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Roig & Stolle – February 2018

Christopher Stolle and Kerfe Roig traded art and words. Kerfe shared this image, entitled “Hand Rorschach,” with Christopher:

In response, Christopher wrote this poem:


ashen phoenixes arise
from smoldering immolation

transform into
graffiti smudges

bloodless wounds

flowers too black
to attract bees

set canyon waters afire
with their gazes

wait for prey
to marvel
and investigate

swoop down
to push them closer
to precipices

watch them stumble
and fall fall fall

without any wings

ensnare and affix
them to crosses

wait for their

refuse to believe
their sacrifice failed

lose their nimbuses
and soar
into burning fists

* * * * *

Christopher shared this poem with Kerfe:

(an ode to Lawrence Ferlinghetti)

Crowd swarms in, buzzing with stinging enthusiasm.
Hawkers bark for their pay (and yours):
“Programs! Get yer programs here!
Programs! Peanuts! Crackerjack!
“Drink down yer sorrows with honey-brewed beer!”

You’re electrified by smells of raked dirt,
buttery popcorn, and slathered suntan lotion.
Your skin feels like beeswax and mottled honeycomb.
Horsehide spheres being throttled
all across the field make your eyes faint.
Your hands reach for orbs like gold-covered manna.
You mouth waters, anticipating such succulent opulence.

You shout names.
You shatter their egos with your barbs.
When they ignore you,
this fuels your flight or fight spirit.
Even after a raucous first inning,
most around you have attuned
their inner antennae to some other frequency,
discussing fashionistas, pregnant indecisions,
and how to pollinate without succumbing
to nectar-laced promises.

Everyone has flown off to the ballgame.
I missed the humming homing signal.
I’m stuck at home.
But I prefer to listen to the static on my radio,
hoping for a sticky sweet stick to whack a home run,
helping my team enjoy a saccharine victory
while the flapping fans murmur about lost chances
for their team to earn its stripes.

In response, Kerfe made this image, entitled “beesball”:

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