Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Expectation is faulty reality.
Except music.
Expect music to move wave-like
and tumble down the drone
as though the souls of words
are frigates or freighters or rowboats
bow bent to arguments to laments
of how it might have been if only
if only the drummer had not become
lost in the discordant rhythms
of vowels and consonants
constantly breaking against each event
with a variable length
of arguments. As though the sun
resting on an arm
dripping into an embrace arrives
one syllable at a time
One chord at a time
each bit perceived as noise
and not as love.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

That Point in the Receiving Line When

In your eyes I hear angels humming absence down a dangled line of stepping stones
and touch points
and a blank white sheet encloses the place where words have withered or escaped
the malaise
which is a card house of actions in the retina of a maelstrom of extended hands

each hand stretched to what was consumed long ago as slight as soup as misplaced
simile defining
how you and why you and what you when the sun danced its erratic tango of small
stagger steps
masquerading perception and action became reaction and laughter in a dark theatre

as when the hero understands everything has been a joke a sham and death is simply

the void
which
humming
angels
fill.

Wednesday, March 09, 2011

Foresight

There’s sun-streak on red bricks near the front door and bay picture
window. A wrought-iron chair doesn’t dance or curtsy to the wrought-iron
table. Glasses are set on the concrete porch. They once held wine.
A paperback is open to page one hundred and seventy-eight.
The heroine is still a virgin. The neighbour’s dog barks as he accelerates
towards the pale orange ball. Ants have constructed ant hills between
stepping-stones. A yellow-jacket explores the side yard. This is Tuesday.
Yesterday was Monday. The lawn was mowed on Saturday. It will need
to be watered on Thursday. The house is too close to the airport
landing path. The wine bottle is in the kitchen. You’re wearing a light
white top. March is uncomfortable. The weather forecasts waffle
between blinding snow and pouring rain.