If we could disguise our minds
crimson dark and rest under
the emotional imbalance it
may afford, what then?
And what now?
I don’t bring salvation. Only
interruptions between waves
Bring us together.
Where white streets bleed into
the yellow sky
I overhear a lover’s confession, shared
tenderly, secretly on
angels breath, and feel my flesh crawl.
The prophecy of rain beats into us. It’s
life attested. A crawling illusion
sundered, seeping into cracks
of adopted skin.
Electric winds blow.
Trace lines of communication. To
remain oblivious, we speak.
Words desperately littered into instruments
of our own abandonment. But
let’s go. Let’s watch as the oregano blooms
in the garden.
Our feet cooled by bare stones.
I don’t answer the door. It’s an instinctive habit. Blake is at The Polis. He goes there for the fountains.
There is a disturbed young man who visits me in the afternoons. He likes to talk politics. It might be him. At the door I mean. But I can’t risk it.
I look at the magazine. It is next to the knife I used to cut my orange for breakfast. I stare at it and think of the ballet I attended the other night (and how the light in the car didn’t work so I couldn’t find my glasses).
There is Circular Logic. It only asks that I am obedient. It says if I obey then maybe. Maybe. Like a mom would when negotiating with her child a toy settlement. If he should be a good boy. For just a little bit at least okay. Just be a good boy.
I go to the bathroom medicine cabinet to get the rest of my whisky. There is another knock on the door and I get the same feeling that I have anytime someone responds to me.
I open my mouth to try to answer. Something like Go Away. Or Just Come In Already The Damn Thing Is Unlocked. But nothing comes out. So I pour my whisky sit on the toilet and drink instead.
Out the window there are some birds and electrical wires. The two are not connected. The birds are flying. They remind me of a girl at work who sometimes appears in the break room when I am there. She is cute. We have never spoken.
Finishing my drink I get up and get another and go to the front door and look out the peep-hole. There is no one there. I open the door to air out the house.
People are talking nearby. I can’t hear what they say. Circular Logic urges me to play Tony Bennett. I do though I don’t like him too much and lounge on the couch.
There was a story of aliens way out in space that I think about who invented an impulse drive that allowed them to be in two places at once. That way they did not have to leave their loved ones. I believe NPR reported it.
The young man disturbed of politics comes by and asks if he can come in. I don’t answer and just close my eyes. Circular Logic says I am being rude but I put on Tony Bennett for it so it doesn’t press the issue.
Disturbed comes in and takes one of my cigarettes. He is on a tear about the president. Or maybe on the national parks. It is kind of hard to follow what with Mr. Tony crooning and my general lack of interest. I fall asleep in hopes to avoid nausea. Blake should be back soon and he can sort everything out. He is always refreshed after visiting the fountains.
She finds pleasure in how sharp
the thorns are,
in the way they tentatively wrap
and cling into her skin in ever
gentle, shallow piercings.
The colossus screams
in the frenzy of his midnight delusion.
They met in an emancipated hostel overlooking
the blue pink valley.
She into fashion design
and her an unpublished writer
and each a captive second
in the soul of the other.
The one had a meticulous richness
that she found
seasonally contrasted her.
“But then it was always only but a matter of nature,”
she said to her one evening
as the robin’s wavering song drowned
in the currents of the river below.
“So it is fixed?”
“And there is nothing that can be done?”
She set a gaze upon her leather brown shoes
and felt uncomfortable.
Time had imposed itself on them
and the moon forced her to sit upright.
A timid light was cast over her
that she mistakenly
Under the bright day the colossus sleeps.
She marvels at the stinging red bruises
all over her body.
The small rails of blood bring an
Sing me soft sweet.
Oh your barbed transgressions,
your tenderly beautiful sins.
A seductive disenchantment
to pause our suffering.
halos of the angelic
host decorate your gown.
Refrain your song
of breathless hills wintered.
The night, the dawn,
lose all justification.
The peace, wound into the vacancy
of a mutilated
But we are allotted time.
It is the difference in our moods
that sets the pace.
Sophisticate mysteries of love, golden
little deceits breathed beautiful
in an effortless wind.
Move me through the lingering aromas
of the Pomegranate
Cottage. Infuse me by the
pretty starlit pools. I am at the edge of our
retreating from this world of bliss and lies.
The asylum of our youth keeps me. A
memory. A mid-
in the grove when our opulence
was still assumed. And now has age provided
me nothing except a
remorseful insight? Look out
over this creation. God’s only strength resides solely in
our ignorance. We are simply
and the damned.
At 4:29 the snow begins.
Wrapped warmly in my insecurities
I watch it fall knowing that
all that proceeds it
(all that proceeds
into the absence of what is
At the watershed the
snowflakes circle in the air to
one binding itself to the next.
There is a shared, acquired
patience to winter.
I blush to the emergence of how
to a fault
I know it too well.
Into the dream,
coiled and tense
by the blush of a morning
steps The Daughter-Child.
As the auspice of a swollen desire,
a newborn light moves
over grass and through
and into the white fields.
The sky is dark.
The moon will no longer shine.
The stars have long ago redshifted
into The Obscure.
She thinks about The Father-Husband
and how his body rots
in the church yard,
and of The Son-Child who sits inept,
tormented in sorrow,
broken by the confines
of his own shallow words
that we, in our eagerness, believed
because we needed to.
Because, at the time, it was all we had.
The Daughter-Child passes
the neighboring houses,
the school and the library,
the hospital with its quiet windows.
It is there where The Mother-Wife
now resides watching the monitors that,
in mysterious ecstasy, dance their
limited view of the human
“We are all just violence, you see?”
Mother once said to her Daughter.
“It is our one true inheritance.”
Reaching the bakery
The Daughter-Child looks into the light of
a strange sun.
She feels it,
new and cold through
of a world set adrift.
It is the beginning she thinks.
The dream fades.
The smell of the fresh bread
She hurries inside
to begin her work.