Gloria: A Right Turn at Ginunga Gap

–a synaxarion (sic transit gloria mundi)


Desert Driving


Today, they travelled the sun-baked highways

Determined to find the colour of Fall.

Her lilacious lips, once red, parted to say

Some small thing . . . or nothing . . . nothing at all.

As breath came quiet and unnatural,

Her body arced with the coming rays,


And her eyes, once white, once firmament blue,

Now rolled to view the hidden recesses

Of her myopic mind.  “There’s no oasis

Outside the self,” she defiled her lips

to form a frown, and promptly slipped down

Into the wooden memories of:


Dressing and caressinga pennsylvanian

Vale;  Catkins of an old weeping willow

Seen through the bars of a paneless window;

The butterfly blush of dandelions

Delightfully pressing the Mimosa

Into the op a line spheres of Plato.


Hush hush little baby, don’t say a word

Within her mind she fashioned the white bird–

The Dove of Eternal Peace–and she slept.

While passing the naked salt flats, he wept

For the absence of things, and songs unheard

In his own head.  He forcefully stepped


On the pedal and transformed bare Autumn

To an equally barren Winter.  From

Edge to distant edge of this desert land

His eyes burned from the blinding sheets of sand;

The alkaline crystals (vision’s opium)



Outside the self:

                            The ancient waba yo

Appeared in the rearview mirror–searing,

Yet unsinged, breathing words without speaking,

Laughing, crying, laughing at empty shows

And showings of empty shoes–which Gloria

Slept peacefully through.  And he, fitfully


She poured herself; a fine glass of Bordeaux,

Which set on the imaginary shelf,

Dropped untasted to her spotless self

Staining her former lap of luxury.



C29H44   O12

He shelved the powder of wabo yo

In the nostril cavities of the self;

The ego of mortality’s shallow

Desires flooded with immortal elixirs:

She stood still, naked in a snowy field,

Featherless as turkeys marked for massacre

In a thanksgiving of feasts.  Pen eyes yielded

Her frightened freedom.  And he, the grey

Fox, in a nearby hole, shivered rivulets

Of purified urine.  Porcelain sleighs

Drawn high by two mourning doves winterset

Their minds, cleansed their bodies, and lifted their hearts

To the wine song of the gods.  The chase started

Here . . . somewhereinbetween . . . there

The race started.

The Stygobiotic Waterscorpion (Discovery)

Before the time of Dracula;

Near the jagged Transylvania;

South of Stephen’s flat Moldova;

East of Vlad Tepe’s Wallachia;

Under the Obane de la Movile;

Lies the species anopthalma.


From the kingdom Animalia;

From the phylum Arthropoda;

From the broad class of Insecta;

From the order Hemiptera;

From the family Nepidae;

From the narrow genus Nepa;

Lies the species anopthalma.


In a darkness that surrounds him;

In the tombs of long forgotten;

In sulphuric hatred sits a blind man;

In the absinthe of desires;

In the land of nether fires;

In the cusp of ancient Saturn;

Lies the species anoptholma.

About Coyotetooth and this blog

This blog is more an exploration into taming my mind.  Bringing control from a mind whose wires seem to follow their own paths.  I had once (long ago)  reigned in the controls and started writing sonnets.  This led to me mastering 5 minute sonnets (3 sonnets in 15 minutes).  After 150 sonnets written in 10 days, I found myself speaking in iambic pentameter, which didn’t settle well with socializing.  In this blog, I attempt to work my way first back into poetry, then back into the realm of sonnets.  So until I slip into the lycra which is sonnet . . . bear with me with these more untamed ramblings.