lugubrious lady in her
chinchilla coat strides down
the avenue, her
past life neatly labeled,
tied into
tight little parcels
with the shiny-sheen of
embroidery thread twisting/untwisting
the ends fanned out
like her hair on the pillow
that August afternoon as
the sun crept across
the floor in solid gold bars
until there was
no more
and dark
then one ivory ankle
stepping into a taxi,
then another
and the bells rang out ever,
for ever
ever
the pink cloud tree on Birch Street
due to burst again soon and she,
waiting with a wandering eye in
constancy, nonetheless, the
soles of her shoes
papered over, thick
with words, tripping over the
manhole cover (Bingham and
Taylor) in CAPITAL LETTERS
the cup of tea, overfull,
slopping into the saucer, the hieroglyphic
letters tied, safe,
slipped into a handbag as she
passes by a lantern-jawed Dick Tracy
chatting into his two-way wristwatch
his letters, the
book and volume
trembled from her hands to
keep company with the pocket comb
and the mirror
how d'you do?
how d'you do indeed?
good night, dear lady, good night,
good night, good night
the door is barred,
we'll venture forth
no more to speak
our words, thicksweet
27 March 2011
26 March 2011
Venn Diagram
coffee colored the rings were, the words
bleared over, sugary wet, corralled
in their neat columns, jumbled one atop
the other
intersecting to make a chain, ring upon
ring, binding the words, black upon white,
beneath them, the familiar dictionary
read out by rote each morning in staid
sentences--and will the circle
be unbroken?
........
He shows, with a flourish, the silver
rings which become one, then two, then
three, then one again, tossed to
the heavens above where they disappear,
finally, into black
.........
smoothing the paper out beneath the
coffee cups twinned and blue, above the fold,
remembering Kilroy and that last pair
of dry socks
as white smoke rises from the
chimney across the road, the
highway disappearing long past
squared wires of a screen to
keep things out, keep things in, the
errant flowerpot crashed to
muddy sherds upon the floor
bleared over, sugary wet, corralled
in their neat columns, jumbled one atop
the other
intersecting to make a chain, ring upon
ring, binding the words, black upon white,
beneath them, the familiar dictionary
read out by rote each morning in staid
sentences--and will the circle
be unbroken?
........
He shows, with a flourish, the silver
rings which become one, then two, then
three, then one again, tossed to
the heavens above where they disappear,
finally, into black
.........
smoothing the paper out beneath the
coffee cups twinned and blue, above the fold,
remembering Kilroy and that last pair
of dry socks
as white smoke rises from the
chimney across the road, the
highway disappearing long past
squared wires of a screen to
keep things out, keep things in, the
errant flowerpot crashed to
muddy sherds upon the floor
Sweeping, Blue, Red, Green.....
swell and rise of tumult,
street-loud, under the ceiling,
she tries to mop it up with
sponges and soft words
to no avail, dancing with
the broom, short strokes
dragged against the nap
of the carpet, blue, red, green,
blue, red, green again, the
one last stubborn thread (a
strand from a scarf?) immovable,
immutable, curved into a question
mark she marks and goes on
her way
street-loud, under the ceiling,
she tries to mop it up with
sponges and soft words
to no avail, dancing with
the broom, short strokes
dragged against the nap
of the carpet, blue, red, green,
blue, red, green again, the
one last stubborn thread (a
strand from a scarf?) immovable,
immutable, curved into a question
mark she marks and goes on
her way
Bread of Haste
crumbling the bread of haste
into a bowl of vegetable soup
she does not think of forty
long years--or even forty days--
but of the forty-eight hours
before calm comes to rest,
blue upon her shoulders, like a
old friend or lover, the
touch familiar, light as a
scarf rounding her neck, the
stretch of silence, silk-glimmering,
held, only for a moment
between her teeth
into a bowl of vegetable soup
she does not think of forty
long years--or even forty days--
but of the forty-eight hours
before calm comes to rest,
blue upon her shoulders, like a
old friend or lover, the
touch familiar, light as a
scarf rounding her neck, the
stretch of silence, silk-glimmering,
held, only for a moment
between her teeth
24 March 2011
OBSOLETE! Magazine Issue # 3 Now Available!!!!
Quarterly, $12.00
To subscribe:
OBSOLETE!
P.O. Box 72
Victor, IA 52347
obmag@feral-tech.com
19 March 2011
Briars
She speaks into the wind where words are lost,
wandering, so, the well-worn paths others trod,
distracted, tendrils tumbled down accost
her eyes, blinded so, her soles rough-shod,
yet she goes on, having escaped the wolf.
Still, the thorns catch at her clothes,
strangely disarranged, espying the hoof
of the boar running before her, loathes
the loss of words into the whirling wind,
so many children lost, her hand,
scratched by thorns, so cold, pinned
to her heart for warmth, seeking a land
where winds will cease and she can rest
in the safe surety of her own nest.
wandering, so, the well-worn paths others trod,
distracted, tendrils tumbled down accost
her eyes, blinded so, her soles rough-shod,
yet she goes on, having escaped the wolf.
Still, the thorns catch at her clothes,
strangely disarranged, espying the hoof
of the boar running before her, loathes
the loss of words into the whirling wind,
so many children lost, her hand,
scratched by thorns, so cold, pinned
to her heart for warmth, seeking a land
where winds will cease and she can rest
in the safe surety of her own nest.
Bedroom Arrangement
the warmth from the screen that
has so replaced the fire very
nearly touches her fingertips as
she rearranges the items on
a bureau-top: silver tie bar, loose
coins, gap-toothed comb, a crumpled
post-it bearing a telephone
number, the shoehorn fashioned of
mock tortoiseshell, furniture, staid
and squat, cherry-stained,
replete with socks and suchlike,
the blinds too thin to
keep the light out entirely,
and, moored down, so,
by heavy furniture, she
seeks some warmth, for a
moment, and then, sleep
has so replaced the fire very
nearly touches her fingertips as
she rearranges the items on
a bureau-top: silver tie bar, loose
coins, gap-toothed comb, a crumpled
post-it bearing a telephone
number, the shoehorn fashioned of
mock tortoiseshell, furniture, staid
and squat, cherry-stained,
replete with socks and suchlike,
the blinds too thin to
keep the light out entirely,
and, moored down, so,
by heavy furniture, she
seeks some warmth, for a
moment, and then, sleep
Building Blocks
sans hands and feet,
perpetually walking across his
diamond of yellow bright
black bordered, featureless,
suspended, forever, in
signage
the blocks, too, have fallen
together so that they read:
mene, mene, tekel, upharsin...
before they are gathered up
in awkward handfuls to be
thrown back into the
toybox
still the carpets to be cleaned,
the dividing lines of the tiles
abraded with bleach and
water, the errant
marks of pencil smoothed
off a wall, the accidental
erased with a
heavy hand, heavier heart
perpetually walking across his
diamond of yellow bright
black bordered, featureless,
suspended, forever, in
signage
the blocks, too, have fallen
together so that they read:
mene, mene, tekel, upharsin...
before they are gathered up
in awkward handfuls to be
thrown back into the
toybox
still the carpets to be cleaned,
the dividing lines of the tiles
abraded with bleach and
water, the errant
marks of pencil smoothed
off a wall, the accidental
erased with a
heavy hand, heavier heart
15 March 2011
08 March 2011
Networking Workshop for Poets and Writers at the Mount Vernon Public Library on the evening of 17th March!!!
Date: Thursday, 17th March 2011
Time: 6:30 p.m. to 8:00 p.m.
Place: Mount Vernon Public Library Community Room
Address: 28 South 1st Avenue, Mount Vernon, NY 10550
Telephone: 914.668.1840
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