Obituary

When did the color leave the trees

And the locks go back

on the swimming pool gates?

I can hear the distant banging of drums

and the irrelevant cheers of maniacal fans

The cats are leaving the mice alone

And strawberries have been replaced by gourds

Sunday’s crossword just like any other

Monday’s just a few hands away

Today I read the obituaries

Just to be sure my name wasn’t there

Three Course Meal with a Digestif

Shall I?
Shall I, then?
Beneath the flickering
green light
that marks the doorway
at the end of the narrow alley.
His breath too close
A brush of his lips
This kiss
opens me up
and I become pink
a flamingo
opening its wings.

It is unclear where I am.
The light forces its way
through the curtains
and paradise is interrupted.
Across the small gray room
A basket of ripe apples
sits atop the wooden table
with a bottle of wine
and the carcass of some
fowl creature.
Am I inside
the artist's frame as well?
Nude beneath the sheet
I have been devoured
Yet feel strangely
satiated.
Two roaches scurry
into some secret place.
Am I being watched?
I stretch my legs
my arms and back.
My hands travel
across my soft belly
I sigh, remembering.
The touch of his lips
the roughness of his chin
between my thighs.
What is the time?
Will he return?

Hands apply the salve
I can't see the face
of this would-be healer.
Voices; I cannot answer
questions I don't fathom.
Bees tending busily
Can't they leave
an old lady alone?
I am a prayer
Let me sleep.

There is, at last, a mélange
of apples, flamingos
and a green flickering light.

01/17/2010

Owl

Eastern Screech Owl, megascops asio
photo, Raptor Trust, New Jersey

An owl - -

And I am reminded

That death awaits me.

Patient:

Watching its intended

Picking its own time.

Then swoop!

Down from the sturdy branch;

Lunging at its prey.

Movements

So sure -- confirm the truth;

Pity has no place.

Closing

The blinds, I return to

Washing the dishes.

The Glass Armonica

WIlliam Zeitler, dressed as Benjamin Franklin, who invented the instrument

It sits on its wooden platform

Its center, a long tube of cork.

Glass rings of various sizes,

And on one end, a crank.

When he wets his fingers,

And lays them gently atop the spheres,

Then slowly turns the crank,

A miracle occurs.

And we are reminded of ponies,

brightly painted, on carousels;

Of children all bundled in rich velvet coats

While snowflakes fall on Christmas Eve

And crystal bells sing out with joy.

We remember a time,

Which never was ours,

A time awakened in our hearts

By the glass armonica. 

The Oubliette

Black
Black is that state
that place void of colors
The night sky without stars
Without the heat from the suns
Black is the place small children fear
to fall into at night when the lights go out
Black is the color over her face
Hiding her smile or is it her frown
Black makes her appear like the others
Black covering a face and another and another
Black takes away who she is
Young or old strong or weak
The softest of skin
Or scarred and bruised
Black hides her body hides her being
Black is the only color allowed
no place for self-expression
A sea of women
hidden in black
Standing in line
Walking the shops
I don't know her
I don't know them
Not a single one
Draped from head to toe
She wears her oubliette
She must not be
She cannot be
We must not feel
Her pains or joys
Should her soul fly
upward
outward
into the world
becoming songs
and prayers
and laughter
What would become
Of the world then?
No No No
Behind the black
She becomes the black
The space without
the shining stars
Forget her forget them
Let her remain
In oblivion.

07/04/2010

North

Seattle #2 (2002) by John Scane

At a glacier's pace
then shall it be?
Waiting for the dripple drip
from icicles which guard my windows
Covered in frost that never clears.

I know about glaciers.
You just have to look at the map
to see the five sisters.
There is the power that comes
from something that barely moves.

Do you think
the earth beneath my feet
shall not be changed in an eon?
I know that I am made of dust,
But find it curious
that feelings seem to be composed
of radical particles
with half lives greater than
the age of dinosaurs.

I despise the snow.
I care not
that each flake is singular
I only know that winds help build
impassable drifts
And that there can be no magic
found in white.

At night, which falls too soon,
and lingers in the morning,
like an unwanted lover,
At night, you can almost hear
death howling like wolves
or when a chunk of snow drops
suddenly and all at once
from the limbs of the fir tree.

My palette is caked
with dried up colors,
long since used and discarded.
And all I do is look to the south
for the beating wings which never come.

09/13/2009

South

Caribbean (2003) by John Scane

You light your cigar
knowing the smoke offends me
You wave it off
As you remark
about how down here
everything tastes better.
I reply pointing out
how the colors
are more intense
And we each look around
for the waiter.

Later we walk
through the plaza
around the old fountain
and through an archway
moving towards a melody
hidden around the corner.

It is so balmy
even at this late hour
I watch the sweat crawl
down your forehead
You seem not to notice
as you chew on your toothpick.

Everything unravels
at its own pace
Here I can dream
that time will crawl
Slowing at last to
complete rest.

I remember later
as I lay on the lump
we call a mattress
still too hot to sleep
I remember before
we crossed the border
Before the crimes
When there was still
A chance of meeting God.

You told me
we are all sinners
We come into the world as such
and leave the same way
And there is no sense
in pretending
or lying to ourselves.

I keep all doubts to myself.
Wasn't there a time
before these warm turquoise seas
and tequila filled glasses
when I was strong and full of faith?
When I was honest like a sour lemon?

I long to make love
the way we used to
that first spring
when you were a promise.
Tomorrow, you said,
we will take a jaunt
to that little island
maybe have a picnic.
But I worry about the flies
And whether that local
really knows how to sail.

What is all this
but a bus stop
In a place of last year’s

Posters and sidewalks
are never repaired?

The girls in their frocks
colored red, yellow, white;
They move like flowers
blown by a strong wind
Laughing freely
And the boys run to see
There have always been girls
and boys that will chase
Your eyes follow
you can't help it
you are a man.

I can write them down
or speak them aloud
It matters not.
Infidelity, betrayal,
theft, murder, deceit.
Which sins are yours
and which are mine?

Life is all lies
You remind me again
How they lie to themselves
to their bosses, just for a paycheck
How they lust after the girl
sitting at the next table at lunch
How they say they are fine
though fists yearn to squeeze life
out of the man across the counter.

Does it make it better
To give birth to the scream
Drag it across the craggy landscape
And call its carnage truth?
Down here you don't ask
what brought you here
We're all running
Though the scenery is bueno
and the alcohol barato.
Let's go back, Tex,
One last hurrah.
To hell with them all
I'd rather go in a blaze
in a violent moment
of failed glory.

You laugh, remind me
this is not 1889.
Then let us be spies,
Let us be tourists,
let us be anything
but what we are.

09/15/2009