and pet care specialist from the banks of the Ramapo River. Their work has appeared most recently, or is forthcoming, in SurVision, HASH Journal, and As of Late, among other journals and anthologies.

https://www.instagram.com/grbilodeau

 

https://www.instagram.com/amh0816