Transparency
What are you made of,
mime with painted palms
and sweaty bare
feet? How much longer
can you take in the air
all that empty space, the caiman
leaves for you to breathe?
Frail frame, proceed
and tune the white organza
mesh for the screen-painting
your imagination seeks.
When the canvas dries
don’t forget to wipe
the crowded cell
in which you’ve
always lived.
Showing posts with label poems: issue 3. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poems: issue 3. Show all posts
Friday, May 28, 2010
Sherry O'Keefe
Five White Pickup Trucks
I made a deal with myself when I saw five white pickups
in a row stopped at the Lake Elmo traffic light. My kids
say I don’t notice things. (But I am aware of patterns in
the street.) Four blue jeeps, three purple bugs strung out
at the light means I drive to work along a different route.
To notice things. To pay attention. Break up my routine.
This time I drove over the Rims, down into the valley on
a tore up road. I waved to the flagman with a pink ribbon
on his hazard-yellow vest. The dozer was carving so close
to Yellowstone Kelly’s Grave I shivered, yet noticed
the earthmover had rubber tires and a 12 foot wide blade. When
I worked in trucking, I was paid to pay attention. Oversize
permits, special routes, small red stop signs for the pilot car.
It was good to feel in synch again, to be present in the moment.
My change from the Burger King lady was warm in her cold hand,
little kids in the crosswalk skipped instead of walked. I pulled
into work, feeling vibrant and alert; joined the men looking out
the windows at our parking lot. Did I notice, they asked,
the circus was in town: three gray elephants being watered
50 feet from where I parked my truck.
I made a deal with myself when I saw five white pickups
in a row stopped at the Lake Elmo traffic light. My kids
say I don’t notice things. (But I am aware of patterns in
the street.) Four blue jeeps, three purple bugs strung out
at the light means I drive to work along a different route.
To notice things. To pay attention. Break up my routine.
This time I drove over the Rims, down into the valley on
a tore up road. I waved to the flagman with a pink ribbon
on his hazard-yellow vest. The dozer was carving so close
to Yellowstone Kelly’s Grave I shivered, yet noticed
the earthmover had rubber tires and a 12 foot wide blade. When
I worked in trucking, I was paid to pay attention. Oversize
permits, special routes, small red stop signs for the pilot car.
It was good to feel in synch again, to be present in the moment.
My change from the Burger King lady was warm in her cold hand,
little kids in the crosswalk skipped instead of walked. I pulled
into work, feeling vibrant and alert; joined the men looking out
the windows at our parking lot. Did I notice, they asked,
the circus was in town: three gray elephants being watered
50 feet from where I parked my truck.
Dorothee Lang
Society of Swans
She had drifted
into this place before,
many times, her head ducked low,
her thoughts surrounded
by a spiral of options
they bestowed her,
drew her into their ring
then left her
forlorn
like a new species
raised by the world
in this bed of feathers,
eyes covered
by a folding so warm
& blind
Jeff Klooger
Another Day
A mist of sand sweeps off the dunes.
Outside the lonely shack with the rattler’s tail
spinning in the desert breeze and slapping a tune
on the king of hearts, a bike leans on its own. Two more
will soon arrive, and the riders, hard men
with wild, flowing hair and death-dealing eyes,
will join their friend inside. That cop looks like a man
but talks like a woman. What does that mean? He/she will die soon
just the same, punched clear across the room
by a single round straight to the chest.
His/her partner too will die. Such things are
unavoidable out here, beyond the reach
of civil laws and customs. Later the cops will get one back,
blasting a bowser and a suspect together
in a cloud of orange flame. The burning man stumbles a bit,
confused at his strange fortune, then sinks down,
a heap of blackened evidence.
The next victim sings to his own tune, relaxed
and free at last in the back of a prison bus. In no time
the bikers arrive, shattering the day with hungry bullets,
tipping the bus into an oncoming truck, the twin behemoths
waltzing across the highway in a flurry of dust
and debris. Who would have thought our hero
could survive; but he does, he did, he will,
all the way to the sweet (not bitter) end, when he and his partner
will solve the whole damn mess with a few deft moves
and a shit-load of ammunition. It’s like that here
on the mean and hilly streets.
Elsewhere in black and white, a woman imagines
she’s in the presence of God, prays and dances and writhes
on her lonely bed. She blows a kiss, peers back
at her feet, trembles and rocks, tears off her clothes,
arches her back and sighs. It only ends
when the voice stops, when the apertures
that let the men observe her torment
slide shut.
The truth is we are all voyeurs, recording
the symptoms of night’s untreatable disease.
A convoy of limousines will close the deal
and lead us at last towards tomorrow’s thrill-packed instalment,
armed with a raft of brand new hopes and dreams, some pale regrets
and a brain-pan full of old obsessions.
A mist of sand sweeps off the dunes.
Outside the lonely shack with the rattler’s tail
spinning in the desert breeze and slapping a tune
on the king of hearts, a bike leans on its own. Two more
will soon arrive, and the riders, hard men
with wild, flowing hair and death-dealing eyes,
will join their friend inside. That cop looks like a man
but talks like a woman. What does that mean? He/she will die soon
just the same, punched clear across the room
by a single round straight to the chest.
His/her partner too will die. Such things are
unavoidable out here, beyond the reach
of civil laws and customs. Later the cops will get one back,
blasting a bowser and a suspect together
in a cloud of orange flame. The burning man stumbles a bit,
confused at his strange fortune, then sinks down,
a heap of blackened evidence.
The next victim sings to his own tune, relaxed
and free at last in the back of a prison bus. In no time
the bikers arrive, shattering the day with hungry bullets,
tipping the bus into an oncoming truck, the twin behemoths
waltzing across the highway in a flurry of dust
and debris. Who would have thought our hero
could survive; but he does, he did, he will,
all the way to the sweet (not bitter) end, when he and his partner
will solve the whole damn mess with a few deft moves
and a shit-load of ammunition. It’s like that here
on the mean and hilly streets.
Elsewhere in black and white, a woman imagines
she’s in the presence of God, prays and dances and writhes
on her lonely bed. She blows a kiss, peers back
at her feet, trembles and rocks, tears off her clothes,
arches her back and sighs. It only ends
when the voice stops, when the apertures
that let the men observe her torment
slide shut.
The truth is we are all voyeurs, recording
the symptoms of night’s untreatable disease.
A convoy of limousines will close the deal
and lead us at last towards tomorrow’s thrill-packed instalment,
armed with a raft of brand new hopes and dreams, some pale regrets
and a brain-pan full of old obsessions.
Frederick Jackson
Las Hormigas
They pour though this tiny hole
No larger than a pinhead
Down the tile grouting
And out across the countertop they flow
A tidy stream of living dots …
***
“WHAT DO ANTS HAVE TO DO WITH ART?!!!”
Yells dragon lady, top heavy
With bust, bangles, hairdo and makeup
Nearly knocking me out of my chair
And wrecking me for a week
***
Now I see this line of tourists
Filing down Matamoros Street
The block is short, the sidewalk narrow
And hewing to the wall they seem
The Word made Flesh, the providential
A… r…
n… t…
s…
w…
e…
r…
To the Lady’s question
They pour though this tiny hole
No larger than a pinhead
Down the tile grouting
And out across the countertop they flow
A tidy stream of living dots …
***
“WHAT DO ANTS HAVE TO DO WITH ART?!!!”
Yells dragon lady, top heavy
With bust, bangles, hairdo and makeup
Nearly knocking me out of my chair
And wrecking me for a week
***
Now I see this line of tourists
Filing down Matamoros Street
The block is short, the sidewalk narrow
And hewing to the wall they seem
The Word made Flesh, the providential
A… r…
n… t…
s…
w…
e…
r…
To the Lady’s question
Kyle Hemmings
The Colonel's Younger Lover
Among other things, all her lovers are stale, imitations of imitations. They hold umbrellas over Paris & have no sense of blue fifth jazz. When it rains, it doesn't necessarily pour a healthy broth. All wars are on hold. At the window, she is cabbage-patch sad and confides in toy dogs. Memory is a polka of exhausted I-told-you-so's. In the distance, there are insipid pinwheels that upon squinting turn out to be the neighbors. She turns. The maroon dress, one-piece and bought at a bargain, falls to the floor. Today, she gets naked for no one. The windows stay neutral like Switzerland. She's a demure alp of fog, a slip of misplaced vanity. At the knock on the door, everything will be alphabet clear, reassembled with the old stiches. The corners of the room recede in their erogenous dust. Sure.
Among other things, all her lovers are stale, imitations of imitations. They hold umbrellas over Paris & have no sense of blue fifth jazz. When it rains, it doesn't necessarily pour a healthy broth. All wars are on hold. At the window, she is cabbage-patch sad and confides in toy dogs. Memory is a polka of exhausted I-told-you-so's. In the distance, there are insipid pinwheels that upon squinting turn out to be the neighbors. She turns. The maroon dress, one-piece and bought at a bargain, falls to the floor. Today, she gets naked for no one. The windows stay neutral like Switzerland. She's a demure alp of fog, a slip of misplaced vanity. At the knock on the door, everything will be alphabet clear, reassembled with the old stiches. The corners of the room recede in their erogenous dust. Sure.
Molly Gaudry
Happy Easter, Meg
for Meg Harris
You'd think, if your balloon lost
all its float, that maybe you'd besad, but look here, take note:
there is a lesson to be learned;
this girl's rising might be seen
as fearlessness, her toes, pointed
as they are, as arrows leading
the way, and the simple fact
that her skirt's hem isn't
fluttering, as proof that miracles
do happen and a yellow balloon
can act, in times of need, as an
anchor -- a bright bit of stability.
What is the Story of Legs?
for Tim Jones-Yelvington
What do you think is happening here?
To what extent is this image doctored,
posed, fabricated, and why? For what
reason? Or do you think it might be
a picture of some rare, beautiful truth?
I love those yellow shoes. That's no lie.
Who do you think these legs belong to?
What are the stories of those legs? How
did they get so golden-hued and strong?
How many others' legs have touched
those legs? What is the story of legs?
Have you ever considered your own?
I can't say I have, truth be told. But I
imagine this is not the case for many,
especially those who do not have them,
or do not have the use of them. What
does it mean to use? I am probably
guilty of abusing my legs, at one time
or another. And for this I feel ashamed
of my own impossible and meaningless
methods of destruction. These legs will
outlast me. The stories they could tell
you about who I am, was, might want
to be some day soon. Just ask them.
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