Searching For My Savior
I lost my savior. He
turned red cellophane, slipped into the
and left no forwarding address.
A layman works two floors above
me examining old
for ancient rituals.
His name is Jake.
We get along well, and one morning I
bought him a cup of coffee
he didn’t answer his door.
Stone throw into the river
feeling the water pass by…
What did I ask you then?
Covered bridge crowds our breath
our claustrophobic hands scream cinnamon,
minimalize my impatience
with open promises of forever.
Is it too late to mention fragrance?
There is a tide to passion
masking the bold green banks
overgrown and rotting
conception. Cherry trees curious
on the naked hills
bathe in a passing shower.
Do you feel the mud in our shoes?
I writhe under the taste of blood
on your lips, your eyes look
washed and clean.
Like your mouth. The coffee
thermos is empty.
Point the way to our next move.
How do I move away from our quiet birth?
Motions of still life cover your face,
hovels of clandestine lovers fall.
Line dried canvas pants glow
under the sun of the evening sky.
She wanted to call out to you as
you played in the yard, but her
words were caught. You looked
too wonderful, like a cluster of stars
poured silver and blue into a pale cup.
The world is a mosaic to her, one she
examines too closely and loses, the
fine tiles worn and weathered,
blanched from the years. There is
a dripping sound as water seeps from
the plants hanging on the patio. Dust lingers
in the air and masks the brightness of
your golden hair, your darling smile a wisp,
a delusion of the sweetness of sorrow,
of the innocence of a child.
Filaments of sentimentality have worn her
down. Dandelions at your feet and
in the garden pop, small bursts of
spring in the moist sweet grass. A
breeze sways the clothes on the line,
despondent, bringing with it a reckoning
that settles chillingly in the corners of
the house. Imagine, as she does, an image
held, stuck like the breath in her throat,
a time of youth balancing on a needle
in her heart.
I can’t see the Earth
but I feel it move
as I fall
a rip in space
a hole in time
down to the center
to watch it
There is a woman,
on a train
traveling a highway
along brightly lit
and Indian Blues
outside the window
into her beautiful
I really don’t know what to say.
What to write.
Words are frivolous things.
Scribbles on a page
seeping out of our mouths
in the air.
There is a memory
like soft water
that pulls me under
a strong undercurrent
We made our way
up the switchbacks
and climbed the small folds
of land at the base
of the hill.
Sand colored dirt stuck
to our shoes
as we hiked the ridges
through the flora
the sage and the sumac
clinging to the hard
I am a ghost.
Want to join me?
We can swing
and drink fruit juice
under the lemon tree. Riot in the street and
disturb the neighbors.
We will make silent roars
in the sweet grass
and laugh full until our bellies
crash. Open our hearts
in the clover
and believe the sunrise
is a fable
by Normans during
their early incursions
into the British Isles.
Ghosts have a luxury
few others have.
They are time
as the world moves
Lay down with me
and be ghosts
and pass through our memories
to live lives
reconstructing ancient lays
tenuously through the long ages
as they diminish
to the living.
How do I keep from falling apart? The Superintendent is looking through the glass. His office is small and wood-paneled. I smile and he nods. I look down at my fingers and count my breath. There is a white clock with black hands that reads 8:33. Margaret smells flowers left on the reception desk with the note still unopened, For Jenny written on the envelope. The room smells of roses and disinfectant and I am a little nauseated as I sip coffee out of a styrofoam cup, but mainly the uneasy feeling is because I drank too heavily the night before, and stayed up too late, and the stuffy fragrance of the room merely complicates my constitution.
The Superintendent waves me in, and I go through his door as he is shutting the blinds. His bald head is dimmed and sweaty. I shut the door while downing the rest of my coffee. Not seeing a trash can nearby I regret my decision with the knowledge I will have to carry an empty cup for the length of the conversation which makes me feel slightly off-balance.