sometimes I wonder (revisited)
Sometimes I wonderif she ever existed.
—found poem
Sometimes I wonder
if she ever existed.
Only a smile now
a gesture
copper hair flashing
she fades even in dreams
artist in the supermarket
She stands in the aisle like reverse Stendhal:frozen, her hand extended over the mound of apples.
Apples push into her like the fists of a lover
knocking at a locked door, urgent, juicy, plump.
It's always like this: fruit overwhelms, vegetables
scream longing; fresh trout imagines a sizzling grill,
beef lounges in a marinade, ready to sear.
She wants to paint, to cook, to knead warm
transit
Night. City street after rain.Early autumn leaves cling to the pavement
like wet hair on a waiting face.
Amber and blue incandescence
lies in pools for walking entrances,
performances and exits,
as the occasional soloist mimes
man walking alone on the street
concert
engine idle just beyond theancient boathouse
river calm and waiting silent
to the weed beds
and the spaces vast, beyond
ease the throttle slowly forward
hear the engine twist
inside the music
The part I sing in our quartethovers above or below the melody;
often it sounds like the French horn.
The Lead's note sounds familiar;
the Bass is the solid foundation;
the Tenor lilts above all, thrillingly;
my part, the Bari, fills it all in.
cocoon
Inside the silk threadsis what will come:
beautiful wings,
gleaming reds, yellows, blues,
curves and strength,
the freedom of flight
instead of plodding,
gnawing eating.
lotus eaters
This is the first in a series I started a while back. I should write a few more on this . . .everyone on the street was
somewhere else
listening to music
words from another time
another place
after
She used to purr when she leaped onto the bed;I prefer to think of her arrivals.
I could read her expressions through the fur:
glad to see me (and usually was):
relaxed eyelids, fur sleek off the face;
impatient with my stupidity:
Mauve and Gold
If a god were eating strawberriesWhen that sunset happened,
I know he'd stop in mid-bite
With red sweet juice dribbling
Down his chin onto his toga
And just stare and do a god-thing:
driving home
The sun set just before we turned west onto the roadthat curved into the pure black landscape silhouetted
against the absolutely clear tangerine and indigo sky.
As our headlights revealed and dismissed the familiar
meanderings of this riverside route and its clusters of cottages
On being mistaken for myself
Photos never lieexcept when they must,
with a minimum of mendacity,
tell welting whoppers
about how egregiously old
the old codger has become.
I have studied photos
taken years ago
that make me look
what was left
First they took away the all moneypoured it into the government trough
and they fed the war in Afganistan
but still that wasn't enough
so they crucified the artists
and they stood around and laughed
junk food
Terrible two was stuffing his face
with salty yellow little biscuit
fish-shapes. He would dump
a handful into a glass bowl
and stagger around, munching.
Pulpy yellow biscuit would
dribble down his chin and fingers
into the glass bowl like
ketchup onto new tie.
The photographer was weeping,
thinking perhaps of more pleasant
tasks, like sewer patrol in July.
Mother was rummaging among the sale on
pedal-pushers, searching for her lost youth.
The youth in question had found the bottom of the bag.
sleek
Midnight.
The sudden rain has cooled the streets
and evaporated
except under trees
where the cooling shadows of afternoon
saved the dark moisture.
Negative of the immediate effect of rain:
wet everywhere but under the trees.
Tires hum
streetlights cast a warm mercury pallor
oncoming headlights radiate on the windshield
we prowl the sleek streets
searching for home.
Selfone
Don’t need an ear:
I’ve got my selfone
to give me lovin’
on a beltone.
They implanted it
with keytones
tones that tell me
when my gal moans.
Tones assure me that
my own bones
aren’t accountable
to ringtones
Don’t need an ear:
I’ve got my selfone
to give me lovin’
on a beltone.
heat
debilitating, silent, smothering
breath-stealing, clothes-soaking
lung-frying dog-leveling
heat
stole up from the south
harbinger to thunder, hail, tornado
and other fun weather sports
selling
It was too hot
in the parking lot
the need for shade
was a case to be made
with no respect
for the architect
She was hauling
a black zippered nylon case
on dinky wheels
out of the Convention Centre
It looked like the end
of a very long useless
day in a long line
of very long useless days
It was too hot
in the parking lot
the need for shade
was a case to be made
with no respect
for the architect
Her shoes looked a little
too skuffed too high
her skirt was slightly askew
her hair a bit too red
her eyes a bit bagged
I could see
too many attempts
to attempt too much
you can face only
so much disinterest
so much rejection
And it begs one question:
who loves this woman?
and the answer
is no one, not even herself.
It was too hot
in the parking lot
the need for shade
was a case to be made
with no respect
for the architect
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