Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Fifth Season - in progress

it is the season of skinny girls
like mad tulips, mini
skirts and stalk
legs appear and dance
on the concrete,
on the tiled floors of bars,
that 3 out of 4
seasons
are occupied
by old men. but
it is not their season.
(it is the season
of skinny girls)

i sit, curved about
in this wasteland
of here and now.

you ask me
what it is like
to be recycled, refound
and i cannot
reply.

i switch-stop weekly,
abandoning this vessel
or cradling it,
wishing for the grave
or baptism.
i am not one of them.

that life is not mine,
i have abandoned my
stalk legs -
i prefer to let
my blood crawl and drip
sometimes over folds,
often under
my own bones' light.

i do not dance
on concrete,
i am a creature of
the fifth season
for which
there is no bloom.

Scenes

I.
he sighed entering the room
his long coat resembling
her forlorn expression
he longed to hear
some tune of Chopin,
Haydn, Mozart
but only silence pervaded.
she did not know what
she lost, he thought.
she couldn't understand,
broken,
a long coat kissing
a lost breeze.

II.
she stared blankly ahead
focusing actually at his
coat's dangling pockets,
empty if for some crumbled papers
(she imagined) l
ost revelations or prophecies.
he stood as if he had known
this was coming.

III.
an inconsiderable loss,
a father, still the silence
prolonged, no notes produced,
his hands ruffled in long
pockets full of
dead matches and butt-ends
relics of secret anxiety.
(if only the moment could take hold ! )
he wondered
if beyond this inscrutible gap
anything more existed
loss of time, space, place.

IV.
she was at once full and empty,
at a complete loss of
life, explanation
replete of rest, pain
numb.
her mind a blanket of
white canvas,
existing only to wait
for his affirmation of
some outer shell of
life
as if their interior were simply
some addition, some embellishment
of truth, rather than the reverse.

a variation on reality

a piece of you departs
with each parting word
taking more of me
and i wonder
if those silent nights
left me with more of
you, me
who am i left, anymore
than what this
frogstance, leaplining
communication bears?
reaching across for
your replacement
a bottle, a book,
placing yellow bricks
and donkey head alike
in your empty chair,
the 5 o'clock shadow
grows, if not
around your cheeks
bearing your toothful
grin truth,
then around my s
oft, irredescent
secrets, stamped and
waiting for your approval.