i don't know much
all i know is
i'd play with it
and fuck it up
because i fuck up everything i have
between the valleys
there is a crag
and on that crag
an elegant man
the water is shallow
the winds are soft
they carry off
the hat from his head
his hand reaches
but too late
the hat is gone
cradled by water
his scarf flows
his feet rise
his head looks up
and his eyes look down
the valleys are tall
and so is the man
he grows until he reaches
the blankness below.
there is a crag
and on that crag
an elegant man
the water is shallow
the winds are soft
they carry off
the hat from his head
his hand reaches
but too late
the hat is gone
cradled by water
his scarf flows
his feet rise
his head looks up
and his eyes look down
the valleys are tall
and so is the man
he grows until he reaches
the blankness below.
i am the good substitute,
the second choice, next
to the last in your list
of fears. This year,
i will keep you warm
enough, for the time being.
At seven am, the sun
fights to crack through,
bleeding the gray to make
light of today.
What is there is all we have,
and it is better than chasing
when you're lazy in the morning,
and even worse at night.
the second choice, next
to the last in your list
of fears. This year,
i will keep you warm
enough, for the time being.
At seven am, the sun
fights to crack through,
bleeding the gray to make
light of today.
What is there is all we have,
and it is better than chasing
when you're lazy in the morning,
and even worse at night.
mother
little by little
the water trickles
down down the baby
drowning in the hole
the tree the canopy
breaks through the sky
falls through the infant
chewing out her way
the water trickles
down down the baby
drowning in the hole
the tree the canopy
breaks through the sky
falls through the infant
chewing out her way
the question is, why are you walking in the woods at this time?
out in the woods, mom turns back and tells me to watch out for the slippery mud parts. i try to avoid stepping in her footprints, but really, everything is muddy after it rains, and what's the point of trying to stay clean when you're walking in the woods after a rain?
the hour only comes into the house through the back door now.
is it bad that i am used to boredom?
i can sit here and be fine with it.
it feels a bit tiring, a bit useless.
i feel wasteful, but i have adjusted my watch.
today, her voice is setting my peace on fire.
i watch it curl up and burn. she talks into the phone.
she raises the volume of the fire when he says no.
i see the smoke.
she touches and tickles the ceiling.
she is rising but has nowhere to go.
the ceiling squirms.
the ceiling has never moved before.
the smoke insists.
come.
come.
come.
the smoke pleads in her slow way,
playful in grace at first but now
she is crying, angry at the rejection
of today's blankness. there is so much
boredom and she has never felt it like this before.
she walks into the bathroom and closes the door.
she looks into the mirror and fills the space.
she looks at herself and every bit looks the same.
i can sit here and be fine with it.
it feels a bit tiring, a bit useless.
i feel wasteful, but i have adjusted my watch.
today, her voice is setting my peace on fire.
i watch it curl up and burn. she talks into the phone.
she raises the volume of the fire when he says no.
i see the smoke.
she touches and tickles the ceiling.
she is rising but has nowhere to go.
the ceiling squirms.
the ceiling has never moved before.
the smoke insists.
come.
come.
come.
the smoke pleads in her slow way,
playful in grace at first but now
she is crying, angry at the rejection
of today's blankness. there is so much
boredom and she has never felt it like this before.
she walks into the bathroom and closes the door.
she looks into the mirror and fills the space.
she looks at herself and every bit looks the same.
when words fall out
when words fall out unnoticed it's not that they disappear. you can pull up the history and look, there they are. but no one eats stale bread. people put stale bread in bread puddings, or tomato soups. you have to recycle them into something new. you either eat the bread fresh from the oven, or you make bread pudding.
or you throw it out and try to forget about it.
or you throw it out and try to forget about it.
placements.
tonight, to replace what is not
here: all sprawled: the camera,
the computer, the orange winter
jacket with the barely warm hood,
the handmade book that is now
the journal of tedious worrying
over the things my mouth touches
that my body refuses to forget,
the crumbs of tonight's numerous
snack foods and fleeting fulfillments,
two reddish pink pens issued by the school,
the stack of notebooks fingered loose,
atop the clipboard with the schedule,
curling up at the corners of each day,
the cellphone that denies the existence
of certain voices, especially
in crowded places--some think
it's a piece of crap, i think it is
just shy--the stray
hairs from last week,
the remainders of dirty jeans
rubbed all over with grimy hands,
dusty roads, the city's exhales,
exhaust, ecstasy, and i am
here, all sprawled, alone.
here: all sprawled: the camera,
the computer, the orange winter
jacket with the barely warm hood,
the handmade book that is now
the journal of tedious worrying
over the things my mouth touches
that my body refuses to forget,
the crumbs of tonight's numerous
snack foods and fleeting fulfillments,
two reddish pink pens issued by the school,
the stack of notebooks fingered loose,
atop the clipboard with the schedule,
curling up at the corners of each day,
the cellphone that denies the existence
of certain voices, especially
in crowded places--some think
it's a piece of crap, i think it is
just shy--the stray
hairs from last week,
the remainders of dirty jeans
rubbed all over with grimy hands,
dusty roads, the city's exhales,
exhaust, ecstasy, and i am
here, all sprawled, alone.
Gradiva imprisoned.
the town is down today.
the shops are closed.
in the restaurant, the wife
cooks and eats for herself
alone. and she grows fat.
when her husband comes
he will only smile. his words
are always kind. his jokes
well-padded like winter clothing.
there is protection against the cold
but when the skin thaws from the freeze
there is a moment of sharp unbearable
numbness. the pain that resides until
the feeling is lost on the nerves.
there is surrender. one adapts.
one is thankful for the sun
in this town of limited follies.
there is the daily madman
that hides until nightfall.
he waits for her then.
she does not know.
she waits for him, her
husband, who is late,
again. she eats, a spoon
to her face, slow and reflective.
she does not stop. this is all there is
to hold. this is all there is to the day.
outside is a place she cannot care for.
the husband is coming. the madman waits.
she does not know yet she is pregnant.
the shops are closed.
in the restaurant, the wife
cooks and eats for herself
alone. and she grows fat.
when her husband comes
he will only smile. his words
are always kind. his jokes
well-padded like winter clothing.
there is protection against the cold
but when the skin thaws from the freeze
there is a moment of sharp unbearable
numbness. the pain that resides until
the feeling is lost on the nerves.
there is surrender. one adapts.
one is thankful for the sun
in this town of limited follies.
there is the daily madman
that hides until nightfall.
he waits for her then.
she does not know.
she waits for him, her
husband, who is late,
again. she eats, a spoon
to her face, slow and reflective.
she does not stop. this is all there is
to hold. this is all there is to the day.
outside is a place she cannot care for.
the husband is coming. the madman waits.
she does not know yet she is pregnant.
translation.
neighboring chapters
warring in a table of contents:
the cyclical discontent droops above
the ruins. the eagle turns into the vulture.
you stare into a cereal bowl of the past
in two dimensions: a polaroid filmcard
cries dry. hollywood tears, a homecoming
of yesteryear stars, a welcoming that flows
from underneath
the rash.
nearby, the milkcow has just died.
the crippled nun stares at it
from across the way, her mind brandishing
a crown for the holy creature.
in which i see only the inside of my eyelids.
i do not like it.
you do not tell me
you are leaving.
i am not awake.
when i wake up
and you are gone
i have finally been
broken out
from a dream
suddenly alone
in a repeat
of a childhood.
my eyes are closed
and they all turn back
a memory that scares
the grown-up part.
you do not tell me
you are leaving.
i am not awake.
when i wake up
and you are gone
i have finally been
broken out
from a dream
suddenly alone
in a repeat
of a childhood.
my eyes are closed
and they all turn back
a memory that scares
the grown-up part.
the comfort of being close
so together feels like nothing
simple room temperature air
in the summer the sweat
gently sinking cotton sheets
the sun playing on curtain skin
in the winter you'd complain
so for the colic infant a blanket
and a hug to sooth the cries
a gesture often repeated
goes gently unnoticed
as fall with the leaves
drifting down
so calmly
no hurry
to reach a dying that happens
quietly life carries on without it
the comfort of being close
so together feels like nothing
simple room temperature air
in the summer the sweat
gently sinking cotton sheets
the sun playing on curtain skin
in the winter you'd complain
so for the colic infant a blanket
and a hug to sooth the cries
a gesture often repeated
goes gently unnoticed
as fall with the leaves
drifting down
so calmly
no hurry
to reach a dying that happens
quietly life carries on without it
the comfort of being close
the younger stranger on the train looks at you and you look back. you wonder if the stranger is looking at you because there's something about you, or because there's something on you. you're staring at each other when, finally, another stranger comes between your two gazes, trying to reach the designated seat as told by the ticket in hand.
she is your age. she looks normal, and is sitting as normal people tend to do. her right hand is concentrated on an object of interest on her left hand, her index and middle finger occupied by the comfortably routine task of turning a silver ring round and round.
you feel tempted to ask her about the ring she keeps in motion: the hand is running on a schedule, programmed to carry out a most unchallenging sisyphean act...not in boredom, but in waiting.
she is your age. she looks normal, and is sitting as normal people tend to do. her right hand is concentrated on an object of interest on her left hand, her index and middle finger occupied by the comfortably routine task of turning a silver ring round and round.
you feel tempted to ask her about the ring she keeps in motion: the hand is running on a schedule, programmed to carry out a most unchallenging sisyphean act...not in boredom, but in waiting.
how it began: the interim; the leftover meal.
prologue.
in the beginning there were words, so we began with words, and with words we were.
when the day came we didn't know. in place of words, an eternal waiting: from one to the other we threw a string, fishing for each other's missing parts: a hand to grasp on to, and two lips to speak. when favorite moments of the night ran blank like paper burning into smoke, a terror escaped. from the place between our ribs to the door of one of our nostrils, it tore at the air inside like a restless infant, and upon arrival was expelled by a long exhale.
...
our heads too heavy for our age say nothing for the fear but think without paying heed to the lights at the intersection which are forever green, even when yellow, even when red, even when our police car tails us with its sirens screeching: we run out from underneath the law of restraints we'd set in place and the smell of the sweets you had smelled are always delicious, because you'd never tasted. bones lost in the soft skin like any other soft skin, in any other bed, on a cloud of cigarette smoke wandering like chronic drifters in a crowded bar
we wish we could be mature about this like our parents were, when they were still married.
one day we will, and we will hate our selves for betraying us.
...
epilogue.
some nights it rained; some nights it snowed. but the lines remained so still, frozen into winter. fingers grew cold. and the words never showed.
and so the fishermen gave up their posts, and returned home to remove their boots. that night they waited for their wives' voice to melt, warmed in memories that had been frozen for too long. there was nothing else on the dinner table.
in the beginning there were words, so we began with words, and with words we were.
when the day came we didn't know. in place of words, an eternal waiting: from one to the other we threw a string, fishing for each other's missing parts: a hand to grasp on to, and two lips to speak. when favorite moments of the night ran blank like paper burning into smoke, a terror escaped. from the place between our ribs to the door of one of our nostrils, it tore at the air inside like a restless infant, and upon arrival was expelled by a long exhale.
...
our heads too heavy for our age say nothing for the fear but think without paying heed to the lights at the intersection which are forever green, even when yellow, even when red, even when our police car tails us with its sirens screeching: we run out from underneath the law of restraints we'd set in place and the smell of the sweets you had smelled are always delicious, because you'd never tasted. bones lost in the soft skin like any other soft skin, in any other bed, on a cloud of cigarette smoke wandering like chronic drifters in a crowded bar
we wish we could be mature about this like our parents were, when they were still married.
one day we will, and we will hate our selves for betraying us.
...
epilogue.
some nights it rained; some nights it snowed. but the lines remained so still, frozen into winter. fingers grew cold. and the words never showed.
and so the fishermen gave up their posts, and returned home to remove their boots. that night they waited for their wives' voice to melt, warmed in memories that had been frozen for too long. there was nothing else on the dinner table.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
