Newspaper NotationThere was a newspaper sky that day, glued across the breakers. "REVOLUTION," said the sea. In a personal or global sense?
I'm a composer, he had said once to Leanne, when she teased him for sketching sonatas on coffee-shop napkins I've been trained to hear music everywhere. She had laughed and asked him to write a piece for her, the syllables of her name bubbling like wind chimes. He couldn't explain how to change for to of. Music was never a choice not his as a teenager, and not Leanne's when her laughter begged for translation.
He still had it, tucked away under the piano stool. It was more a dedication than a labour of love. A Letter To . Leanne had flitted in from the kitchen as he finished writing it. She'd leaned over his shoulder with her hair bread-scented and asked, a letter to whom?
Some things aren't meant to have a recipient, he'd told her. She had looked at him oddly. Perhaps it was the first time that (s)he realised who (s)he was,
reclaimsubmerged in silent seas among the polyps,
pressure polished--a sparkle like Calypso's shuttle
shines elliptic and elusive in the downs, down where
optics fail and the seafloor ripples catch and sway
in swirling riddles like scattered Coptic stanzas.
snatched from Assyria, gold stolen and cycled
through serial societal transgressions--and once
aerial, contraband clutched in raptor snares
slipped--spilled, among the Urals,
and spinning through the acid and urea
of city sewers, doused in chloride
and the caustic current leading to the sea,
collapsing into Celtic knotwork; enclosed
in sand and calyxed like the season's close,
calcite-consumed, sunken, decayed--
Leaha year ago
we laid to rest a girl named leah
in the sand
(the vast blue sky was our witness)
the seagulls screamed
these nights i imagine her unearthed
water dripping, draining from her pupils
her eyes, they hold the ocean
she sits up
pulls a crab from her tongue
pulls the seaweed from her chest cavity and winds it around her finger
it is too late
Killing Fields-For Humanity
It's after the fact.
White tail deer-
Winter fields that
stretch an inch more
than tomorrow's pain.
And there's no way to know
just how far that really is.
(Thank you for that)
I've tried to walk across
the hard emptiness.
In the middle, there is a
column. It holds up the sky.
This is where the line is drawn.
I always stop there. Maybe it's
only a tree but I find myself
further troubled with every sunset.
Today I found a book filled with pictures and interviews of Cambodian land mine victims.
Men. Women. Children. People. Children.
The most beautiful woman I have ever seen only had half of her face.
A seven year old boy with no legs still tried to play soccer with the other kids.
I'm going to that field tonight.
I'm going to carve their names in that tree.
I'm going to keep walking until I'm not afraid.
Amnesiacsmaybe you forgot how to
wake up without screaming.
she smiles like a broken dawn
and the meek will inherit the
earth, if they don't drown,
first. she's barely breathing;
trying to grow gills because
it's only in the state of dying
that we adapt.
and you won't see the colors
pouring out of her chest, you
won't hear the ebbing swansong
she hums so quietly.
you didn't come to be reminded.
you inject a little further, a little
closer to the heart. numb.
(she died the day she
was given a name)
she made you promise never
to be a number, or a majority;
she made your heart beat in a way
that made you think you were alive,
but you can't believe in anything
that lasts longer than a minute.
you shut down. fingers
close around an empty bottle,
a flaccid tongue writhes
and it tastes bitter.
she's too close, you can hear
her thoughts unwind, you can
taste her mistakes. it's too real.
you were never human, you
tell yourself so you can be
convinced it was never valid.
she's too close and
Understudy of a Prop GirlOdessa dislikes the spotlight. Always blinding her when she stares out into the audience to deliver a love letter in song, always tripping her when it swoops down at her feet at curtain call, it is the only thing that may tempt her back to the grand piano in cold Ms. Merola's living room. But she will not go, not unless Beethoven's fifth returns to her mind intact, untouched ebony and ivory.
She is a performer. When she describes herself as such to strangers, she tastes the irony sour in her mouth. It is a taste that stays there when she returns to her solitary school lunch table with a program for A Streetcar Named Desire, and it doesn't leave until she chases it down with apple sauce and warm bottled water.
Odessa entered the Stage Life as a prop girl. Her first play on the job was one of which her parents own the Hollywood adaptation, Death of a Salesman. In some ways, she felt more like an actress in those days, scurrying out when the lights dimmed or at intermi
Hell is empty and all the devils are here.Shakespeare was right;
the devils are here.
Only they're sitting on my shoulders
and the tip of my tongue,
their pointy little toes like
daggers in my skin,
digging and digging
and waiting for me to
Primevaland I don't smoke, but all my poems talk
of cigarettes and ashes because my father smoked
for forty years and now he can't breathe
and I can't breathe.
the chill from the rain seeps through the glass panes
and feels swollen in the loneliness of a crowded train;
the air is pregnant with an umbilical thread
connecting us to something intangible,
something necessary to our being
yet we don't exist at all.
smoke and vapor crawling out our mouths;
we talk because the silence is sometimes frightening,
and because we're searching the dust visible only
in the places where light bends for words that won't disappear
in the morning.
cradled like a baby. the entire universe existing
within the meaning of a single syllable;
a sound make the strings of existence
but there's nothing between m
sultry liquid powerfulsplashed
dark red satin
draped on hourglass
in her steps
and I buy it
a glass of wine