“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Wednesday, December 18, 2019
Window Shopping
Down the narrow store aisle
shelves bulging with merchandise
resembling a hoarders hallway
but here, things are brightly lit
my fingers move lightly across the tops
of changing objects
like piano keys.
Pausing a moment,
felt like holding a note
I stalled in the lane and was
nudged from behind,
my bag shrugged off my shoulder
snapping me
out of kaleidoscope vision-
I craned my neck
backward to acknowledge
someone-apologize-but-no one was
in the aisle with me.
I continued along, slightly unsettled,
when I was then most certainly pushed
by another consumer of wares
in another aisle
on the other side
of the store
of my body.
I did not bother to look,
nobody was there.
It was easy enough to ignore.
He had been waiting in the car.
He found me,
he wore an misfit smile.
He touched me for the first time in
five years,
intentionally
down my spine
reaching all the way
into the realm of dreams
softly.
Quickly and deeply
under flourescent lights,
he told me how he fell
in love
before
and wanted to tell me
what he saw, then, recently,
but I wouldn't understand
nor could I heft its weight.
Cradling a rectangle mirror in his palm
the images he saw
expanded and contracted
at will-with a pinch and pull,
until it all grew too large
and thin and had to shatter
into shards across his feet.
His grip had been too tight.
Through a screen,
it was a dream
I see, I said
like privacy glass.
Nothing was hidden here
or there,
it was simply harder to find.
If only the advertisements
were to scale,
the distance could be measured
between desire and death
marked down
with a red tag.
Marriage is easier to get into than out of.
It is easier to get stuff than give it away.
There is nothing new
nothing I want to buy,
I said at his head facing
his phone-without looking up,
he offered,
You can order anything you like online.
I stood in line with a metal box of pranks
in hand,
You found something, he finally observed
the waiting.
Who is that for?
Me. I'm the only one I know who falls for
these things-
even when I know how they work.
I'll buy it, he said.
Image credited by New York Public Library, no date, no source info given. In Public Domain.
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
The page of gathering places
Chin
jutted level with the horizon line,
arms
clasped around thin elbows which palms
cradle
against the abdomen, the body becomes
a
sensual veil, loosens its threads, the carpet of moss
appreciates
the spaces across smooth rocks such as
She-
And
I hear her voluptuous sigh
giving
weight to attraction,
attention
and focus upon
the
tiniest moon
as
though the stars were an entourage
of
criticism-
She
begins again, stainless in the mud,
I
inquire as to what is bothering her,
what
matters more than
rocks
and trees-
She
beheld a single sheet of white paper
which
explained her glow,
scratch
that she noted and tore
it
into thin strips
but
would not say another word edgewise.
I
knew I would piece it all back together
when
she smiled, opened her shoulders,
spread
her wings and sang
like
a mocking-bird.
There
were too many notes, index cards
and pages coming
back,
returned to sender and un-
deliverable-
Yet
we agreed
on something so stark
standing on different patches
of land and future, undoubtedly
paper
was better than plastic.
Painting by Poul Friis Nybo (1869-1929), 'Reading Woman' c. 1929 in Public Domain.
Sunday, December 15, 2019
The beaten path
Curses
lain across footfalls
shadowing
the marked path
Treacherous crags
protrude guilty edges
into skin
under brittle nails
The way weather exposes
the external
and tries to wash away
shine with light
Circling eternally,
erosions never cease
such as this
degradation of morality.
The darkest parts
are tethered to these heavy
steps
Taken
for fugitive
methods of moving gifts.
A body spent is
a blessing saved
for another way.
High noon
obscured only our difference
by degrees,
illusory of our self-images,
and how much distance
must be made
to be come
one with a same
destination.
Too late
to take back
steps.
Any other way
could not have been
more direct.
Photo credit: Carol Highsmith, taken 2015 in Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado, USA.
Friday, December 13, 2019
Assemblage
It was a group photo
taken of a womans' twenty
assorted pets
on and around a green
velvet couch,
all facing forward.
In order
to capture it,
one had to be there.
But anyone can easily put
together what happened
after
the click.
Painting by Rufus Hathaway (1770-1822), 'Lady with her pets', c. 1790 in Public Domain.
after
the click.
Painting by Rufus Hathaway (1770-1822), 'Lady with her pets', c. 1790 in Public Domain.
Nasty Bird Woman
Nasty woman.
Mean spirited old bird.
She knew she was
evil
and she tried
to contain
her corrosive
spirit,
blanketed in
righteous robes
of recycled plastic number seven,
which frayed at all the visible edges.
Rough is not equal
to sharp.
For the safety of
her loved ones
she played Nice,
but her costume
did not fit
anymore.
She was swollen, frumpy
in her misery, her resentments
festered like puss,
she reeked of infection
and abhored the
good scents
like innocence.
The green oozes out
leaving a slimy stain
where she once stood
her ground,
she makes it sound
like she is stuck
in her own trap.
A trap is a trap
when open.
Witches always walk
high and mighty
as if they were born
for power,
mistaking strength
for malice.
Weight was all she could do
well,
I found myself
standing over her
well,
peering down
into the depths of her
Hell
which widens like a
sinkhole
swallowing all solid ground
and livlihood in her
proximity.
My nose shrinks.
It smells rotten.
Literally,
those that profess they possess;
intelligence,
honesty and tidiness
are ignorant of the obviously sloppy lies
they leave everywhere
like litter-
who left this here?
There is a fine left to pay.
It will be collected,
any-witch-way.
Lastly,
How in Hell
does she sleep?
Champagne and
Mexican pills.
Her flute overfills
bubbling over
the limit.
Her flute overfills
bubbling over
the limit.
Artwork by George Romney, 'Tom Hayley' in Public Domain (date unknown).
Saturday, December 7, 2019
To: Night, There will be no words
Moon shimmer atop the sea
Take me
Into your crested,
Closing, wet black
Mind-
If I
Stand here,
listening to your
gentle snore, rhythmic as
White noise
No one voice
Rises up
High moon,
Mid-nite, we stand
edge to edge, like the
Folded note
I tried to sing
To you, like serenade
I made a solid
Offer,
of my devotion
Hereby
Anchor leaden legs
that sway and stay
in Place
seemingly,
ceaselessly churning in places
vast, liquid,
Beckoning as foreign skin,
sucking in
the air between
Us, as a magnet may
Be attracted
The Other
shore
is out there,
We stand here
and just Believe
We must.
Painting by Winslow Homer, "Moonlight' c. 1874 in Public Domain.
Wednesday, December 4, 2019
King of Sandcastles
All the little boys begin
by feeling the power
of costume and cape
learning man versus
nature-
good guys and bad guys
until one day
the costume
becomes a uniform,
clean lines
disappear and
superheroes
become firemen
capable of brazen acts
of valor.
Before the selflessness,
all the little princes
are pranksters,
putting a single grain of sand
inside the oyster shell,
into the monks shoe,
and these became pearls,
of course
time
refined
things.
Little girl, I was called
Firestarter,
and practiced the title
often on bridges.
I have never seen the Sandman
in my sleep,
but in my wake
I feel the sand
filling me in-
side.
Apropos of the ritual
I chose
to be buried alive
after I say
I do
wish
to be cut by pearls
into innumerable
and indistinguishable
pieces of myself
made up
of ashes and rust
as it must be
my nature.
I must confess,
the arsonist
admired his work
while I wed
the King of Sandcastles
before the tide rushed in.
Photo credit: Galveston Island Sandcastle, Texas, taken July 2011 in Public Domain.
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