Strangeness comes in odd waves, turns a blind hand in air, stills the eyes of the shallow night and sleeps.
A big thank you to the lovely folks over at The Blue Hour for publishing two of my poems,
and a Big Congratulations to my friend Jeremy Nathan Marks, of The Sand County for being nominated for the Blue Hour’s 2013 Best of the Net. He is a remarkable poet and thinker and the nomination could not be more well deserved. You should definitely check out his work if you have not already.
(another one for the "Bone Cycle") Bone's Memory I can tell that it's raining without looking or listening. After a gallon of chopped celery, a negative space in the shape of the handle of a knife persists in the hand. The point where bone meets bone wants to become bone, wants to become a monument to the form of its function. This function wants to become fossil. This body remembers what it does long after the mind has forgotten.
We were in the room next door, the one that, when you enter, you suddenly find yourself below ground, looking at the feet of passers-by on the street but you don't worry about that, about how you have found yourself here. You don't think about how it doesn't make sense because it does at the time. In that moment its dark energy rings truer than the dark. It's dark and dingy like you imagine a bar in a building’s basement should be. It has been abandoned, raided and forgotten with still uneasily spoken spirits that might be raised. Eighty years ago a thick layer of light brown dust settled, coating everything, taking the room and everything in it and turning them in tones of sepia with the sounds of the street coming filtered through dirty glass disturbing nothing. There is music that comes and goes, music that no one is listening to anymore, faded laughter like lost loves and stale cigarettes, like slowly yellowing paper (we can see it turn before us, we watch it happen there on the window sill, the paper curls and crumbles). Shadows pass and the passers feet become the passing of the light. From the room, a quick, lonely movement catches in the corner of the eye like a cobweb that you can not squeeze out. The room can not decide which floor it wants to be so it becomes the floor, and you are flattened along with it. You have become a shadow of who you are, your own shadow that you step on. This is a time when I was alone. This is a place I have been before. This is a time when I was not afraid of any thing or any one but of time's not passing, of dead flies that have stopped accumulating in the windows.
I stand at the intersection of
compassion and self interest,
thinking how life can make
such an ugliness of us all
or is it how we make such
an ugliness of life?
Cheeks change from
cherubic to sallow,
hour by hour.
From jaundiced to
jaundiced we go, from
sweet to salt to sour.
(The second in a series. The first can be found here.) Rocking On the south side of town, a young couple pushing a stroller rounds the corner of a closed cafe among two-family and four-family homes. They walk half-way in the heat across a small, empty plaza, stand and wait, turning as they talk, looking down at the sidewalk, up and down the street. A bright white suv pulls up at the curb, rims shimmering chrome in the sun. The girl-- thin with lank blonde hair and willowy skirt --walks up and stands on tip-toes at the driver’s side window. The boy stands back, rocking the stroller. The girl leans in. Hands move. She speaks, tucks a few loose strands of hair behind her ear, looks up at the sun, looks down the street, looks up the block and steps back. The suv drives off and the boy and the girl go back the way they came, pushing the stroller and examining a small package.