The Curve

A long slender branch
cut across your cheek
It left a swollen scratch.
Luminous pink with tiny beads of blood.

I traced your outline
on the pavement
with chalk.
You let your eyes go flat.
I let my mind go blank.

We filled your space with leaves
and clover flowers.
I snapped the branch and placed it
where your cheek was cut.
The curve of a short smile.

The second bus
goes across town.
It takes us past the shipyard
where your grandfather worked.
It takes us home.

The Silence of Being Buried – 6

Pinhole Camera Test - Ilford paper in a 3 inch can.

Pinhole Camera Test – Ilford paper in a 3 inch can.

What mess is this, now,
left over from your parading like a fool?
I caught you with your hands well in

More than spilled wine or blood
stained rugs and socks,
the fracture is deliberate and heavy.

Your almighty laugh rings out.
You grin garishly
and swipe at my side as I pass.

I’ll grab you hand and spin us into a dance again
I’ll turn your wrist just so it hurts
and bend you back over the barcalounger,
lunge over the ottoman,
stumble over the three sets of tinkertoys,
knock us both against the coffee table with the last of the wine.

You will take this and more.

Because you love me.

the calm sea swallowed Irene

NF 2010-08-03

Love is like the wind.
It plays with fools and toys.
She checks her watch
and waits once more.

These walks
never used to be this way.
Her mind turns to the water’s edge
to look deep within.

And the air is so still.
And the scene so serene.
Her hand finds itself
on the beat of her heart.

Cold tea and stale rooms
mark other days
like tally marks on prison walls.
She shudders at the thought.

Love the slavery of the day,
love the slavery of the night.

So beautiful, the water coils
and reaches for its own.
No dawning fear protects her,
no habit or desire.

The stolid sea
retreats in darkness,
drinks at night and grows
in violence.

But she drinks tea
and watches time
and counts the stones
at the water’s edge.

fall in love on printed pictures

perception is overlooked
sensation is a
Ferris wheel
experience teaches
everything is different

shapes and colours
and my light placed rightly
throws the zoetrope
through my vision
and I enter its
neatly partitioned
cleanly regular

I hold her through
in these still images
memory and knowledge
don’t agree
and feeling is something
like complex math
or a pattern
you cannot discern

colours blur
but love resides
not in the shape or
but somewhere in a room

I spin the pinwheel
and watch the act
and over
It’s always the same
and I alone
am different

I can learn to build the past
from scattered bits of paper
I’ll soak them in water
and they will mash
and my hands will shape

(photo is an adjusted photo of another photo….)

Flip the records over

Myrna jumped up
her bathing suit
caked with sand
she turned
and wrinkled her nose

He caught the glare of the sun
She leaned over
kissed his head
“You always were so famous, Jack”
and slapped him on the cheek

The elegants paraded down the shore line
in finery and singing songs from 1928
He watched the water through
the spaces between

“I’m lovely, I’m lovely!”
the lovely girl sang
as she danced
un petit cochon
Jack flopped back arms in the sand
to catch her hoof with hand

“You won’t trip me, you magnificent ape”
the laugh tinkled the water
licked by the edge of the sun
her long hair
mindful in its own way
she took flight

He rested in sense
that crept up his body
as a frieze etched itself in his memory
of a slight piece of beauty
on the sharp edge of light

The witnesses turned
as one tossed a bottle
Perhaps they watched
while Myrna made love to the ocean
and Jack felt the size
every inch of the earth

But night will decide
the fate of the day

The People

the legend spoke
of a time of fear
a long bad time
for the people

all the bespeckled deities
were playing bones
in an alley

the people like to think
of good and love and truth
as shining marvels
impervious to hate

but the deities know
all you get
is mere laughter and debauchery

the legend spoke
of a wise old man
who would one day
free the people

all the bedazzled deities
were taking turns
getting on him

the people are still waiting
but the poor old man
is a wrecked shell
filled with hate

and the deities laugh