kumo file

Who Says Words with My Mouth - Rumi

2010-09-27T11:05:00.001-06:00

Astor Piazzolla - Yo-Yo Ma [Jean-Michel Basquiat]

2010-08-04T00:39:00.003-06:00

He Wend a Widening Gyre - file

2010-07-28T15:00:00.020-06:00

The long, still green-tinged wheat arced in the gentle late-night summer breezes. It should have been an easy arrest, a lone man, but it wasn’t. The police, unused to working in the open spaces of fields, just couldn’t get a hold of him.

When they hailed him he ignored them. They flashed their torches; he flitted in and out of the beams, in and out of the long shoots. After the first policeman had received a sharp knock on his shins they decided he was insane and resisting arrest. It signalled the start of an unrestrained and aggressive pursuit of their, now personal, aims. But he was a big man, dark and slippery, and while they kept tagging him he kept spinning out of their control and disappearing back into the wheat.

They did pin him on his back once, but he immediately slid out from under one of them, driving him into the other, forehead into teeth. He ran with his knees bent, back stooped to keep his head below the level of the wheat, found the edge of the field and slipped into the little copse there. Snaking and dodging through the trees in the gloom, he tripped over an extended root foot. As he fell he snagged a tree stump, interrupting the natural arc of his head and slamming it into the angle of a rock. His body rolled among the ferns and settled. He watched the fronds close after him, then he lost consciousness.

~

“Reese! It’s time, now!”

The boy was tracing a spiral sea shell pattern with his eyes, fingers widening under the sheets. His sea-themed curtains let through just enough morning light that the shells radiated, dissipated shadows on the walls. He could feel the lines coming to him, eyes widening, pattern approaching, closer until it washed over him like a wave. Then he was inside the shell and following the line back to the centre, smooth walls, slipping in, round, round…

“Reese! Time for school, now!” He heard his mother coming upstairs.

“Alright Gwen, do you have to scream at him?” screamed his Dad from his parents bedroom.

“It’s ten past eight and he hasn’t had any breakfast yet, a little help wouldn’t hurt, would it?” His mother’s shrill and insistent voice seemed to slide away from his bedroom door and ricochet around the landing.

“OHH!” growled his father, and sounds of pounding on the floorboards rumbled. Reese had nearly slid to the centre. His door burst open.

“Now Reese! Good grief!” and just before she split the curtains and shot the room with light, he saw himself at the centre of the shell, all of them as points on the line, alive, spiralling, spiralling, alive. As she entered his world he accepted her, and started turning.

“I couldn’t sleep, Mum” he said “Dad’s music…”

Just at this moment his father came in; a shaggy unshaven man with dark eyes, string vest, pyjama pants. But as soon as he opened his mouth to bark at the boy he was hit by a wall of complaint.

“He can’t wake up if he get’s no sleep, Alvin. How many times have I told you! He’s got to go to school, you can sleep all morning. Your bloody friends here until all hours. They can bloody well clean up their own bottles, fag ends everywhere…”

His Dad stood there for a minute, took the wave full in the face, then plunged in himself.

“At least I’ve got friends, Gwen. If it was up to you I’d be a bloody hermit, a bloody monk, the music weren’t on loud last night, it was only…”

Reese went to the washroom, threw water on his face, and tried to find the shell shape in his dark irises. He saw grasses, clouds, a fan and steps leading up, up…

He trudged up the 233 stone steps, one after another, round, round, till he reached the platform at the top of his school bell tower. He could have seen for miles on a day like that, but outside didn’t interest him. He just peered down the centre shaft of the stairs, watching the banister turning to earth.

Every lunchtime was the same; he leant on the smooth iron rail and pushed his shoulder hard against it, letting his head hang over the centre space as his legs ran down the 233 steps. When he got to the bottom he was dizzy and sweating, exhilarated, frustrated, he wished it would never end. He half-sat, half-collapsed against the wall and, as soon as his head had settled, he started reliving the memory in his mind’s eye, round, round, wind in his face.

As soon as he’d recovered, he put his foot on the first step again; 233, 232, 231… he heard the door burst open below him.

“… plastic spas. Give us a smoke, Boggy.”

“Get your own, tightwad.”

“Fish, give me a smoke.”

Reese poked his head over the railing, saw Tag’s gang huddling up below, lighting their smokes. He quickly pulled his head back again, but it was too late.

“Oi! Who’s that there?”

“It’s Rita, I saw him, spas!”

“That bastard, he snitched on me to Mr. Statham yesterday. Oi, Rita, I’m going get you now…” yelled Tag up the steps and started after Reese. His gang followed with a whooping.

Reese, whose thighs muscles were strong from so many trips up the tower, bounded ahead. The group of smokers started strong screaming “No where to go, retard!”, took to incoherent aggressive roars and eventually just trudged after him.

At the top of the tower Reese simply waited for them, watched them climbing, listened to their heavy breathing closing in on him. When they were within a few steps he leapt into his downward run, startling the others with his burst of action. He hit the group hard and barrelled straight through them.

Reese bounded down the stairs, four or five at a time, holding the railing but not putting his head over, he needed to try and avoid the dizziness. He could hear the others not far behind now, hollering war cries as he sped round, round.
Just as he passed the door at the bottom it opened, Mr. Statham walked in. There was a SMACK! as Tag flew straight into him, and a hard knocking sound as Boggy slipped while trying to brake.

“What the hell are you doing, boy?” bellowed the teacher.

Tag was too out of breath, winded by the collision, too surprised to answer.

“You know it’s out of bounds here, I’ve had just about enough of you lot. Finn, Gonzales, get over here now!” Mr. Statham marched them out of the door with a barrage of threats “We’ll see what the principal makes of this, your parents will be…”

Reese, breathing, kneeling behind the door, watched the smoke from one of the still burning discarded cigarettes twist and spiral up into light, a white funnel cloud from below.
From above, far above, even clouds conform. The first time he saw satellite images of weather patterns he couldn’t take his eyes off them. White clouds winding around a centre somewhere on Earth, the blue seas wound with them, tightened, intertwined from that height, enlightening, he thought. The wags at work called him cloud dude. His cubicle was lit through the night shift, not by the databases he should have been working on, but by images of weather systems over Iceland, Alaska…

He liked working on such an endlessly large project as inputting old health records, his lack of progress went almost unnoticed. Almost. His supervisor had eventually called him into the office. Reese defended himself well, pointed to his impeccable accuracy compared to his colleagues’ sloppy work, reminded him that total man-hours were the same if you counted the time it was going take to correct their records, or the problems that would ensue. The supervisor took his point, complimented Reese on his attention to detail, but warned him that he was going to be keeping a close eye on his performance from now on.

Reese, as ever, just started turning, allowed the weather to evanesce around him. He never once considered limiting his time with the satellite imagery.

“Tony,” said Reese, the night after his warning, “You know they’re monitoring our work now don’t you? There’s surveillance software that measures our key-strokes and they’re saying we’re taking too many breaks…”

Tony, the union representative’s best friend was appalled. “They can’t do that! By law we have to have a break every 50 minutes we spend in front of a computer monitor.”

“They’re talking about docking our pay for every mistake that’s made too.”
“No, no, that’s not on, our contract…”

“Feels like big brother is looking over our shoulder, doesn’t it?” said Reese.

“Bloody fascists! Look I’m going to have a word with my friend about this Reese, don’t you worry, this is a union issue.”

The next morning, after the night-shift crew had packed in and sidled off, Reese went back to see the supervisor.

“Look,” said Reese “I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday, and I’m worried that I’ll get into trouble because of the total performance of the team, especially if the union action goes ahead. It’s not fair.”

His supervisor sat up straight, “Union action?”

At first the managers had thought about this as a local issue and implemented a clarified working practices manual to offset any dispute. Unfortunately, that wasn’t within their remit and the Union of Haberdashers, Stevedores and Data Inputters immediately challenged their right to infringe on their members working contracts. Management claimed that pay should be related to performance; the union took a vote and unanimously decided it was time to work to rule, on the original contract. When the managers started employing part-time staff on pay-per-keystroke basis, it turned out to be cheaper. Within a fortnight the Union of Haberdashers, Stevedores and Data Inputters had support from the Union of Boiler Workers, Dental Hygienists and Janitors, and an all-out national strike, picket lines and placards were quickly established. May was unusually hot, but everyone had gone home and cooled off by the start of the night shift.

Reese was a happy blacklegger though, promoted to co-ordinator, given extra pay and left to watch the clouds over Argentina as the night-shift relief team hadn’t yet been set up. He was blissfully unimpeded by work or mocking co-workers.

He found a live meteorological video feed, and just stared at the swirling clouds turning, drawing him through the night, night on night. Like standing behind a fan, Reese thought, sucking him in; the fan at home also entranced him. Since his wife had left with the kids, the mornings after work had been particularly torpid. Reese typically stared into the fan until his dry eyes closed, then back to work; staring at clouds.

From an early age his children had learned that if they needed anything, they saw Mum. It saved time being referred to Mum by Dad. Mum, for her part, indispensable to the kids and pushed further together with them by the night shift regimen, had often almost forgotten her husband was there. Money appeared in the bank account, sandwiches and dinner disappeared from the fridge.

“It’s Donny’s birthday Monday, Reese.” she’d said.

“Donny?” he’d answered, as if the utterance had cleared his throat he talked so rarely, he coughed.

“Your son.”

“Oh, yes, I meant really? How much do you want?”

“It’s not about that; he wants to go to that pizza place.”

“Oh, sure, yes, why not?”

“I mean he wants us all to go, you know, a family party, what do you think, it’s been ages since…”

“I’ve got to work, Linda.”

“Monday, Reese, it’s your day off.”

“I’m covering for Tony; it’ll mean overtime pay you know.”

“But its Donny’s birthday...” she was starting to get intense; he hadn’t looked away from the documentary on snails he was watching.

“There’s a union meeting, I promised Tony I’d cover for him, and he’s counting on me. Donny’s always liked spending time with you hasn’t he?”

“Look Reese, it’s not about that, he needs a Dad too you know.”

“I’m here Linda,” he paused for a moment while they explained the fractal significance of the snails shell.

“Reese?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Well, are you going to come then?”

“Donny doesn’t like pizza’s does he?”

He didn’t try to stop her when she told him she was leaving, taking the kids with her. He shook hands with the boys and helped them load up her car. Donny had started to cry at the last, and Reese had told him to see if his Mum had a tissue for him.

Weeks later, after the first lawyers letter, after the dust had settled and built up its own strata on the furniture, Reese was drowsing in front of the TV when he caught sight of something that made him open his eyes, prop himself up. A crop circle had appeared down south, it was straight out of his visions.

“That’s it!” He’d said aloud and got as close to the TV as he could. The crop circle had taken the form of a double spiral, one within another, starting at both sides and entering into a single middle. Reese, now an expert on all things spiralled, had never seen this variation before and immediately connected with it. It astonished him.

That night at work he could hardly concentrate on the weather patterns for searching for news about the crop spiral on the internet. He found a picture and just stared at it. To him, this appeared as a living communication, an explanation, a map, a dance step he’d danced, a mountain he’d climbed, a procession, a valley he’d followed, a direction he’d taken… it had been the first communication he’d received in weeks, from anyone.

At 11pm he left work, just walked out. He drove South through the night. Half-way there he realized the actual site would be guarded or crowded by now, he hadn’t thought about that, but he had to reply, let them know there was someone here who understood. He hadn’t actually thought about whom he was replying to, it didn’t matter, whoever had made that shape, however they’d made it, was talking to him and he must tell them he’d heard them in a way they’d understand.

Reese had no idea how to make a crop circle either, but he’d looked through YouTube footage and quickly sketched out his message. He’d stopped to pick up a length of plank from a building site.

~

He opened his eyes, heard wind in leaves and distant calls of the police. Reese could feel the rich cushion of his crushed skull under him, tried to touch it, realized he couldn’t move his arms, his legs. It’s true, he thought, your life passes before you… the spiral unravels and dissipates at the last, the ends are invisible from the inside. His Dad had left, Tag had been expelled, he didn’t know where his own kids were, but he had achieved the solitude of a centre here, now.

His dark blood oozed down the stone into a small pool, lucent in the moonlight like a baby’s eye. The silhouette of a single fern reflected there, as yet unfurled, moving but almost unnoticeably.

*

lemon jelly - experiment no. 6

2010-07-12T00:31:00.001-06:00

verses, unfinished - file

2010-07-02T15:23:00.026-06:00

verses, unfinished

curling up in you
is not heroic, but acrostic
lapping

[every line begins with]
holding you in my arms at night
in sighs and love, as the diphthong in
sail

kissing the shores of the Gulf of Siam
in a Chinese junk, under wine-red canopy
infusing stars with prosody

the eternal
-s-t-i-l-l--------------------------------
distilled indigo sinks
into these paper wings our present continuous,
the heavy-rusted-chain
absolutely anchored in the seabed

tightening kerning before we sleep
holding our breath before diving
deeper

contraband - file

2010-07-02T15:18:00.008-06:00

Contraband

We the spice runners, kaffir lime and tamarind carriers,
smugglers in of nouns our tongues might forget

We the bleating woollen-huddlers, refugees
from heat and anthem jugglers, doctors
disqualified on disembarkation, the identified
by pigment, walking with blisters, ex-barterers,
cricketers and schema cartographers whose tree Forms
don’t fit the needled silhouettes of Tree here,
nor the treeless hills now abutting our jungles.

We the ancestors, the badly steam-cleaned graffiti tags
for whom rebirth and disambiguation was the barren sand
at Calgary airport.

Tommy Dorsey Orchestra ~ Tea For Two

2010-07-02T14:40:00.003-06:00

Poise - file

2010-06-28T14:43:00.007-06:00

M. ‘utchinson sipped at a crystal glass of iced lemon tea and waited patiently for his ride. As a scrutineer, of some years experience, he was not at all surprised that passion ran high when it come to competition dancing, even, perhaps especially, among the modest amateur ranks in which he counted himself these days.

On his retirement from the Civil Service, he and his wife had found a sympathetic climate in the ancient town of Vienne on the Rhône River just south of Lyon. For a year after their move they had enjoyed the conviviality of seniors at the local Amicale des Aînés and while his wife had then passed away, and although his French was poor, he continued to engage with that elegant group thereafter. Sadly for him, there was a feeling among the respectable Miladies of Vienne that partnering with an English on the dance floor was tantamount to an illicit affair, or treason, and as a consequence his participation was now mostly limited to scrutineering, or judging, the competitions.

Recently a Monsieur Flores had written a formal, and moving, letter to the judges complaining about his second place in the Over 60’s Cha-Cha. It had, it seemed, opened a rift between him and his partner which M. Flores could not repair. He had wondered whether, for the sake of their friendship and dance “career”, the judges would consider reassessing their decision. These challenges were not unusual, and it was the normal practice of the board to shrug their shoulders, sigh deeply, and do nothing. In this case, however, the sensitive emotional nature of the appeal, and seeming impossibility of resolution, had led them to send the English with little French to arbitrate. Even if nothing could be done, they decided, it would suit their reputation for diplomacy and compassion that they had, at least, tried.

Eventually, an hour late, Mlle. Flores turned up at the scrutineer’s apartment. A dark haired Gitanois-looking girl in her twenties, she had worked in London for some years and had been drafted in to translate for the old men. She was clearly less than impressed with this task and her perfunctory greetings led speedily to a frantic drive north up the Rhône to her father’s place.

They turned left at the faded red-painted stucco Dubonnet sign on a farmhouse wall, the once-strong letters now largely dissipated on the Mistral winds. They drove into the hills, past the gnarled Syrah vines crowded into the edges of the Côte-Rôtie appellation. After fifteen minutes they reached an old barn with a dusty driveway on one side, it led them into an inner courtyard framed in the dry stone walls of house, barn and half-dilapidated work sheds.

The courtyard was be-speckled with freesias and poppies, dappled in patches of magnolia light. Chipped, rusty bonnets and car doors lay scattered among the overgrown grasses of the fringes and, by the single door to the house, a rickety worn wooden table had been burdened with some plates and a flute of bread. Mlle. Flores went to knock at the door.

After a few minutes an old man in black dinner jacket, white shirt and black bow-tie appeared at an upstairs window.

“Ah! Salut, salut…” he bellowed, and disappeared again.

Mlle. Flores rolled her eyes and sat down on one of the camp chairs by the table. A minute later the wind-washed door opened with a flourish and M. Flores burst through it with further salutations. Frankly, thought the scrutineer of his first impressions, it was hard not to think of a scarecrow. The frazzled greying hair, hardly slicked back with grease, the deeply wrinkled sallow skin and bony frame that only just supported the oversize black suit. The determined chin thrust dark spikes at the visitor.

He immediately grabbed the scrutineer by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks as he would an old friend, but before Hutchinson could speak the wizened dancer was holding up open hands and indicating the other man should just wait. He grabbed his daughter’s hand and forcefully tried to make her stand. She resisted at first but a barked command, and hasty smile at Hutchinson, had her on her feet.

She was a good six inches taller than the old man and couldn’t dance, but it didn’t stop him trying to cha-cha-cha her there in the dust. Despite his frequent eager glances at the scrutineer it was clear the demonstration frustrated him.

Eventually he released her and she promptly sat back down, crossed her legs and busied herself with her fingernails. The old man, as flighty as a sparrow, disappeared inside again. Hutchinson was left to amuse himself; he noticed how gracefully the dust motes pirouetted in the soft lambent rays.

When Flores returned he was balancing an unlabelled bottle of red wine, some Roquefort cheese and three old mustard-pot glasses. He had removed his dinner jacket and thrown a grubby tea-towel over his shoulder, beads of perspiration lined his concertinaed brow. He immediately started jabbering in loud and nervous French, which, without looking up, his daughter duly translated into monotonous English.

“You are very welcome, he is very honoured that you agreed to visit him, would you like a glass?”

“No, thank you, it’s a little early for me” said Hutchinson in the over-enunciated pronunciation he had developed. The daughter didn’t bother to look up or translate his reply. Flores looked at her.

“Eh?” he said. She waved her hand impatiently, and quickly spoke the French.

“Eh?” he said, again. She repeated herself more loudly spreading her hands out to make it clear. “My father, he cannot ‘ear very well” she explained.

Flores wiped the glasses with the grubby towel. He filled them all with red wine and handed the first to Hutchinson.

“No, no, really, thank you” said Hutchinson, but the old man insisted. “Oh, ok, merci.”

“Sante!” said the old man, they chinked their glasses and sipped, and then he waved Hutchinson to sit down. Hutchinson did as he was told.

As soon as they were all gathered around the table Flores and his daughter started an intense conversation in French. Hutchinson could just make out that he was enquiring about his sons, why they hadn’t visited. Whatever his daughter said, the old man first said “Eh?” and then snapped at her quickly after she’d repeated herself. This went on for some time and Hutchinson found himself sipping the wine more quickly than he had planned.

As Flores cut the bread, he talked, and the rhythm of the sawing seemed to echo his questions. Hutchinson watched mechanic’s hands, short bulbous fingers; a lifetime of engine oil in every crease, protruding from the cuffs of the too large starched white shirt like freshly pulled and still be-soiled onions. He noticed how the girl hunched her shoulders and looked down as he grilled her, how she first answered quietly, repeated herself impatiently and sharply looked away again. Then she turned to him.

“How long have you been in Vienne?”

Hutchinson, glad to be joining in at last, told her how he’d retired from a career as a bureaucrat and arrived nearly three years ago with his wife who was now, sadly, deceased. She didn’t seem to care, but Flores was evidently hanging on his every word, his raised eyebrows and open mouth gave the impression he was waiting for the punch line. He was still waiting after Hutchinson had finished.

“Qu'est-ce qu'il a dit?” he said, and his daughter told him.

“He says that he too has lost his wife,” she said in English, she shook her head “but she only lives down the road, they are, ah… divorced.” And as she said this she flicked her eyes at her father and raised her hand to her mouth, tilting it back and forth, apparently this was due to Flores drinking.

He presented the scrutineer to the Roquefort cheese in grease-proof paper and a knife, gestured him to proceed, topped up his glass again. Then he rattled off something fierce.

“How long have you been dancing?” said Mlle. Flores.

“Oh, for many years now, more than thirty years. It all started when I met my wife…” said Hutchinson, the daughter interpreted as he went, Flores immediately interrupted.

“He says he has been dancing since he was a child, sixty years!” she says, her father nodded vehemently, with raised eyebrows and an open mouth.

“He wants to know how you are a judge” she demanded. Both of them stared at him keenly; this was evidently a crucial point.

“Well, after I retired from international competition, I was lucky enough to be invited …” Hutchinson started.

“Bof!” said Flores loudly, as soon as he understood. He took his pocket knife and, in rough, jerking motions, started peeling an apple. After this was done he pointed his knife at Hutchinson, but his attitude had changed. In a slower, heavier voice he started relating something to his daughter. Hutchinson could hear how his consonants had been worn down over the years not unlike, he thought, the Dubonnet lettering on the stucco they had passed on the way.

“He wants you to understand that he has much respect for the judges,” said his daughter, who slowly picked at bread crust, letting it drop, picking at more, “but because he didn’t win the Cha-Cha his girlfriend refuses to talk to him.”

Flores was looking at Hutchinson now, his lips pursed in a rueful smile, limpid nut-brown eyes entreating him to understand, to sympathize.

“I do sympathize” said Hutchinson, and he did. As he looked at the old man, he could see how it wasn’t just his consonants that had softened over the years, how the now blurred features of his lined face would have once been compelling, how the frazzled charcoal and argent hair had once been black and uncompromising.

Flores stood up with a start and went back inside; his daughter found a heartfelt look for the scrutineer but said nothing more. He looked around the frayed courtyard; balmy in the still summer evening, realized the overt clutter there belied lonely hours of tinkering, found himself wondering what else there was in the old man’s life, apart from the dancing.

The door shuddered open, and Flores came out clutching a huge round bottle of some brown liquid. As he put it on the table Hutchinson could see what looked like little pickled brains inside it, he instinctively recoiled.

“It’s his walnut liqueur, “vin-de-noix”” said the daughter, almost enthusiastically, “Please.”

Flores wiped the empty wine glasses again with the towel. He tipped the bottle over one and there was a pause as the dark liquid oozed through the mass of sodden nuts to the neck of the bottle and out into the glass where it coagulated. It was Hutchinson’s turn to give a pleading look at his host, but Flores’ pride at this achievement was plain, to refuse this would be a big deal.

Surprisingly, his first tentative sip yielded a deep and bitter-sweet velvet cocoa which lingered on his palette and infiltrated his body with a shivering delight. Rich and delicious, Hutchinson rolled the viscous liqueur around his mouth and chose his words with generosity, much to the satisfaction, and knowing glances, of the old man.

“Hein?” he said, and continued with a soft, tidal reasoning to his daughter.

“He understands that the judges have a duty to all the dancers,” she said “he thinks the decision must have been very close on the night. Perhaps, there was a confusion over the papers?”

“I wasn’t one of the judges then, you know that don’t you?” replied Hutchinson.

“But your word will count for something with the board, non?” Mlle. Flores came back, arguing the case for herself now.

“Well, yes…” began the scrutineer, not entirely sure about this, not wanting to reveal too much “but I don’t think a decision has ever been reversed.”

When Flores understood this he thought for a moment, his hand stroked his stubbly chin. He got up and went back inside. Hutchinson wondered what else could possibly come out. The wine, salty Roquefort and vin de noix were mixing uncomfortably in his gut now, an elderly man himself, he started to think how he might broach the subject of the ride home.

He was still considering his intestines when Flores came back, carrying a steering wheel.

Again, the seemingly random object revealed itself to be quite extraordinary. Beautifully finished cherry wood with three tooled and brushed aluminum struts converging on a walnut centerpiece inlaid with an elaborate ivory F, this steering wheel was the work of a skilled craftsman.

“He made it himself”, said his daughter.

“It is beautiful!” admired the scrutineer, “why isn’t it on his car though?”

“His car is poor now; he used to have a Lancia.”

“Lancia!” shouted Flores, giving Hutchinson a thumbs up and nodding impressively. While the steering wheel was examined and caressed, Flores went back to sighing and talking with his daughter.

“He doesn’t know many ladies” she translated, “he was very fond of Madame Bellefort and misses her…”

“Madame Bellefort?” said Hutchinson, “Yvonne Bellefort?”

“Si, si, Yvonne Bellefort.” said Flores, suddenly astute.

“Do you know Mme. Bellefort?” his daughter asked.

“Why yes, yes I do…”

Flores started, blurted out something with obvious emotion.

“He says she has made him feel young again” the daughter revealed, with only a touch of mocking “with her alone his Cha-Cha is so good.”

“She’s a fine dancer…” Hutchinson began.

“Perhaps you cannot reverse the decision of the judges” Mlle. Flores suggested “but perhaps a special prize for Mme. Bellefort and my father, to be collected together…” Flores cuts her short by prodding the steering wheel at her and gesturing at the scrutineer.

“My father says you may keep the steering wheel, it is for you.” He thrust it into Hutchinson’s chest; he had no choice but to hold it.

“Oh, that’s too kind, really, I can’t possibly…”

“Please, take it; he would like you to have it. Perhaps, a special prix, just so they could meet again…what do you say?”

“Look, the steering wheel is very beautiful, but I couldn’t accept it…”

Flores got to his feet and threw sentences at his daughter, his eyes shined, his fingers pulled lyrical flowers into the air, she couldn’t keep up.

“She has said many things to him; she speaks like she dances, with such grace…”

“…and impeccable English” says Hutchinson, “Why, her speech at the Pont-Évêque dance was so moving…”

“You were with her at the Pont-Évêque?” the daughter asked.

“Yes, we won it together, the slow waltz… “

Mlle. Flores, astonished, explained this to her father, his eyebrows raised and his mouth open. There was a silence. Flores sat down, looked up, and gave the scrutineer a hard and uninterpretable stare, something about “If I was a younger man…” He got to his feet again, snatched back the steering wheel, cradled the bottle of vin-de-noix and stomped inside the house, kicking the door shut with his foot. His daughter strode over to her Peugeot and drove off in an exclamation of dust.

The long grasses bowed in the gentle evening air. Eventually Hutchinson walked to the main road alone, where he waited nearly three hours for a taxi to take him home.

A week later M. Flores received a letter from the board of judges of the Amicale des Aînés de Vienne. With his spectacles balanced half way down his nose, and the letter at arms length, he read with interest how they had decided, in honour of the recent excellent contributions of M. Flores and Mme. Bellefort, to award a special prize for creative interpretation, to be presented at the July meet. In a final note they announced, with regret, the decision of M. Hutchinson to retire from competitive dancing.

~

Storm Room - Janet Cardiff & George Bures Miller

2010-06-15T11:27:00.006-06:00

some information on this installation >>

Cardiff & Miller's site >>

.

unfinished syllogism ii - file

2010-06-15T11:19:00.004-06:00

~

“How the darkness is chocolate.” “I see that,” she says, “how the chocolate melts.” “Not everything that melts is chocolate, darling.” She looks at him, not an inch from her, the silver flecks in his irises, freckles around his nose. He notices the pores in the tight skin across her sunburnt cheekbones, he turns to face her. “If everything is melting now then what is left for us?” She insists. “There is no us” he utters quickly, closes his eyes. “…therefore, everything is melting” her voice tails off. She puts her arm around him, feels it sliding through the cotton sheets, feels it meet a warm back, her fingers whisper over quiet muscles, spine. “You deny us too easily, antecedents cannot be denied!” She slips a foot into the cool, unused sheets behind her, “What are the consequences?” “The veins are swelling, life” she says, she’s still looking through the open window, behind him the sky distends, “See, how blood rushes through them.” “Not all blood is in the sky.” He doesn’t bother to turn around now, his eyes flicker and he looks at her instead. He moves apart from her with the sensation of an orange opening, inhales her breasts, the shape of the space between them, the air of their bodies freshly separated. It trickles down his throat.

“The night has been beaten; the beaten are bruised and scratched.” “We are left with a bruised night”, she smiles. “All of your wounds will heal, dearest. All healing is beautiful, your wounds are sublime,” he sucks in his breath again, exhales “When there is more honey than tangerine, I will leave.” “When you leave I will ache for more chocolate,” she says, but her brow creases now. Her body bows into tighter curves, she curls around the emptiness, she starts to nurture it as she always does. The absence of void is a snake that coils, she thinks, Inevitability. He looks at her, sincerely then. “Now! The universal is clearing what proposition will force the conclusion?” “When the grenadine infuses, we will sip. Rest dear,” he says “the night and I will slake your thirst.” And she glimpses behind those flecked dust-sheets, through the rickety scaffolding at a block of marble, at the sculpture that isn’t there, at the snake on the floor. And she wonders how nothing is best seen just before morning. Slowly, she withdraws herself from within his cluttered frame, she steps out of bed and naked, she looks out of the window.

“The sky is empty now; your premises mean nothing more or less than clouds.”

.

A Bottleneck of Hells Angels at Helsinki Airport - file

2010-06-01T11:31:00.017-06:00

A Bottleneck of Hells-Angels at Helsinki Airport

Squeak! the buzz-head’s rubber sole abruptly
brakes, he diverts his gaze, but there’s no sneaking
up on them anyway. He puts his hands on his hips, sniffs.

[… as if the floor’d just judder’d but it hadn’t as if the big windows,
with that spaceport 50’s vista, would shiver,
but they don’t, as if boeing landings aren’t as bracing
as a hundred Scandinavian chapter members posse-ing up
and gambolling with palmed passports]

Buzz-heads, Hengels, bystanders: I
should probably stop staring [Pete used to snarl
“Who were the rich when an arm meant some't?”
before wrestling for a minute and skinning-up again]

So, here am I in Helsinki airport, wearing a suit
when I read Dennis Hopper died

pic ~ file (original from finavia)

temple bell, may 19

2010-06-01T11:22:00.016-06:00

temple bell, all
colours express light
the red earth burns, will burn into the night

amulet, our ample hearts beat
behind our barricades of sharpened spears
and echo in our APCs

we’ve no more need of tear gas, tears
are given freely here. Peace:
the candle lanterns we release

Pra kum krong
Pra kum krong

mourn, mourn,
the temple bell awakens all
to morning and ashes
A simple prayer; resilience may
our impulse to destroy
defy

May 19, 2010

pic~ miss*cee

Shinichi Maruyama - Kusho

2010-04-27T01:13:00.009-06:00

Kusho = Writing in the Sky

Check out more of his series here>>>

knocking on the hull - file

2010-04-14T01:12:00.005-06:00

Father here I am,
the woken. Stolen
by nocturnal tides, the taken from
the undertow of your troubled soul,
your drinking, drowning
me, I had to go

Father here I am,
the frozen child
the freezing man forsaken. Lost
sailor incarcerated, son nailed on
a sunken cross; the Kursk and
memories of you
and home

Father, which art in heaven,
Hallowed be this abysmal nave
On earth as inertia and insistence in oceans
Don’t leave us with our sins as we left those who sinned against us
Which led us into conscription and delivered us not from war games
Give us this day viaticum
For their state is their kingdom,
And their power is their glory,
For ever and ever

Father here I am,
echolocation the spoken,
the waves, vibrations,
these verses. The hull between us
is iconostasis; leaking,
rusted,
broken.

pic ~ file/

Life Sentences - file

2010-04-14T00:43:00.000-06:00

‘slike you was on the box Ken, I’d already run but
Looking back in from the outside,
One lit window framed by the night
You there, your heavy hands in the air, your charmlessness
And sweaty armpits, police everywhere

I left the country, and Yes I took the cash
Went somewhere warm and somewhere warmer
Got heat rash, passports, a dicky belly and sunglasses
Missed the Arsenal at home, Heinz soup and Daddies sauce
And not much else, straight up; I was glad you took the rap

At first, but it went on and on, we’d been a team
I was a man with a phantom limb, haunting him
Couldn’t meet a steady gaze, wore a cap to hide my face
Handcuffed to myself, I was chafed by regret, loneliness
Is like tinnitus innit? It grates

You a big man in a tiny cell, me I got smaller in the vastness of the world,
Even so there’s been girls mate, I’ve been lucky with them
Snap happy tourists bussed in no end, cash to spend
Leaving, in the morning like winter was coming,
Litter, emptied jetties and bars, lipstick graffiti scars

“Wherever you go, there you are” said one
There was me wondering when, how and if I’d be released
And her words caught me like a disease, I realized
I’d never been anywhere; only ever just Not There
There’s no hiding inside as you know Ken

The Road to Pai - file

2010-04-03T21:51:00.017-06:00

“Follow that scent!” you say
to the tuk-tuk pilot in the day-glo jacket.
He smiles, soi
disperse wildly in every direction.
It’s the perfume of his birth, of breakfast
of klong and death
it’s inside his sun-washed, knocked-off Diesel t-shirt
the ink under his skin and long days working in
traffic

You decide on a private eye, a dirtbike Yamaha 175
for yourself. You set off,
out of the city, into the mountains, climbing
spiral roads by spirit houses’
painted eaves and gold leaf, gold teeth
in the dark mouths of jungles. Here
lie homes for ghosts, the secret
agents of other worlds, instinctively you know
interrogating saffron
won’t help.

Pursuing hues now, looking down
on rice paddies, verdant liquid emerald eddies
in the shimmering late afternoon
stream. Freewheeling past warnings of landmines
and signs to hot springs, sources,
waterfalls; informants furtive whisperings
at the hidden ends of dirt tracks
off the main road that traces the valley to Pai.

The old Shan fingerprint below twists into focus
the wooden ridges, shaded whorls
that once sheltered horses
now keeps the vinyl seats of trail bikes
out of the heat of the day.

Tracking down chicken curry, noodles,
cold Beer Chang and harsh menthol cigarettes
called Falling Rain in the local tonal
dipping and soaring; smoke kites on
fickle thermals over the two-stroke
spiked beats of mopeds
laden with durian or jackfruit or corn
or laughing children on their way home from school
looking right back at you, they say
“We’re all detectives, we are all clues”

Legend - file

2010-04-03T21:46:00.010-06:00

Imagine a forest the size of France, said I,
mushrooms the size of Peter’s hands,
tapping on the paper, somewhere over there

September’s auspicious in Russia
for mushroom hunting, but
France is a big country

Can you see the line? Asked I,
she looked in vain
at the bone white sheet,
we crossed that line, signs
of mushrooms ahead
so that’s where we went

our maps became like that one
Open, pointless. We realized
they were only ever in our heads

We used to pride ourselves on charting
this black brook running into that,
that the burnt tree pointed charred fingers
about poisonous growths and
how to smell wolves

Our useless truths didn’t apply there
was no scale, no legend, no relief
nor trail nor appetite between those trees

Imagine a forest older than Russia, or France
hollow sombre shivers in the key of decay
powdery gases that dance lazily

Under layers of loosely woven shrouds
time drools, hours ooze over thorns, through moss
secret barbed green dying space

In that place
time is dappled flat

Imagine a long shadow cast
ironed, eked out
to fetid air, thick dark first night

I can’t tell you what we feared we heard
not human hearts, we remembered things
we’d never seen, flavours

that festered in our mouths to a fungal morning
there was no dawn, no running water
as pale bacteria, walking
in dread green circles, fatal certainty,
back, to a night like the last again

Strangeness passed, we got used to it and lost again
doing what we should, seeing where the sun went, lighting fires
finding food, etching the legend in an acid bath

When they found us we’d been gone for a week, said they
A week! An x
-ray

Imagine a forest the size of France, said I,
with mushrooms the size of Peter's hands,
tapping on the paper, somewhere, nowhere

She looked hard at the bone white sheet, again
as we had.

I lifted it free.
a dead map’s best
left

Under The Stormy Sky - Daniel Lanois

2010-03-03T20:49:00.000-07:00

tomorrow, undated - file

2010-03-03T01:03:00.015-07:00

tomorrow, undated

gravel over love lite, she said,
tomorrow will be heather, gorse,
thorns in my philosophy
iodine eyes, an obsidian mission
tomorrow will be immigration
borders on belief
intravenous hope, an alien ocean
plugged into her arm
your cardiovascular charm
won’t save me
white walls, willow ribbons out of frame
tomorrow will… just another condition
-al tense, whose to say it won’t last

yellow lines across the road ahead,
tomorrow is a bedside vagrant

Pic~file
.

Golden Brown - The Stranglers

2010-02-21T13:27:00.001-07:00

Golden brown texture like sun
Lays me down with my mind she runs
Throughout the night
No need to fight
Never a frown with golden brown

Every time just like the last
On her ship tied to the mast
To distant lands
Takes both my hands
Never a frown with golden brown

Golden brown finer temptress
Through the ages she's heading

West
From far away
Stays for a day
Never a frown with golden brown

Never a frown
With golden brown
Never a frown
With golden brown

.

Grim Expectations - file

2010-02-16T13:37:00.005-07:00

pics made at the inspired Warning Sign Generator
.

still and not still standing - file

2010-02-11T10:52:00.028-07:00

there
and not there; the tides
deadlines, horizons
and other people

still not still
Another Place
not still standing

timelessness translates
as suspense, we waited,
listened to wind mock our attempts
at humility, cloud, our vision,
thought rain might recite a ditty on penitence
but it didn’t,
we waited an eternity
and nothing happened
.

something inside stirs, steps

back into posture
is still again, is
standing

pic - file
after Chris Howells' photo of Antony Gormley's Another Place

Indefatigable Packaging, Fatigable I - file

2010-02-07T11:49:00.012-07:00

IN
Relentless shining hues; crinkling pigments, vivid cartoons, vibrants, garishes, stunnings, and kerpows, you, your low cut top, short skirt and ankle bracelet, my old Yeller teeth, new black, bold blonde style, a colour wheel, piercings and braces, bar-codes guarding inmate information, intimate and intricate crimped hermetic seals, rosy wheals and gloss

DE
Tireless listing; as long as my arm for candy the size of one of your freckles, itemized molecular nomenclature in different languages, talking in ingredients; family, job, soaps, holidays, music, books, top 5’s, the hypnotists spiraling spin; unflinching lies; where salt is sodium chloride and water is Aqua international, the impersonal, dizzy spinning of ourselves, choosing truths, the words we use

FA
Unstoppable ascension; best ever yet evernew and eternally improved, clinically tested to be the bestest, the whitest, what we say, and think, we are and what we are, were, will be, upwardly-mobile detergent, chemically enhanced Nutritional Facts box tattooed on prospective lovers arms; their serving size, Calories, Carbs, Fats and Cholesterol, Sodium, Protein, Sweetness, Moral Fibre, Vitamins and Footnotes, their balance in our diet and Percentage daily value

TI
Sleepless psycho-selling; application of insight, the brand, the buzz, the marketing mix, all those P numbers, tens of thousands of eggs, conformist collective, elective consent, we all play, those on the bottom shelf are there for a reason, a lady in red stands out like an angry boil, if everyone wears red best not scratch the rash, all pricing reflects expectations, labels relations, conjugating our misinterpretations for us

GA
Indefatigable packaging; tireless plastic, eternal polycarbons, inviolable melds they should make rape-proof underwear from the same stuff as sandwich packs, getting to know you, peeling an Eskimo, social blubber strata, finding echoes in pockets and voices in boxes, opening packets can be a perilous business, likely to finish with noodles all over the floor and endless recycling issues

BLE
Fatigable I, fragile, fractious, this way up, follow heating instructions carefully, don’t have seams as such, not so brightly painted now, bored of listing, lying, flying and falling, probably, honestly, not that good for you, but I am organic and quick, not stacked in racks nor chilled, I’ll open myself to you, as leaves unto rain for a day, just as soon as I’ve checked your price, my pocket and this darn small print in Portuguese

still - file

2010-01-30T01:12:00.025-07:00

[no wind, still,
stark air]
white hare hops over to patch of leftover prairie grass,
stoops to pick with nervous teeth, ear twitches
odd glimpses up, back to b'iness

black squirrel nibbles at ice crystals held in little claws,
polished obsidian eyes glint a crisp light,
flitting this way, that
.
magpie alights, pecks at something in the snow,
something unseen,
perhaps it is a white thing

even in Cowtown there are neo-Nazis,
really, here, they huddle and rally,
stolen art, stark armbands sadly
.

The Malevolence of Swans - file

2010-01-30T00:59:00.008-07:00

The Malevolence of Swans

remembering
Malevolent swans
on the still lake
and later grease stained
Newspapers

in quiet moments I can still hear
Rippling, still feel
crimped edges

[scraped wafer Billboards
reposted so often that all they promote
now is mess]

Sibilant dragons embroidered in
Silk on Silk
thousands of red paper lanterns
leaving, levitated
by scented candles

Mah-jong tiles in the rain
remembering

pic /file

Some Antony Gormley

2010-01-29T21:04:00.018-07:00

"I want to start where language ends."

Quantum Cloud, 1999

Learning to Think, 1991

sound ii, 1986

.

seasoning - file

2010-01-22T14:33:00.012-07:00

Seasoning

In the rhythm of sha-shoo
sha-shoo, sha-shoo, sha-woomph
she pushes-glides, pushes, glides,
she pushes, flies in

silence

and crashes on a
single bony buttock,
with a hiccup
in the breath steam.

Her face, a snow field:
pearlescent in the evening crisp,
dappled by incident, stippled by tears,
refreshed again by morning
and moments of liberation,
as ice melting on
the surfaces of glaciers

in the negative world of night and snow
I search for hints of elegance,
and it’s a seasoning of us both
as I realize that this is a dance
of courage, that perseverance from a distance is
grace; figure skating at 5 years old.

.

so dries aloe vera - file

2010-01-18T10:58:00.021-07:00

so dries aloe vera

so I splash water on umber, a new day
release burnt sienna, oxide red, ochre,
amber, squeeze the leaves, pour the tea
straight away the wet leaves
exhale…

.

your woollen socks drying
on our radiator
in the kitchen, after we’ve done the dishes,
us doting over
some damp maps of Asia

… that was Winter,
in April I read in the paper
how they’d found you on a beach,
wet denim and leather
and no damp note.

.

In Mekong zephyrs and after Songkran
and everywhere in the rain forest and
from wooden floors in the bars of Penang

in last night’s woodsmoke in this morning’s dew,
in T-shirts and boots, kayaks and cagouls
wherever water dries, there
diffuse you...

.

I splash water on midnight by torchlight,
and talk with you, so dries aloe vera
fresh split longan, stars in zinc white

.

Some Animated Billy Collins

2010-01-06T11:28:00.000-07:00

.

.

.

Still Life With Sheba - file

2010-01-06T10:29:00.009-07:00

Still Life with Sheba

A Coke can floats,
not yet full enough to sink

fat Vuitton chests are heaved onto
little skiffs
to be taken to her ship.

I listen closely to the Coke can
kissing the quay stone
tink, tink-tink

*

Her entourage exit the Marriott,
alight so quietly,
like sunrise

in a red dress
I’m surprised how tall she is
and how slender

the eloquence
of each soft step she takes
is in the waves, on the waves

today she articulates
her own fate,
her nation’s

we listen closely.

*

After they leave
I sit down with a Guinness
on the terrace, thinking

I light a Camel, inhale
exhale thoughts of Solomon,
of gold stocks.

If she gets back
she’ll come back a rock star,
minimum, maybe a metaphor

A dancer on the water,
the morning light in song,
a moment in this harbour,
the hope of living on

Pic ~ file
with Nuff Respec to Claude Lorrain - Seaport with the Embarkation of the Queen of Sheba

Residual Definitions: Permafrost ~ hic8ubique

2009-12-30T22:30:00.010-07:00

Young Son Looks On - file

2009-12-30T11:08:00.008-07:00

Young Son Looks On

[POV: forgotten omniscient]

[fade in] fragrant, folded boy stares out from linen basket
at man intent on mirror, shaving, at an angle

[cut to] hidden, protected contemplation from inside wardrobe
of me, as I try to write a poem

[reveal] earnest, herb-flecked eyes from warmest kitchen corner
where I stir the Bolognese

[voiceover] The surveillance
of the ordinary by the oughtn’t be there really.

[man turns to squint through blinds]

[pan to flat horizon]

pic~file

RD/snow/2 + 3 - file

2009-12-19T22:56:00.005-07:00

RD/snow/1 - file

2009-12-13T18:08:00.004-07:00

Residual Definitions: Measures - Jack Brae Curtingstall

2009-12-08T09:33:00.008-07:00

Residual Definitions: Winter - Jack Brae Curtingstall

2009-11-27T20:46:00.005-07:00

I Dreamt I Dwelt In Marble Halls

2009-11-23T16:48:00.001-07:00

I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls
With vassals and serfs at my side,
And of all who assembled within those walls
That I was the hope and the pride.
I had riches all too great to count
And a high ancestral name.

But I also dreamt which pleased me most
That you loved me still the same,
That you loved me
You loved me still the same,
That you loved me
You loved me still the same.

I dreamt that suitors sought my hand,
That knights upon bended knee
And with vows no maidens heart could withstand,
They pledged their faith to me.
And I dreamt that one of that noble host
Came forth my hand to claim.

But I also dreamt which charmed me most
That you loved me still the same
That you loved me
You loved me still the same,
That you loved me
You loved me still the same.

Alfred Bunn & Michael William Balfe

'Frames' ~ hic8ubique

2009-11-19T15:06:00.009-07:00

'Frames'

Difficult Child, no cradle for you
but a pram that smacks against a wall
in scent of plastic crushed the weals
of wailing memory searing deep.

Solitary Youth will not comply
will not relent will not bow low
and like the cat she walks alone
but bears a torch of silent blaze.

Femme Fatale leads supplicants down
her treacherous moon-fired garden way
though how they fare no tongue can breathe
her tooth-marks on their bones remain.

Benevolent Gran takes up the babes
embracing within her trellissed walls
blown roses couch in shadowed array
espalier never constraining grace.

Ancient Sage well reads the runes
in eyes of those who fall her way
Her kindled heart anoints their wounds
while tapers drip the dark away.

Well-come Child returns to kin
as vestigial pantomime scrims let go
solar flares rain violet joy
she never was left, was never alone.

pic ~ hic8ubique

Residual Definitions: the verb to be - file

2009-11-16T23:11:00.020-07:00

(click to enlarge)

Kseniya Simonova

2009-11-13T01:10:00.001-07:00

Residual Definitions : the senses - file

2009-11-11T13:14:00.010-07:00

(click to enlarge, darn blury blog posting!)
.

Mariposa ~hic8ubique

2009-11-08T21:56:00.036-07:00

Fabiola is made of butterflies.
She has flown in from Caracas
to give our flamenco lesson
an essential infusion.

Her sparkled pumps, a pair in every colour,
must have required a suitcase of their own.
Her spangled words are blown away,
ruffled by the pulse of fanfaring rhythms.
Her pointillist nonpareilles shawl
shimmies its fringes
and we follow her.

Fabiola is on particoloured display.
And her hips go to and fro double-time
and in, and out, and in, and out,
and her hands are swirling butterflies;
and in, and out, and in, and out,
and her hands and her hips
and her feet and her fans
go double-time and go double-time.

The flourish of her cadenza
leaves us earthbound.
Steamy soft-focus clings
climbing our mirror wall.
Fabiola drops a dark chocolate glance
to the toe of my fancy shoe and comes
to pose especially in front of me.
I slide a little and dip my pelvis deeper.
She looks me cordially in the eyes,
purses plum-petalled lips, still smiling:
"Arr you relaax?"

Yes. Awash in confetti happiness,
I forget everything and follow Fabiola.
She is made of a thousand beating butterflies
and has flown in from Caracas.
We black-sheathed northern belladonnas
partake the nectar of her mystique,
recognising she was born with it.

pic~file

2009-11-08T21:54:00.003-07:00

-

-

ten antennae - file

2009-11-02T13:39:00.000-07:00

ten antennae

sometime after breakfast when
the ten sentinels might rest
I realize

that even now I won’t weave
my fingers when my hands nestle
on my belly

that I still love to read the warp and weft
and feel the seams, the senses of
direction

to enter through texture into
an intimacy with cheap cotton
of all things

*

Grandpa, are you sleeping?
No dear
Can you feel my hands?

undulant pulsing under
woven silk skin over
insistent knuckles

I’ve got something for you
make your hands into a ball
around mine, worlds cupping
together, one within another
Now, don’t let anything out
I let her withdraw hers
and I’m left with a flickering,
brushing, flitting, tickling
… thing

Delight! What is it?
she laughs, I laugh
a living feather?
a poem?
What have you given me, Johanna?

It’s a butterfly Grandpa
and I’ve heard of those
it moves, exploring inner night
perhaps hoping
at chinks of rosy light

this is too much for me
enough
to have met the butterfly
and knowing what it is to live
in dark prisons
I open my hands and
let it go

*

the angel hair
of little wing wind
slightly buffets my face, the butterfly
gets back to its meandering
nectar quests
and I’m left wondering
whether it’s a little brighter
for having experienced
something inside us

pic~file

sky~comber - hic8ubique

2009-10-25T23:21:00.000-06:00

Sky~comber

Solid white cloud obscures
absolute heaven today.
Only dog-walkers drawn
down to the beach,
companions giddy
with scent and society.
Moderato you come scanning the tide-line
Your aquamarine gaze seeking its looking-glass
in leavings of a farthest reaching wave.
Poco a poco
comes your little one
punctuating the search
with gleanings
of this and that.
Without method,
she is pleased
by all manner of remnants
sacred and profane;
but you are faithful to a quest,
and particular in your liking
for pale blue
well-weathered fragments.
Palpable, pocket-friendly,
yet they scintillate,
twinkle, whisper-hint
with an illusory truth
of reflecting sea.

~~~~~~~~~ Spring 2001

pic~file

spectacular

2009-10-23T14:08:00.001-06:00

act one

spectacular

…with the kind of draw-l
reserved for ex-acquaintances
drafted in to
comment on documentaries
about dead folk
of some note.

the knowing, smile,
the you are the waiting patience
the paid to listen, by the minute
to the conspirational,
the thoughtful
pause

in fact; all the clauses
that lengthen sentences,
the speak easiness
of those who believe
inspiration
is just a matter of breathing
in

the those who have
reasons to be careful
one, two, three
the those
with something to hide; us

found under trees

Dry leaves
as sulphur butterflies
falling
and I’m still walking through
stilled wings

old invitations,
yellowed,
brittle tortillas, leftover
crushed under
foot.

The crumpled
mulching of liquorice Rizla;
the fallacy of
nostalgia;
flightless insects eyeing a
sepia sky.

Dry leaves
torn out of diaries
as days pass.
Paper chrysalis
discarded

cell life

the police
detective and the priest
each
cock an ear

one divines
one divine
I, who have imbibed
far too much of the
sacramental wine,
speak easily

(earlier the witness
had said; "yes it’s him
or her, what-e-va
it’s them what done it, guv’na,
father”)

it’s a fair cop ‘n rabbi
I, robber, did it,
cock robin in the hood
done previous in
Sherwood, should
pay for my crimes
as a sinner just might
as a criminal, I
should lose any right
I might have had
to a private eye

save file as

align right
and justify
no centre here
flushing
at the border

in the laser sights
of curt immigration
inquisitors
with buzz cuts
and taser tongues

eyes and minds
like bullet points
threatening to extend
into sentences
period

I shift uneasily
articulate
there is no escape

twitching leather digits
hover
over enter
flirt
with delete

pics~file

* found letters

2009-08-27T23:10:00.000-06:00

"... those of us left
were alone again
with our rumour and our reason
and our
strangely shaped clouds"

Anya x

Dear Anya,

You may not remember me but I was most taken with you.
You told me how the clouds used to talk with you, sing to you.
How they'd stopped during your stay in the hospital.
How the drugs made you deaf or them mute.
We only talked once, on a Tuesday morning,
you'd been fighting with the nurses. I was asked to intervene.
I'd thought you were strange, now I realize all you wanted
was to finish your conversation
with them.
This is just to say that now I get it
and sympathize. Hope you’re feeling better.

Kind regards,

Evan

PS, thought you might like this cloud pic,
they’re called undulus asperatus.
~

Dear Evan,
I remember you well, you listened to me!
I thought the drugs had made me mute too
till I found I could talk to you
It was a moment, I was moved, you are very kind
regards, I miss them very much
they were so gentle, not like the nurses here,
even in thunder, I remember, they regretted and feared
the wind and lashing rain as much as we did,
do
Yours truly,
Anya
ps. I have never spoken with those clouds,
they scare me, please don’t send anymore.
~

Dear Anya,

thanks so much for your reply,
I’m so happy you remember me,
your dialogue with the clouds,
do you recall what you talked about?
The lines from their songs?
Yours is a truly amazing gift, why they should want
to take it away from you I will never understand.
I’ve stopped working there now but I am
happy to write you if you’d like?

sincerely

Evan

PS. I’m sorry you didn’t like the clouds,
never meant to scare you,
I know your windows are small there,
thought you might like a ‘view’.

Evan,
yes, please keep writing, your letters are the high
point of my days here, apart from the jelly.
Even my mum has stopped visiting.
They used to say they made me,
that one day they will reclaim me,
that they adore me sincerely.
Yours is really the only voice I hear
these days, everything else
is just wind.
best
Anya
PS. my windows might look small to you but I
don’t think about that, I just stay inside
~

Anya,
I’m happy to hear about the jelly!
That you can be secure in the knowing
of where you come from, not many
can say that (I guess even you can’t say that out loud)
not where you are right now. Did the clouds
say anything else? You said they sang
songs to you… the best answers
often lie between the skies, no?
Yours
Evan

PS. Yes! The windows that point inwards
look out on views endless!
~

Even,
Why are you doing this? It’s
breaking me apart, the silence here is
the only answer I can give them
that doesn’t lead to punishment.
Their endless questions
and yours too, if you must know
the clouds only sang at night
songs like

Show me shores, wash me
shower me sweetly
lead me to the ocean
who shares with me
who shares with me

Show me shadows, wishes
that follow me, under me
lead me to the ocean
who shares with me
who shares with me…

it goes on and on like the skies
it keeps me sane here, my constant lullaby.
Anyway, their words probably don’t mean
anything to one who hasn’t heard them sing.
Anya
PS. They say they’re going to stop all letters
and then I won’t have any other windows.

Dear Anya,
I never meant to hurt you,
your words, their song
rises off the paper like a cello solo,
so clear.
I won’t ask you any more,
I promise,
but please tell me what else
you can of what you heard…
I think you should resist
their “cures”, keep yourself inside
and above all keep your clouds
close.
Yours,
Evan
~

Dear Anya,
I hope you get this, that you got my last letter,
that you are ok. I’ve been looking every day
in my mail box, it’s been two weeks
now since I heard from you.
I will understand
if you can’t keep writing but please
let me know and how you are…
All the best,
Evan
~

Evan,
excuse the crayon,
they won’t let me have pens
right now, it all got too much, I
tried to open my veins
while I was writing back to you,
they put me in a windowless cell,
I was wrong
even small windows are better than none
now I look out of one all day long
and at night, it’s not you,
if it wasn’t for you I’d believe them now,
because of you I won’t.
Anya x

Anya,

Hearing your news is a slap in the face.
What you must be going through!
All my thoughts are with you,
sending you courage and patience,
you will get over this Anya. You have to,
as you say you are
not just your own person,
as a child of the clouds
you have a duty to your station.
As tough as it seems there,
where your freedom has been taken
from you, you are not free
to hurt yourself, please,
take that option
away. Here,
there are almost constant clear
blue skies, it’s getting
harder and harder to keep
the clouds close,
how naked we are in the bright light,
not so different from those on your unit.
Dare I send you my love?

Evan
~

Dear Evan,
Is it so scary, sending me your love?
You almost make me laugh.
The clouds said:

“love is under us and over us
love is the salt water that builds
us and the rain water which flows
from us, love is the view over
you and it is the lying on our backs at night,
being washed in star light,
love is the cool moon, life is the sun,
love is scratching our bellies on mountains…”

They used to talk about love a lot!
Love Anya x
~

Dear Anya,

How stupid of me,
of course I send you my love,
why would I be so selfish not to? Look,
I haven’t been completely honest with you.
I haven’t been alone
since we met that first time,
after you’d calmed down and we talked,
I went outside for a smoke
and all I could hear were
whispers at first, cirrus I believe,
I thought you could help me work out what it means,
I’m scared that you don’t need to worry
about helping others right now,
only about getting out
of there.

Love
Evan

Evan,
Are you mocking me?
Trying to make me feel
better?
I don’t know who to trust no more, so
alone these days, here.
Without the support (the strings
That tied me to them)
I am limp. Crumpled on the ground.
they all say they are
helping me, making me see
my foolishness
I decided that all who say
they are helping me are really
intent on
cutting me off.
Laugh, if it makes you feel
better?
Anya
~

My Dear Anya,
The very last thing I could do
is mock you
though I would that you
were better
only in that you would be
free.
If I sing to you, you will see:

“Ala
As air rising
Ala
Ushered up, up
Ala, Ala

Olo
Ever rolling
Olo
Sailing over
Olo, Olo

Issa
A siling
Issa
Falling as ice
Issa, Issa …”

Everlove
Evan
~

O Evan!
“… Ulla
The seeping
Ulla
Sleeping under
Ulla, Ulla

E-alo
Everflow
E-alo
The riverlife
E-alo, E-alo…”

I used to love that song!
But how can you know it,
except if it’s true.
It’s true!
They are talking to you
O Evan, now I envy you!
Please, tell them I’m
missing them like
they miss the skies when
they ooze underground,
the sea when they prowl
the skies, that now I understand
life circles around
holes, pockets
of what isn’t there and
please, tell me more!
All my love
Anya

PS. Do they
Remember me?

Anya,
Do they remember you?
They live for you,
never forget that, they say
you drive them,
that you are the missing
and the breach that draws them
on.
They ask you to remember
it’s the emptiness
which inspires,
enlivens us.
The dynamic
without which
we would be still.
Don’t they sound as if they
were one of us?
Or is it just that
we are one with them?
Love
Evan
~

Dear Evan,

Thank you so much,
there is a small cloud
on the horizon, she
is called hope! I thought
I was the only one, then
that I really was crazy
but it’s we,
the listeners who can see
and they, who talk so much,
who are deaf!
In the quiet here
I get to thinking now
do they talk to everyone,
anyone? Not that you are
just anyone but
I had thought they just spoke to me.
How silly am I!
Love

Anya
~

Dear Evan,
Now it’s my turn to
check for mail!
How I thought you were
still with me.
There’s a different feeling here
now, sharper, a scalpel
has taken something
and left nothing.
Perhaps I am getting better
perhaps I was sick
perhaps I was writing to myself
am still, whoever you are
I wish you well

Anya x

Dearest Anya,
Do you not read what I write?
I cannot express it well,
I don’t know how you can doubt
that you are so special,
that I am not here, holding
out a hand to you, that you
are not the reason for clouds
that without you, we are static only,
not arias soaring.
I can’t wait to see you again,
Soon.
My love
Evan
~

Dear Evan,
We?!?!
you say “We
are static only”
I wonder what you mean?
The longer I am here,
the more of their pills I take,
the easier it is to believe that
it was all a dream, that
I have woken.
And now you say we
and I see you as they
must have seen me.
Tell me, are you sure you’re ok?
Anya
~

Dearest Anya,
Now is not the time for doubting
yourself, me, all that you thought
you knew.

“In the dreaming they say
Anya, Anya
Not knowing
Who she is, was
Or will be.
Anya, Angel
Of Eternal
Becoming.”

In three days, on the first night
of the full moon
we will wait for you,
between you and her,
stand at your window
and listen most carefully,
open your arms
and believe

It’s all love
Evan

Evan,

Look, I’m not sure if you’ll
get this before the full moon
but I have to say that it all
feels so long ago now.

I can’t promise I’ll be there,
"At the window, arms open"
I might not even be here
they might have sent me home
by then.

I don’t know how you know
that verse, maybe it’s from a song
I’d picked up somewhere, not knowing,
not knowing

Thanks for all your letters,
I wish you all the best

Anya x

Missing Girl An investigation is underway after a 15 year old girl went missing from a secure unit at the Richmond Children’s Hospital. The girl, who can’t be named for legal reasons, was being treated for schizophrenia and according to staff she was due to be released. No information was given about how she disappeared but she is not thought to pose a threat to the public. Police today issued a description of the girl who is of slim build, about 5’ 2” with short dark hair and was last seen wearing blue pyjamas. If you have any information about her whereabouts call Abernay Urgent Services at 423-757 4344.

~

From the patient notes of RN Kate Bly:

patient brought in by mother
“not hearing voices”
triage were confused
turns out she was the girl
Anya, who went missing
from downstairs
two weeks ago
turned up in her Mum’s garden
naked and cold
said “the voices have stopped now”
Mum brought her straight here.

She hasn’t said
another word since, won’t talk to me
vital signs are fine but glassy eyed
asked Mum about drug use
but there has been no history

Mum gave me these letters
and poems which the patient
had been clutching
they’re wet and don’t
explain what happened to her
while she was missing
or the fact that patients
aren’t allowed letters
on the unit, will check for
signs of abuse, could she
have written them
to herself?

*found poem

"and then came the angels as clouds in the skies,
in lakes as lights, as shadows on walls
in heat haze and frost hoars
and they kept coming, silent choirs among us,
in shop windows, populating sunsets,
it was a time of quiet
at first, a secret calm fell on us
as dust cloths were removed
from disgraceful truths

and one by one
they held
our hands in their hands
gently, we were led
and irresistibly, lifted

and we who waited
were a race of orphans
and half of Sri Lanka was empty
and there was a panic in that time
a focus on attachment, or resignation,
a cessation
of the living things began
and we thought we were all going
and some hid
and some stood on mountain tops
their arms wide open, hoping
and then it stopped.

and those of us left
were alone again
with our rumour and our reason
and our
strangely shaped clouds

Anya x"

pics ~ file

the rainhill trials -file

2009-08-23T21:38:00.001-06:00

The Rainhill Trials

- The weight of the Locomotive Engine, with its full complement of water in the boiler, shall be ascertained at the Weighing Machine, by eight o'clock in the morning.

A black, silk top-hat, flattened
Rows of fountain pens, their caps on

- The load assigned to it shall be three times the weight thereof. The water in the boiler shall be cold, and there shall be no fuel in the fire-place.

An elevator cable, disengaged and coiled
A cat-gut garrote

- The Tender Carriage, with the fuel and water, shall be considered to be, and taken as a part of the load assigned to the Engine.

Tilled fields, tremolo

- The Engine, with the carriages attached to it, shall be run by hand up to the Starting Post, and as soon as the steam is got up to fifty pounds per square inch, the engine shall set out upon its journey.

Pleats
The heartbeat of Jesus

- The distance the Engine shall perform each trip shall be one mile and three quarters each way.

Eggs at breakfast, atavism

- The Engines shall make ten trips, which will be equal to a journey of 35 miles; thirty miles whereof shall be performed at full speed.

Folding maps; we spent the day
Pinning the Mekong
To the Mississippi and the end
To the beginning, she told me
This way
We could always be together

- The time of performing every trip shall be accurately noted.

pic ~ file

2009-08-21T23:46:00.000-06:00

into the misty - file

2009-08-20T00:47:00.000-06:00

into the misty

I believe in Wolverine
Xavier, Xanadu and e-zines

I don’t believe in destiny, no
only Karma,
the Dalai Llama
Ra, Artemis and eyeliner
Vision Quests and street-dharma
remote viewing and mineral water

that Jesus was a reincarnation
of David Icke and aliens, that
their genes passed through Da Vinci
as Green Tea to me
and you in Celtic yoga
and the Taoist 4-4-2
and shiatsu
for cats

it’s a Matrix
I’m Neo
I pray to NLP
to deliver unto me
my daily lay
and Bono

I await the second coming
of the new black; white
and night, of course, where she walks in darkness like
ninjas, who wear black in bright sunlight
(I believe in post-modernist spies)
spiritual deniability and the God given rights
of celebrities

In short, in matters spiritual, cultural, eclectical
I am the very model of a modern esoterical.

(It’s all so clear to me now)

pic ~ file

english breakfast - file

2009-08-18T13:16:00.000-06:00

Please hurry! She hissed, it’s late
Don’t tarry, look at the time.
It’s early, I said, in a bit of a state
Black coffee still covered the sky.

My weary body creaked and cracked
And very slowly looked about
My bleary eyes spied underpants
‘Fore nary any cream was out.

Parp! Parp! Did you order a cab?
Coming, coming, have a tab.

Buttery toast was in the air
And smoky bacon the heavens
I barely had time to brush my hair,
‘Twas scarcely even seven.

When streaky ketchup passed above
and spicy mustard rinds
The scary spectre of her husband
Was burly in my mind.

Oi! The meters running, get a move on!
Alright, alright, keep your wig on!

An easy kiss on the doorstep left
A waxy smear on my cheek
The greasy egg was poking its head
Warily over the east

I nearly trapped my hand in the door
Hastily getting in
The minicab left with a waft of her
Readying breakfast for him.

pic ~ file

unfinished syllogism - file

2009-08-16T13:41:00.000-06:00

unfinished syllogism

Look! How the darkness is chocolate
I see that. How the chocolate melts
Not everything that melts is chocolate, darling

if everything is melting now then what is left for us?
There is no us,
therefore everything is melting

You deny us too easily
antecedents won't be disallowed
what are the consequences?

the veins are swelling, life
See! How blood rushes through them
not all blood is in the sky

the night has been beaten
the beaten are bruised and scratched
we are left with a bruised night

all of your wounds will heal, dearest
all healing is beautiful
your wounds are sublime

Fallacious?
All sweet arguments
will end in tears

when there is more honey
than tangerine
I will leave

when you leave
I will ache
for more chocolate

Now! The universal is clearing
what proposition will
force the conclusion?

when the grenadine infuses
we will sip, rest
night will slake your thirst

the sky is empty now!
your premises mean nothing
more or less than clouds

Photograph ~ Papalars

came the angels - file

2009-08-14T23:38:00.000-06:00

and then came the angels as clouds in the skies,
in lakes as lights, as shadows on walls
in heat haze and frost hoars
and they kept coming, silent choirs among us,
in shop windows, populating sunsets,
it was a time of quiet
at first, a secret calm fell on us
as dust cloths were removed
from disgraceful truths

and one by one
they held
our hands in their hands
gently, we were led
and irresistibly, lifted

and we who waited
were a race of orphans
and half of Sri Lanka was empty
and there was a panic in that time
a focus on attachment, or resignation,
a cessation
of the living things began
and we thought we were all going
and some hid
and some stood on mountain tops
their arms wide open, hoping
and then it stopped.

and those of us left
were alone again
with our rumour and our reason
and our
strangely shaped clouds

Photography ~ tannedtothebone,dysartian

peeling thunder - file

2009-08-06T00:22:00.000-06:00

First there was a low droning, a hum that lay flat against doors and crept in under birdsong. It got louder, started shaking the small things in the torpid village; the loose window pane, the odd tea cup, leaves of grass and flower petals. It so gradually built into a dark rolling thunder.

Then Chloe came into the post office, back from the nearest town.

“My God!” She said “there’s a huge gang of bikers on the Fell Road, and they’re coming this way.”

“Bikers?” said Mrs. Dilkes, the post office clerk “Bikers you say? What do they want here?”

“I’ve no idea Ethel, but there’s hundreds of them.”

They rolled down the winding lane, a collective roar of four-stroke power. They filled every narrow street and circled until they gave up looking for a place big enough for them to park. They stopped still, their heavy, billowing dust aura just hung where it was. They had brought their own dusk.

One of them, a black-haired, leather clad colossus of a man, dismounted his steaming iron horse. He took off his bulbous black helmet and shades. He looked around the village as if it was theirs now, and went straight into the post office.

He more than filled that little shop, he stooped, his lip curled. The air in there was thick then with engine oil and gas and dust and tobacco, he thrust his spiked chin at Mrs. Dilkes who trembled.

“Where’s the poet?”

Mrs. Dilkes' white fringe was blown back by the force of his rank breath. Her dainty jaw dropped and her eyes started filling up, there was no other movement.

The biker seemed to realize he wasn’t going to get anywhere with the old woman and turned his attention to Chloe.

“I said, where’s the poet?”

The colour drained from her face, she gulped, not knowing at all what he meant, looked around the shop in a desperate search for … something. Her eyes flit past the rows of sample envelopes, the notice board and a rose coloured flyer, and on, and then back to it. She quickly lowered her gaze.

Not quickly enough. The stranger had seen that and turned to look behind him at the board. It didn’t take him long to see the bold heading “Poetry Reading Open House”, with the address typed clearly underneath.

Snatching the pink paper from the cork sent the pin flying and he ripped the flaking door open and strode off.

A minute or so later the village exploded as the legion of motorcycles roared into life. They rumbled and blustered off leaving the thunderhead to collapse behind them.

*
A clump of leaves hit the basket with a sigh, a soft voice hummed a simple air behind an overgrown rhododendron bush.

The biker clumped down the garden path in his brutal leather boots, spotted the middle-aged woman moving at the edge of the white gazebo and strode across the lawn towards her.

“Are you the poet?” he growled.

There was no response, save for a breathy snatch of melody.

“I said are you the poet?” The dark rider barked impatiently and louder, touched her shoulder with a rough hand. She turned.

“Oh!” She lifted out white earpieces.

“Are you the poet?”

“Ah, I’m Carol, yes.”

“I need to know what you mean by this.” He pulled a black-smudged, folded piece of tatty red paper from inside his crusted leather jacket.

The poets eyes widened “The budgie is panicking” she thought “Today I am going to kill something.”

He handed it to her and she peeled it apart with shivering fingers. The note started “Dear Pete, Not a red rose or a satin heart. I give you an onion…”

For a moment she touched his sunken eyes with hers, then she said “I think it means she loves you very much, Pete.”

Photograph ~ Nancy Wolck, Merrick Davies
Poesy ~ Carol Ann Duffy

overdue - file

2009-08-04T00:09:00.000-06:00

overdue

wearier hours
here, going there
the hums and sighs of pressurized air
and pale horizons up ahead

eerier views
over the area
as oil spills on water
morning, as worn in the aura

higher, rarer
an aerial eye
not wiser, just over
alive
as ashes on sighs

how lightly we wore our
airy vows
soaring over clouds

and in the end our cool stares
erased all warmer air
under us
was nothing else

fly...ing
after all
is only overdue
...fall
ing

Photograph ~ Bill Valentine

shield - file

2009-07-30T00:22:00.000-06:00

.

shield

We cut through little songs, we were scissors
the lady from the lakes and I, the reeds
that tickled white rabbits till they shivered
in the blue green marriage of sky and weeds.
We ran from the rain with books on our heads,
the books got wet, a willow gave shelter
we held each other close as tangled threads,
anagrams of love in heavy weather.
I read Wordsworth and she decoded clouds
whose elegy’s for oceans made her cry
she was the frame, the figure and the ground,
her black mascara tracks, she was the sky
and I the weeds, the reader, the reason
she said “I love how clouds shield us from heaven.”

Art/Photographs ~ Man Ray

Haiku - Pinkerbell

2009-07-29T01:21:00.000-06:00

Corona clad clouds,
Yearning for lost youth drifting
In herringbone skies.

Photograph ~ Laurent Laveder
.

On the Breaking Tide - file

2009-07-26T22:59:00.000-06:00

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