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Street Corner Scribes

Photo ©️Orion Foote

Street Corner Scribes

A daily psycho geographic beat
will often hook me up with street angels.
Icons of the literati’s inner sanctum
such as Shakespeare Walk
or Hardy Street dot the city’s perimeter,
framing a southern landscape set in stone.
They wave at me from hi-viz chalk white
characters—pointing this way & that
like cryptic runes on traffic point duty.
At morning’s low tide, I wait for jaded
ghost writers & their silent annotations.

©️Orion Foote, 2022

Incoming

Photo ©️Orion Foote

Incoming

I return to this
place on the cusp
of a pitch perfect
segue into summer,
swiping at echo loops
with a net in this
morning’s velvet light;
poised & ready to
swoop on sudoku beats
at the snap of a twig.

©️Orion Foote

Dinner with Sebald

Photo ©️Orion Foote

Dinner with Sebald

Rapid eye gymnastics
in deep focus cut to
a table setting below
spiky palm silhouettes
near a Key West shoreline.

I’m picking at Bavarian
brain cells over calamari
with lashings of tartare
& lemon. Knocking back
a bright Rosado as he
waxes of post war
hangovers in tandem with
a yacht rock soundtrack.

Moon coloured foam
seethes under a Nor’
Westerly breeze surfing
the beach head—offering
an echo of washed up
bones & hushed voices
of the dead as dessert.

©️Orion Foote

Plainsong on Black Keys

Photo ©️Orion Foote

Plainsong on Black Keys

In morning’s light tones,
the belligerent lighthouse
plays hide & seek with
lilac bushels of cloud fluff.
Barbie pink petals fall
like day-glo showers
over a sea green sedan,
as a furtive semi brève
crawls through the gap
of the driver’s window.
It hovers like a tuning
fork—turning it over
in mid song, as I chip
away at soft mounds
of snow, pushing silently
against the edge of
another vanishing coda.

©️Orion Foote, 2022

Are You Now, or Have You Ever Been (for Geoff)

Geoff Cochrane (1951-2022) Photo by Phantom Bill Stickers

Are You Now, or Have You Ever Been

It might have been in
one of those three syllable
months with the decisive
stress point smack in the
middle; that hopeful quartet
that arrive towards the
latter part of each year,
announcing the onset
of milder days and less
troubled thoughts.

It was more of a minimalist
Haiku collaboration than
an empty exchange of words.
You said Tin Nimbus was
on the burner, and awkward
isn’t there when silences
are shared and understood;
they breathe the same air.
Just for a second, I thought
we had nailed it in one, Geoff;
No need for a second draft.

©️Orion Foote, 2022

Branford Park, Just Quietly

Photo ©️Orion Foote

Branford Park, Just Quietly

Small clusters of Daisies
shimmy and quiver along
the embankment this morning.

Summer tides have made
their early return, cutting a swathe
through the valley’s epicentre,

where bird chatter makes a
half hearted attempt at small
talk with zesty oak leaves

that ripple in the cool
of morning’s tepid breeze.
Each blade of grass will begin

it’s parched transition from
evergreen to dry tones
of a bilious citrine.

This is where the what is
and what has always been
will make itself known to

these curious ears, that
still pop in wonder with
youthful surprise.

Mashed potato clouds
swing by, adding their cheeky
grace notes and trills to

their cadenza ad libitum;
They know a decent
tune when they hear it.

©️Orion Foote, 2022

Encryptions

Photo ©️Orion Foote

Encryptions

If only I could record
the inner workings at night
in 4K pristine transfer—micro
chips working sensory overtime,
burning disc to disc in
shimmers of HD excellence.

The nights carry stacks of
neuro abstraction data ripe
for the picking—teeming
with oddly familiar faces
that still retain their sense
of uncertainty; where youthful
sensations and heightened
nerves stand at glass doors with
white doves and jackhammers.

©️Orion Foote, 2022

Blues from Surrey

Blues from Surrey

It’s a refinement of
aural linguistics with just
a hint of chicanery.
Think torso extensions—a
flagrant third arm swooping
with meta particles running
the fusion ecstasy gamut.
Blades of metal tear away
at delirium as the grin slowly
widens behind aviator shades.
It’s microtonal chaos delivered
like pointillist warfare at
murmuring heartbeats;
scattering cascades of brain
matter over diamond dust.

©️Orion Foote, 2022

Closer Then

Photo ©️Orion Foote

Closer Then

It constitutes the last
gasp of a wordless haiku—peering
through snow drift icicles on
a zen photographer’s window
pane in bright alabaster winter is
like watching stars melt inside the
expanse of a late period Rothko.

Ground German glass pierces
the fog of memory spirits—each
recalled and submitted for review
before imminent trial and sentencing.

Like the actor gazing through
a cigar haze at his cloudless
secretary, it is only what might have
happened between the now and
then— the minutiae of things
left undone until tomorrow.

They watch through vapours of
Pernod and cigarillos inside a
cork lined bar—the French essayist and
Scandinavian emeritus professor;
toasting each other over easy giggles.

©️Orion Foote, 2022

Devices ‘n that

Photo ©️Orion Foote, 2022

Devices ‘n that

It seems faith has been renewed
at the vape store this morning.
All that concrete clutter and big
blue smoke has had it’s way with her

Aspect ratios and minor
affections of those left behind
have cut tracks on her forehead,
but she is of another sprightly coil.
Rear view mirrors have shown
her these things tend to
evaporate—settle into a sharper
pale milieu kept under lock and key.

For now, she carries on making
heads out of tails from customer
inquiries—floats around warmly
lit displays and brown carpet spaces
as if nothing had ever happened.

©️Orion Foote, 2022