Carrie Albert | Randomly Accessed Poetics

Frog Artifact, named “Beatrice”

(3016 Analysis)

Mass and Materials:

Of blue petrochemicals, spots intact.

Palm size with “China 1” underbelly

found on earth under far-Eastern

impact of Asteroid Zabo

Dated:

Early Plastic Age, before World War 3

on the eve of Meltdown Z when

memories were buried

all religious faiths annihilated

100 years prior to extinction

of living amphibians

Explanation:

Goddess Anura, likely a fertility charm used

in Laboratory Zigmar’s early attempts

to procreate human/frog beings

Stunning survival, but needs bath and shining

Hold in Goddess Vaults 100z456890000//

Carrie Albert is poet and visual artist and sometimes the two merge. Her poetry has appeared in diverse journals and anthologies – recently – the Bullies and Bystanders Project: “Changing Harm to Harmony”, HEArt online and upcoming (with photo) in Gray Sparrow, both print and online. Collage, photo and poem pairings have been featured in a number of publications. Here are a few links: Carrie Albert | The Far Field, Carrie Albert — The Monarch Review, Spiritual & Healing Practices – all things healing, qarrtsiluni.com/tag/c-albert. She is also Artist in Residence at inksweatandtears.co.uk. online.

Copyright © 2016 by Carrie Albert

Parking Spaces

She wore birkenstocks without socks

in winter. Her cheeks mirrored the light

pink of her pressed blouse.

Five minutes of morning affirmations

and she would float to the top,

cream in a cup. The labyrinth of fear

disappeared; suffering was tossed

in a bag, sent down the river.

In the dentist chair she took vacations,

meditating at the edge of a lotus pond,

amid hundreds of orchids.

After the stroke, fate caved in.

A nurse with rhino skin fed her rice

and carrot mush, parked her in the hall,

in line with the others.

Take me back to bed, please take me to bed.

Silenced by a syringe,

with her best friend still inside,

she began to float again.

She always could picture a parking space

before leaving home, delighted when

a car pulled out right where

she wanted to be.

As a child, I often wrote plays and performed them with friends. I wanted to be an artist who lived in an attic. I studied both visual art and literature in college and actually lived in an attic for 13 years. Poetry was always a vegetable I didn’t “get”, like beets, yet that’s what I wrote. Now I think poetry and beets are mysterious. Steamed beets are especially delicious with feta cheese, walnuts and pomegranate juice.

I catch the muse’s seeds from conceptual ideas, observation, memory, and dreams, along with found imagery and found words. Being in kind with surrealism, I observe the magic of inexplicable coincidence.