1. |
A Blues
02:52
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We let go of the moon
and stayed good and low to ourselves.
The walk had been long and we were tired,
saying very little up the stairs,
hands at each other’s backs.
Inside, we kept the main light off, took off our jackets
and hats. I gave her my key and, smiling,
we felt the night's cold diminish under our kiss.
Hold this, I thought,
before it's whittled away.
There was packing to be done, and soon the U-bahn
to the airport, the parting gazes, and the months
of waiting.
She walked into the kitchen asking about the last bottle of Flensburger
or a cup of the cheap mint tea I too had come to love,
and her eye set on the window where dawn kept breaking
and breaking open, a Blues for us.
I knew she was stopping all movement now,
knew she held the refrigerator door ajar and her stare
was narrowing around a small, mutated thing outside,
some twig or bird
trying at her,
as all things sentient and undisguised in the heart
try.
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2. |
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He yearns for the all-rich, prevailing rout of the night storm.
It brings to his sleep a future of better dreaming, knowing flight
comes from where secrets breach the hoary thud of his rib cage
and take leaps blocks-long through the night,
where the destruction most of all touches down in a rage
to run and soar with him,
well above the very late, very ponderous hours
he would spend listening to the blood in his ears
or his weeping mother.
What memories this bearing serves
may prove too elusive, too slithery to isolate on command,
but they will all eventually come to wait like patient donors
somewhere ahead of him.
The little he will come to own and tend to and care deeply for
will still fly there, gathering up the ruins of youth
when he laughs alone, drink in hand,
the faithful arts of will at his side.
Only then can he walk from room to room
and open doors to see that he doesn’t wait
behind them, poised to strike
at the child he becomes again.
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3. |
Carriage
02:06
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It's how time and season disengage once
the small brace of cool air she comes through bares
the tattooed garland of flowers her far,
far removed figure
radiates for.
Parting words, though nigh or remote, dispatch through her
like a reading voice.
And so many years on now, there's a scale out there,
whiffs of cherry blossom in a question of carriage
the top of Duboce turns on some nights, ethereal
in the lamp light.
No strain at all to her gaze.
But a definite verge into
where the wondering leads
and the amusement leaves off.
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4. |
New Moon
02:16
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Make sure it's not so inviting now.
Make it warrant question, a shift
in posture.
It means to say go back to bed,
but last night's sly aspect
has lost its warm commissions.
In a morning athwart drapes and rounded corners,
last night draws a sad and regimented search through
our various guises; they come out vanquished,
staring.
Each kiss on the mouth reduces
toward a simplistic, longing way back
to the night sky of a new moon: a man
was yelling from a nearby rooftop.
Even in a city his voice seemed like
the only sound for miles,
crying and crying out
for her.
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5. |
Februaries
04:10
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Five p.m. and the ice cracks, settling.
I clip the lights, brush the felts,
fill the sinks and re-tie my boots. Not a soul in here.
What happens is you get stuck in a slender photo album,
cut out of frame and spectrum but cradling
a large white poodle after one too many bourbons,
your focus a serial undertaking with vexing aerial points.
Quote: Never meant to be.
By 5:30 it’s a coffee and a cigarette, traffic soughing by
in a light but ceaseless rain.
To the west house lights bristle through a gathering mist
on the hill, and a junky appears at my side.
Plucking butts from the ashcan, he asks me
if I might have a rubber band to spare.
When I come back he holds the door ajar,
listening to Bukka White sing “Jesus Died on the Cross to Save the World.”
Could he come in?
I need every excuse to be alone, and humbly
shut the door.
My eyes
are my worst defenses,
gouged by the seeing of things as they are and must be.
There is no dim or kept light that dresses pity. Time does away.
It strips and bares, wracks desire, until the older body comes out cleansed.
Naturally, I take the blame. City lights and what transpired under them:
the holding of hands, the strokes of thighs--- all
the gradual displays that lead to sex
and home--- these were in motion, winding about me.
Even the smallest beads of rain took in entire motives.
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6. |
Tundra
02:28
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He and his last best keep settle the bench
While the simple treatments California offers of autumn
Are a backdrop of small, stilled fires in the trees.
Through the window cobalt skies set his his bottle at a dull glow
And inside the deep recess of his hood the drop of an old hope
Stops at first impressions and turns elsewhere
Plumbing inward for a lingering chute
of Away.
The launderers read.
Outside the coffeehouse Duke goes picking over a scant bounty
Of crumbs and chaff, a-snufflin' so many And's??? he's senseless
To the middle-aged bartender who storms the extended surround
Like a dreaded cousin-- no one comes to see him anymore!
And it's been weeks, Angela, since that body of hers
Hasn't stopped to haunt him nights.
Where? …Where's she been? …Where's she been hiding anyway?
And the launderers in very careful turns put newspapers & books down
Uncrossing their legs & vanishing altogether into other disappearances
Embraceable or not.
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7. |
The Achievement
03:08
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I notice him standing in a slight crouch from the catty corner.
His left arm’s extended straight out before him,
and with the flat of his hand he’s taking quiet aim
at a rope dangling from the back of a cube truck.
The hand moves up and down and from side to side,
anticipating distance, and wind, and the agility it’ll take
to overcome the two.
In his right hand he holds the broadside
of a small piece of cardboard, cocked at his ear,
ready for a toss.
He’s about five feet from the rope. Behind him,
the shopping cart is parked haphazardly against the curb.
It’s full to bursting with marginal scraps and has a forgotten,
tottering aspect, as though it had rolled there on its own.
He’s so attuned and so precise about the task, the separation
between spectacle and dream
blurs.
He’s a perfect actor.
A series of red lights come and go, and his hand
begins to work in diminishing degrees
now.
I cross south and then west, and I stand
on the corner behind him.
And his hands ---elongated, talon-like--- look
beautiful and dangerous at once, capable
of beautiful and dangerous things.
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8. |
Kosovo
03:51
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There’s not a lot to smile about given the past few years.
A silent, disgruntled man in fatigues in one corner
(his corner);
Our waitress a young, pretty and sad woman
With very rote motions.
After they’ve become subjects, and after so many lives
Have been stamped, catalogued and coddled, I can later
Understand the man who runs a finger across his throat,
Directing the gesture at a truckload of kids
From the other side of the bridge.
We sipped our coffee, talking mutedly, distracted
By the value of our curiosity in the morning.
It held the room in place.
The cook stepped out into the galley behind the counter, smoking,
Struck by the tiny acoustics of his plates.
And by something precious too, deeply rooted, a charm or a name
Hidden beneath the footbridge across the road that
Bears out a truth,
Slowing.
The blunt loss on the faces looking us over, over sips of tea, trying to
Gauge the pathos of strangers they can’t help to refuse.
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9. |
The Bells
03:29
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start in
at six pm
heavily to
and slowly back
again one
present world
reeling
to another
less riveted one
below
Newer, foreign ears might fall prey
and lead a body to wander
but
he says he’s growing used to them
unlike
yesterday
They were ringing
in perfect harmony
with the song he was listening to
keeping sleep
at bay vespers
calling
out
as they have for hundreds
of years
(coincidental now) secluded
in the room
It took a long, hard while
for the tolling
to really register
Instead
he remained calm, calmly listening
to the thrust of them
One gong
carrying away
another
bearing forth
until the repetitions were neither
forward
or back but
one
whole
sound
like scent
comes
whole
He says he could feel it when he looked at her
He could know
how often she’s ever cried
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10. |
Four Women
03:49
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See Nina.
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Enablers
Band Members: Joe Goldring (former Swans, Toiling Midgets, Touched by a Janitor) on guitar; Kevin Robert Thomson (former Nice Strong Arm, Timco, Touched by a Janitor, now Hazel Atlas) also on guitar; poet, writer, and narrator Pete Simonelli on vocals. Rounding out the line-up is drummer Sam Ospovat (Ava Mendoza, Brendan Seabrook, tUnE-yArDs, William Winant). ... more
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