Realtime Babies

  • Realtime Babies
  • Readings
  • Images
  • About
  • Contact
  • Realtime Blog
  • Books
  • Realtime Babies
  • Readings
  • Images
  • About
  • Contact
  • Realtime Blog
  • Books

david zeltzer
realtime blog

brother in the water

12/19/2018

0 Comments

 
no one sees the hungry 
hardwired angel naked
children see the petals
no one says goodbye

children bought you 
every ocean dream 
and no one sees the petals 
please say goodbye 

long ago the words command
​the sand the bones the water
the children

laugh
​
lie
forget your name
and bring you
peaceful canyon dreams


mother’s drumming bones 
no one says the blood
every ocean 
fallen with the petals says goodbye
​

no one sees 
the baby
no one laughs
no one says goodbye


— san jose
    february 2015
0 Comments

brick

12/19/2018

0 Comments

 
i put my ear to the brick
and hear no crashing waves
only birdsong overwhelming the piazza
with avian thunder


confusing the wayward tower
shrouded with scaffolding
of unhurried tourists
cold and wondering

what is the pain of lifebreath
hurrying through veins
of viper eyes relaxed and reading
omens of night without stars

poison at the mountain top
streams rocks watered-out campfires 
a cool breeze through the trees
befuddled and snoozing


the murderous hands
slice crusty loaves of bread
and never give hunger
a second chance


​— oakland
   november 2018

0 Comments

i once jumped

12/19/2018

0 Comments

 
i once jumped out of an airplane.
​yeah, i was with others who all thought

the air would save us, even though it had no
eyes and hands to hold us tight and close,
loving each of us who dared to trust the
ropes and cloth that could have been laundered
and folded neatly by some woman who 
never watched television or ate pizza.

i asked many times but no one told me 
about the little dog inside me who fell out the window.
we barked and howled, but not all the way down.
there was no siren, no alarm bell, only the
grassy hills and an arrow on the ground pointing at something.
i don’t remember anymore at what, just like the 
professor down in front trying to explain something.

i was wearing a white jumpsuit, and i
made sure to use the outhouse often enough
so that the jumpsuit wouldn’t change colors at the sudden
mad moment when i let go of the strut 
and saw the wing get smaller and smaller. 
the wind nearly blew off my glasses.
i now know why paratroopers in the movies yell “geronimo!”
when they jump — so no one hears the little dogs bark. 

i think i saw a white flower when i got done with
falling. i looked around to make sure i wasn’t on fire. 
later i heard tall grasses tell their adventure stories. 
it was so long ago the trees don’t remember 
many times i looked carefully at the dirt
when i practiced dying. 


— oakland
    july 2017
0 Comments

    Author

    i like to build with words

    Archives

    March 2022
    January 2022
    September 2021
    January 2021
    December 2020
    October 2020
    July 2020
    April 2020
    November 2019
    May 2019
    January 2019
    December 2018
    March 2018
    January 2018
    October 2017
    August 2017
    July 2017
    June 2017
    April 2015
    March 2015

    Categories

    All
    Composing
    EPublishing
    Sparse Verse

    RSS Feed

surrealist bebop