A place to sit

There was probably a gate there once
Or maybe no fence at all and the yard was open

These stone steps all crowded with ivy
And traffic on Whitney

They Lead up
But now up there is just a fence without a gate

Shopped the waste

On the ubiquitous park bench
Cackling like hand rolled cigarettes
They discussed bum politics

Oil matte hair
Gritty old hat laughter
Discussing bum politics

Their life beside them
In things in thin bars

Bird cage vagabonds
Whistling vague testaments
Free of charge

Rain proof polyester stuff for bad days

Empty bottles and cans and plastic bags
Of uncertain store and origin

They got it all

And all they need is a good, sturdy carriage

Most Importantly, Philip Glass


It had been a long time since I heard someone play the piano right there in front of me
Xavier was his name, a concert pianist from Spain
He married, moved here and finished his career
Never wrote his own music, he thought, How?
There is so much beauty already

We had the auditorium all to ourselves
Big and empty, all lit up but cavernous

I asked him to play when I realized I hadn't heard him before
When I realized, most likely, that I wouldn't get the chance again

Before he did, he apologized, saying he remembered only a few pieces

Once he started, he struggled, at first, against a sticking D and rusty fingers
But still, he played for me

I struggled myself
I had not slept the night before and was weak with translucency
Or excess caffeine
And lied down on the floor below the stage
Before a row of seats

I stared up at the high ceiling
And the convex domes of glass that adorned it

Like bug-eyed rolls of light, they rang down little halos, wet
And vibrantly reflective of the music
And reflective of the liquid where the swimming light became sentiment
Raining down and counter-playing
Mad Rush
And
Mad Rush
And
Mad rush

A multitude

A lullaby to hypnotize and roll you up inside

A reintroduction to a lover: a girl who played piano herself, for me a time ago
Where I find myself again, in our tiny tomb, that claustrophobic practice room,
With fury stamped and stamping in your wrists, on and with your wrists and breast
And pounding with your shaking fingers, those arched and fierce and shaking fingers
That look to hold to keep your scarred and tender figure safe

Safe from crashing to the keys and receding in defeat

Your clambering bracelets like tambourines
And that tangled hair all frizzed about

With your back to me I disappeared
Into a peculiar brand of intimacy

There in the auditorium it was almost sleeping

Solely calm, the music played me like a dream

A question to the bastard who first laid a finger on the cave wall

Did you have any idea of what that finger held
All ground up and wet on its end?

Did you ever think your antlered god
Might one day gore the Earth?

I can’t blame you for wanting to draw him,
For wanting to show, as exactly as you could,
The figure that came to you in your dream.

I understand your lack of choice,
How you had no words to speak of his image,
Words like the bends of his tongue and throat.

How his sounds were familiar, but were not,
And persisted as the kind of blotch on your vision
That blinking does not clear, the kind that comes
When you watch a fire too long, or stare at the sun.

How his voice sputtered and carried. How it varied
In pitch and carried as your fires echo in the cave.

It did not rise from the gut, nor was it coarse
Like for the noises made at all the simple things
You run from, touch and eat. It was less dense,
Like a touch to water versus a touch to stone,
Giving and inconsistent.

But unlike most things which come in dreams, the sounds
And from where they came remained. You did not have to
Struggle to remember them come morning. You had to
Struggle to imagine what to make of them come noon.


-----


Spit and ash,
Spit and ash
In your palm,
On your finger.

By the light of a fire you made for this purpose,
Spit and ash in your palm and on your finger.

First came the antlers, branching from a head.
The neck and shoulders followed on
To waist and legs and feet.

You spat and dipped your fingers in the ash
And made certain his lines were thick and clear.

When you were finished, the others had returned
For the evening and their feast of meats and greens.
You ate little, waiting until they were full before you
Bade them follow, grabbing arms and a log from the fire.

You lead them to that far off corner
Where your spit and ash were laid.

The breathing of the others grew quiet upon the sight.
One stepped out and reached his hand to touch
The figure, but faltered, and looked
To you instead.

They wondered,
And looked to you
For how this shape had come
Upon the wall. You had brought them
But, with their eyes, they demanded more.

Of what, they were not sure and nor were you,
But a reminiscent glimmer emerged with their questioning,
A look in their eyes like you had seen first the night before,
That had come with the antlered figure who spoke his words.
And of those words, which on to you were only sounds,
Three syllables rose above the rest. You thought,
Remembered them, and pointed to the wall.

You spoke that word,
Just as the antlered god had,
And they all repeated what you said.



***********

i kind of plan on this being the begging of the poem, is that a bad idea? would i be milking a dead horse, kinda?

Sterling

In a cloister in a city,
Traffic beyond the walls
Sounds a hum drone, passive, lifeless
But for horns- horns-
That call out from the streets.

A cornered enclave of stonework
Harbors strange stonework
Ivy and armored crusaders,
Proud in stained glass,
With lions at their feet.

They stand guard over cigarette
Ends, dead leaves, and litter,
Humorlessly, dutifully
Watching themselves,
Forever, stand in place.