it’s a cold basement gray outside
the phone disrupts a simple quiet
severed from the outdoors
by a lazy quest for warm and dry
houseplants languish beside the clothes-
rack drooped with lycra garments
triangular beaks of seagulls on the Japanese bedspread
flash across their dim ochre sky
downstairs fake gunshots ring out in an electronic splash
and traverse various spinal nerves
notice the lure of sleep reflected in the tuxedo
cat curled on the purple couch
angel selves overlap
data fills empathic void
perforations impasse
challenge opposite coasts
weather eradicates evidence
friends bridge a new cirque
the archivist
and the sculptor
lust after geometric application
nothing comes between
these earth seams
divots in ice
alone in melt
circular glow
cities blend reflective vision
dive into another loss
swirl without years end
and bleed into currency
shaped for imaginary
disappearance the strands
disconsolate and empty
a blown-out future
meager modulation
hoped for shadow casts
a cirque of uncertainty
the volume turns up
on global melt
down
the great fog
of death provokes
insomnia
slow twitch fibers require
more time to kick-in
the skinny PT encourages
use of vaginal weights
while she stands at her sink
rinses organic lettuce
pulls the string on the spinner
15 minutes into her body
repetitive contractions peak
in a bright red line
on the computer screen
she bends her knees
lifts inside herself
deep central levator
ani up toward core-heart
keeps breathing and talks
her way through death
weans her child
flattens her belly
supports her waning bladder
they take more oxygen
she realizes, as if breath
might be the answer once again
the rami formed in terror
disrupted slow build
reinforced quick-twitch
and she flew in fear, shivered
quaked, held her breath
let go of the power built
in solitary silence
that which lifts us over time
we echo like some awful
remake poorly filtered
cross our arms and look
down on the trendy
grimace of the ten
year old as he confronts
his empty wishing well
full of cell phone fantasy
and late night swims
hidden in the dark
a place our aging
hearts rarely venture
that death place
that earliest fall
it is the echo
of myself I want
to talk to
now out
of the ashes
to tell me
how this story-frond
unfurls
replicated boys
gather over and over
brotherly lovely
grief stilled
in peripheral urns
boxed and bound
banter ricochets
across rooms
or via satellite
everyone ends up
laughing at the same
songs the winning score
when my tall son smiled
near the end of his season
after another 3 points
years of bleachers
hidden sorrows
grave visits mellowed
tell her she knew
how to grow into
this future self
let her in on a secret
the story is easy
follow the path
Ahh, the dangers
of a symbolic mind,
so connected to detritus,
so fond of the fading water
stain on a poster-tube
with its blue Par Avion sticker
still intact.
it’s good paper, I think
as the mauve pile
slips into the printer-slot
his bold font choice
faced away
the list of gigs obsolete
my play is all about the dead
how their voices echo
and I print it out
with a smirk
it’s still too soon to write
his character out of my head
what, with the old vice grips
yet to sell, these resumes to recycle
and the earlier deaths to purge