Art Bell


It holds up the air. What?

It holds up the chest and breath in what is living. Living?

Moving fast down deserted roads and gummy hot asphalt, the heat itself is unencumbered like a formless blob, an entity of fevers over the forehead.

The vehicle is motionless and the windshield is measured in light years
And points to too distant universes.

The radio conveys love, dark silence and
chilled finalities.

Like a pine cone under the moon.

teaching the sun to drive


Afternoon traffic and a clasped arm near the pelvis.

Is light kind to us? Does it say something through heat and

our heavy helmet (missing text) scratchy posts and deadly cold, longing for fingers

and frost bites, the tips will fell, like a tree beside large hunkered Northern 

creatures, creatures to whims and sins and porcupine mountains rolling forever

in this new space that never lets go.  Condiments that appear and a tongue tastes

peach fuzzed arm, talent savant, prickly and picturesque, dark matter,

dark energy, ponders and bangs itself against, against