anything i can get you?
on the floor (a vignette)
a chair a table a desk another chair
one that swivels
with adjustable heights
black leather
and of course a floor
I drop something on the floor
a morsel of food
the dog has noticed
and the morsel of food is gone
it is raining outside
the rain is good for the flowers and vegetables
but it makes the grass grow too fast
the lawnmower is in the shed
still wet from the last workout
for now I stay inside
I pour a glass of wine red
chilean
and sit on the chair at the table by the window
my feet are on the floor
I look outside
and watch the rain make everything wet
it is sunday
that smell (a vignette)
varying from night to night their numbers have been rather unpredictable but there had always been some that is until tonight tonight there are none not even one this is a new reality for as long as he has been here the possibility of none had never crossed his or anyone else's mind upon his arrival he had been encouraged to consult the manuals if there was anything he was not sure about they had shown him the metal filing cabinet that contained those manuals the manuals they had informed him were located in the top drawer looking around he spots the metal filing cabinet holding the manuals he stands motionless gazing at it ten perhaps eleven paces separate him from the metal filing cabinet again he looks around then he slowly walks towards it he stops right in front of it hesitates cocks his head as if straining to hear something there is a light barely visible shake of his head and his eyes focus on the top drawer of the metal filing cabinet not daring to move a muscle he stares at it for a few seconds then resolutely grabs the handle pushes the release button and pulls the drawer towards him it is crammed from front to back with binders some are yellow others (most actually) red there is the occasional blue one and one is white he chooses that one first he pushes all the ones in front of it towards him to make pulling it out easier it is a thin binder this white one and when he opens it he finds that except for half a dozen or so page dividers it is empty he appears puzzled or lost or sad or troubled seconds pass before he returns it to exactly the same spot from where he had extracted it a blue one next he decides but when he watches his hand hover over one of the four blue binders he again hesitates and eventually decides it's not the one he wants after all instead he zeroes in on the ninth red binder it is a random choice he tells himself he grabs it but just when he is about to open it he tilts his head and sniffs the air that smell that smell he suddenly realizes is not there even with only a few that smell had always been there but not tonight fuck he misses that smell
feast (a poem?)
circles of light
in a one o'clock sky
illuminating nothing
just hanging there
flecks of white
race
to an invisible finishline
wood and steel
scrape and groan
underneath a generous caribou
howls and barks
slice through the indigo afternoon
tonight a feast
for man and beast
not yet winter
their usefulness surrendered
to a frosty breeze
leaves yellow red and brown
crunch and crackle
beneath my boots
all around me
wildrose bushes
shamelessly flaunt their bright red hips
while
shivering along this winding trail
naked trees
long for winter's cover
and above me
piercing the monotony of a leaden sky
multitudes of geese
noisily follow their leaders
tis not yet winter
drumbeats
asks a man tearing rorschachs from his mind
of the woman painting a pair of scissors
zinc white:
did you hear the seventeen drumbeats?
no,
she replies,
I heard one drumbeat seventeen times.
somewhere between the laundry basket
and the train station
a lie washes ashore
jones (a daydream)
jones is coming?i ask
yes, he replies, jones is coming
sylvester jones??
yes, dad, sylvester jones
sylvester jones is coming here
what the fuck for?
he always comes here, dad
is something broken ?
i look around
being ostentatiously thorough
no dad, his tone teetering on the impatient
nothing is broken
then, what the fuck!
the room (a vignette)
the long metal key turns grudgingly in the lock.
the door clad in drab green, or is it brown? opens with a groan
as he slowly pushes it into the room.
about to enter, he furtively glances left and right, then quickly steps in.
it is a small room and the dark beige wallpaper with the large maroon floral designs makes it appear even smaller.
directly across from the door in the corner is a chair, a wooden one, with a high back.
three paces to the left is the only window and below that the radiator.
he touches it, it is ice cold.
a shiver ripples through his body.
the window is slightly open; a grimy faded pink lace curtain flutters in the breeze that blows in
the smells and sounds from the harbour: fish, rope, oil, salt, the grinding wheels of the cranes,
the thuds of the pellets hitting the ground and the shouts from the longshoremen.
for a few moments he stands motionless , not seeing, not hearing.
he decides to close the window, but it won't budge.
he swears and turns around.
the single bed with a flimsy brown and grey quilt is flanked by a night table on one side and a waste paper basket on the other.
the headboard has seen better days, but then again, what in this room hasn't.
he walks past the bed to the porcelain wash basin on the other side.
the mirror above it has a crack in the lower right hand corner.
he turns the tap and a loud hoarse gasp is followed by a thin stream of water trickling onto an
orange/brown stain around the drain.
he shrugs, closes the tap, briefly looks at himself in the mirror and turns towards the coat rack that stands between the wash basin and
the door. it has three hangers and some hooks.
he takes off his coat and hangs it on one of the hooks.
he hesitates, looks at the chair in the corner, walks over, picks it up
and places it next to the coat rack.
he drapes his jacket over the back of the chair.
his tie as well as his shirt he hangs on one of the hangers.
sitting on the edge of the bed, he takes off his shoes and socks and lines them up under the chair.
he unbuckles his belt; he neatly folds his trousers and after stuffing his briefs in one of the pockets,
hangs them over the second hanger.
finally, naked, he pulls back the covers on the bed and lies down on the cool white sheet
he covers himself with the flimsy brown and grey quilt.
and stares at the single lightbulb dangling on its cord from the tobacco stained ceiling.
the green bottle (a vignette)
it all began when
no
let me explain
the human memory is the most fickle and unreliable of instruments
on this planet
moments we dearly wish to hang onto forever vanish in the mists of time
while those we desperately seek to forget haunt us nearly every minute of every day
thus she may well be forgiven for believing that the moment it all began was when amidst
the flotsam and jetsam she encountered on her walk along the late afternoon beach she spotted a bright green bottle.
but of course it wasn't
in his cabin on board a trawler ten years earlier a 17-year old fisherman scribbles his name, address, age and the date on a piece of paper, rolls it up and places it in a bright green empty bottle which he seals with the original cork and tosses it overboard.
tonight like every night for the past two months she watches the sun's fiery descent into the ocean as she strolls along this lonely stretch of beach
she shouts out his name and tells him he is going to be a father.
and tonight like every night for the past two months
she kneels down amidst the flotsam and jetsam and reaches for the bright green bottle
smoke (a vignette)
i'll give you fifty for it, he says, pointing with a hand holding half a cigarette between thumb and index finger.
the movement causes the ash to drop into his palm.
he cocks his head and looks at me with eyes that are awaiting a response.
i say nothing.
he brings the cigarette to his lips again, takes a long drag, tilts his head back slightly and slowly
lets the smoke escape.
i remain silent and point to an empty coffee can when he asks with a gesture where to dispose of the butt.
i am aware of his vulnerability now and i take the four twenties he hands me.
untitled (a poem)
empty voices
dressed in familiar shapes
white umbrellas
above a cement floor
a scorched saint
and a frozen sailor
argue the merits of firewood
nextdoor
a violin catches a tune
tossed by a distant dog
and stillborn sunflowers
recognize themselves
wrapped in a breeze of salt and fog
looking in a splintered mirror
is selfmutilation without the blood
i stand very naked
now it all makes perfect sense
red and blue arrows streak across the darkness of sleep and pierce my eyelids.
thus is the moment when dream and reality fuse together and the dreamer is awakened.
it is now six months since that police raid on the house across the street.
released from morpheus' arms, I head for the window
people are being corralled into police cruisers; others led to waiting ambulances on gurneys and men dressed in white carrying boxes from the house to several vans.
spotting someone in a wheelchair being pushed towards a waiting handi-van, sends me straight back to a night about a year after the new owners moved in
the house across the street is a red brick, two-storey structure dating back to the 1920s.
it has a steep roof and the two-car garage appears to have been added more recently.
a wide footpath between the house and the garage leads to the gate in a tall wooden fence.
the place had been empty for quite a while before finally being sold about two and a half years ago.
I was out of town the weekend the new owners moved in, but their arrival quickly became the topic of conversations on the street, speculations mostly.
they were a couple in their late thirties, early forties; there were no children.
rumour had it that they were foreigners..
since I never saw either one of them leave to go to work, day, or night, I assumed they ran a home-based business, probably related to the internet.
from time to time delivery vans would unload large boxes that seemed quite heavy judging by the effort it took two delivery men to carry them into the garage.
and then the visitors came.
there was something odd about them .none of them appeared to arrive in their own vehicles
there were young women being dropped off by taxis, others, male and female, arriving in limousines.
most of them carried some sort of overnight bag, or small suitcase.
though intrigued, I did not pay much attention to the comings and goings of the occupants and their visitors....until that one night.
it was a sultry night in late july and after tossing and turning for what seemed hours, I finally got up, fetched a glass of water from the fridge and sat down in front of the window to listen to the world.
there were people talking; farther away someone was singing (don't throw your money away on any more lessons, my friend); there were carhorns, sirens a train whistle far in the distance and dogs barking
but what really caught my attention was a movement between the house across the street and the garage.
what appeared to be a person in a wheelchair was being pushed into the garage; moments later the garage door opened and a car was driven away.
now it all makes perfect sense
although the investigation is still ongoing, some aspects of this bizarre story have become public.
in addition, I have done some research, though there is very little known about apotemnophilia, the desire to be an amputee.
it may have its origins in sexuality, seeing that its cousin acrotomphilia is the sexual attraction to amputees.
what is emerging through this case is a sinister story of perfectly healthy people having perfectly healthy limbs amputated in clandestine surgical clinics , one of which, turns out to be right on my street.
the couple in the house across the street , I found out, were a surgeon and operating room nurse, both certified as such in the country they came from. in addition, there were several post operative nurses on the premises
a surgical team performed the desired amputations and provided their clients with scenarios as to how they ended up minus an arm, a leg, both legs, or what ever.
although they were arrested, the only applicable charge so far seems to be practicing medicine without a licence; they are currently out on bail and still reside in the two-storey red brick house across the street.
a growing fad among the wealthy and influential, this disturbing phenomenon has been uncovered in several countries where authorities have stepped up their crack-down on these illegal clinics.
Read more (104 lines)
5:16
the red and white checkered tablecloth today
it is kept in the second drawer from the top underneath the kitchen counter, along with the serviettes, trivets and the black one.
four white porcelain plates from the cupboard with the glass doors above the kitchen counter are placed on the table.
from the top drawer underneath the kitchen counter, knives, forks and spoons complete the settings
along with four glasses.
in silence they take their seats, the man, the woman across from him and the girl to his left their eyes focus on their empty plates and empty glasses, then turn to the plate to the man's right which is loaded with food, drumsticks, green peas, some carrots and a large heap of mashed potatoes drowning in mushroom gravy.
the glass to his right is filled with water.
they look at each other and gaze at their plates , their empty plates.
they gaze at their empty plates and glasses and look at each other
except for the heavy swaying of the pendulum in the old grandfather's clock, silence envelopes them
then, at precisely 5:16 they stand, pick up their plates, knives, forks, spoons and glasses, carry them to the kitchen and place them in the sink to be washed.
then they walk back to the table
the woman picks up the plate loaded with food, carries it to the kitchen, empties it into the trash can and places it in the sink to be washed with the others.
the man carries the glass with water and empties it into the drain of the kitchen sink, where he leaves it to be washed with the others.
they return to the table.
the girl picks up the knife, carries it to the kitchen and places it in the sink to be washed with the others.
the woman picks up the spoon, carries it to the kitchen and places it in the sink to be washed with the others.
the man picks up the fork, carries it to the kitchen and placse it in the sink to be washed with the others.
footsteps (.........)
the threadbare carpet no longer muffles his footsteps
a paint job started with enthusiasm and optimism long ago, is left unfinished
overhead a fluorescent tube sputters and gasps
others have already succumbed
smells and sounds from behind numbered doors keep him company on his walk
through the long hallway
a door opens only as far as the metal chain allows
a small voice shrieks hi
he smiles and hies back
then an invisible command and the door closes
leaving the hallway he enters a stairwell of graffiti-soaked cinderblocks, his steps now hollow
from below the sound of a labored shuffle of leather scraping over concrete slowly moves upward
and as always, as he passes the old woman carrying her bag of groceries in one hand and holding on to the railing with the other, he wonders if she will make it to her destination:: one of the numbered doors in the long hallway
red/PINK
the curve of the tracks
there is a haze hanging over the land
forest fires
hundreds of kilometers away
smoke and ash have turned the sun into a bright orange ball suspended in a dirty yellow sky
it has been like this for days.
he hugs the woman, kisses her on both cheeks
there will be a car waiting for you when you get there the man standing next to the woman informs him as they shake hands.
then he turns around and heads for the taxi whose driver has already loaded his suitcase into the trunk.
it is a half-hour ride to the station.
he loves train stations
finds them more intimate and interesting than airports
finds air travelers aloof and self-absorbed
train travelers, he muses, are more down-to-earth
he laughs out loud as he is struck by the literal accuracy of that comparison.
he would cheer on the inevitable latecomers hopping on board with mere seconds to spare
he would watch lovers (not always young ones) squeeze in one last passionate embrace before the conductor's
all aboard! would pry them apart, the one left behind running alongside until reluctantly giving up as the train gathered speed.
the ones by themselves who had no one on the platform to shout last minute instructions to, would settle in in their compartments with the newspaper, or a book, or simply stare out the window.
the haze-filtered daylight has begun to yield to an eerie light brown dusk when his train slowly and heavily grinds from its berth.
he gazes absentmindedly at the receding city he no longer recognizes and does not remember.
he reads for a while; a book he bought especially for this occasion.
later he turns off the lights hoping to sleep away a few of the night's hours.
the journey has only just begun
it is still dark when a change in rhythm awakens him
the train has stopped at one of several small rural stations
he decides to read some more.
when he wakes up next he notices that the book has slid onto the floor and dawn is knocking on a new day's door.
he checks his watch
the next stop will be his, even though it is still an hour away.
he stuffs the book back into his suitcase, watches the lights go on in farmhouses dotting the countryside and imagines the occupants going through their morning rituals before starting the same daily chores as yesterday and the days before.
the train slows down and comes to a halt; the hour went by quickly.
he spots the headlights of a lone vehicle waiting in the station's parking lot.
minutes later from his darkened compartment he watches them get smaller and smaller until they disappear altogether in the curve of the tracks.
journey to Senegal
untitled
the car stops
the grass is yellow
not been cut since the snow left he reckons
doors open
she is wearing his favorite dress
( the one he bought in a little shop on a narrow
cobblestone street with the last of their local
currency before heading home)
but he runs past the large orange flowers greeting him from the doorway
he runs to where the boat is
he turns to face her where is the boat
on the water
and the boy where is the boy
he looks to the water and to her and to the water and to her
you weren't here she finally whispers
you weren't here.
two men standing on a sidewalk
two men standing on a sidewalk near an intersection
they are engaged in conversation
one is wearing tan cargo pants and a pink and green striped shirt with short sleeves
the stripes are vertical
his hair is greying and reaches over his ears
he is of medium height and somewhere between 45 and 50 years of age
oh and he wears a robust pair of glasses
the other guy is wearing a pair of blue jeans and a black bomber jacket
he sports a stubble beard and does not wear glasses
possibly in his late twenties he too is of medium height though somewhat chubbier than the first one
even though it is not a cold day his head is covered with a toque that appears to be homemade
the one in the pink and green striped shirt seems to be doing most of the talking
on green the bus lumbers across the intersection and they slide out of sight
wavelengths
it is yellow the bicycle
a yellow bicycle
it is a ladies' bicycle
a yellow ladies' bicycle
it is irreversible he says
then looks alarmed at the possibility of being misunderstood
do you ride it a lot
not a lot i answer
to the post office and at times to some stores
when walking takes too long and driving the car would
not be sensible
i like sensible he muses while his eyes drift far into space
before abruptly turning back to me
it is irreversible you know
have you had someone come in to change your bell i ask
he looks puzzled
the bell i remind him
remember you did not like the sound of your front door bell
said it reminded you of a very impatient person
and you wanted one of those ding-dong bells
did you get it
irreversible they all tell me it is irreversible
a conversation on a winter's afternoon
he did you hear that?
she (without looking up from her knitting)
the neighbours must be having an argument
he no, it's not voices
i did not hear voices
some people hear voices, you know, inside, telling
them to, like, kill people, or whatever
and it's only crazy people that hear voices like that
besides, we have no neighbours.
the nearest house is two kilometers down the road
and the people who live there are an old couple,
well, actually, an old man living with his old, very
old mother.
she anyway, i did not hear anything unusual, but open
the window then i might be able to hear it.
he it? what makes you say it?
you did hear something, didn't you?
she no!.......what is the matter with you!
it simply refers to whatever it was that you said you heard
he so you have not heard it?
she (looking up from her knitting for the first time)
there are so many its out there. how do i know that the
it i may have heard is the it you are talking about.
you have to be more specific.
he so you think i am crazy.
she no, of course not, and for the record, i never did say that
he (now opening the window)
i will prove to you that i am not crazy.
she (exasperated)
i never said you were crazy.
he just come here
(setting knitting needles and yarn aside with a sigh she gets up
and walks over to the window)
he now, do you hear that or not?
she (listening intently)
yes, i do
he what?......what do you hear?
she (cocking her head)
i think i hear what you heard, but you know what?
he what?
she don't you think a bicycle would make a great sound?
he a bicycle does not make a sound.
she no, of course not, not by itself, standing still, you silly.
but if someone is riding it, it probably does.
he do you think so?
she i am pretty sure of it.
he well, alright then, i shall go out, get on my bicycle and
ride it up and down the path while you listen for the
sound.
she put on a coat, it is chilly out there.
(and then she closes the window)
(later)
he (back inside)
well, what did you hear?
she just as i had expected. i heard the very sound a bicycle
makes when someone is riding it.
he (excited)
there!.......that is exactly what i heard too!
and stuff comes out
so what do you think of the painting in the lobby?
he hands me this question gently, still, it startles me and yanks me away from a bunch of kids shooting hoops in the courtyard three floors below.
he came in so quietly that i did not even notice.
she opens the door, steps aside and motions me to go in.
he will be with you in just a few minutes, her velvety voice
soft and reassuring.
as i mutter thank you she closes the door and is gone.
i glance around the room i have just been ushered into and notice several items that strike me as unusual, perhaps somewhat weird and unsettling even.
the large wooden desk in front of the floor-to-ceiling window to my right is cluttered with stacks of files, piles of paper, magazines, books, coffee mugs and two black rotary telephones.
if it had been me, i am thinking, i would have two different colours - it is not as if they do not come in different colours. perhaps a black one and a red one, or a green one and a yellow one.
anyway, moving on. in the corner past the window hangs a white wedding dress. it appears soiled.
then, in front of the far wall (painted black) is a life-sized statue of a naked man cast in semi opaque white resin.
a short distance from the naked man a tan coloured leather
suitcase spills an assortment of garments unto the floor.
the suitcase with two belt-like straps with buckles appears very old,
its decals faded and ragged reminders of past glory days of steamships carrying passengers and cargo across the seas.
then , of course, there is the inevitable bookcase, its content of hundreds of books covering the entire wall to my left.
in front of it are two oversized leather chairs, both are green.
i presume i will be seated in one of them shortly.
i walk over to the window, the view is not spectacular, but my attention is drawn to a group of kids on a makeshift basketball court three floors below and i soon find myself caught up in their dribbles and shots.
i turn around abruptly.
i have startled you, i apologize.
oh, that is alright, i stammer.
we shake hands, he tells me his name and i tell him mine.
a gesture towards the two oversized green leather chairs in front of the wall of books ,
please have a seat.
would this be my first test, i wonder.
which chair to choose and how significant would my choice be?
(shit, why couldn't they have been two different colours, then at least i could have claimed to having a preference for one or the other)
following what i hope is an imperceptible hesitation i pick the one on the left.
i can see the naked man from here.
he settles in in the other chair and leans forward.
the painting in the lobby? he reminds me.
the painting is of a sofa, actually only about two thirds of it is visible, the rest is off canvas to the left, obscured as it were by some other object.
it is tattered and stained.
besides the sofa the two meter by one and a half meter oil painting
features a floor and a wall.
the entire painting is done in shades of white and grey.
did you do it? i ask
would it make a difference in your opinion, or would it make a difference in how you respond to my question?
i glance at the naked man for what seems a very long time.
it is a strong piece, i finally offer
the choice of monochromatic colour creates an ambiance of forlornness, of emptiness, of abandonment, accentuated by the deliberate decision to not show the entire object
and i do find the painting disturbing, but i do not tell him that
he leans back in the chair, places his hands behind his head and after a long pause , can you tell me why you are here?
because they sent me, hardly an explanation
they said it might be a good idea.
they said it might be helpful.
he looks at me, but says nothing.
his silence is unnerving
i know he expects me to keep talking, but
i really do not know what to say.
i look at the naked man again
people say a lot of things, i finally continue
that is what people do, right, they open their mouths
and stuff comes out
arctic memory
the circle revisited
this is a photograph
cheered on by harnased dogs
a beluga colours a harpoon red
and
suspended between a frozen sea
and frozen sky
faces framed in fur emerge through
pounding drums stomping feet and
dancing hands
this is a photograph
of the circle revisited
baby dills and new drapes
he closes the refridgerator
walks away
then turns around abruptly
when he realizes he has neither taken anything out
nor put anything in
he opens the fridge again
pushes aside the jar of mayonnaise
and a tupperware container
(probably tonight's supper)
and reaches for the jar of baby dills
(garlic)
which he places on the counter next to the fridge
after he reaches back in
his hand emerges holding a large bottle of beer
(ale actually)
he takes the baby dills (garlic) in one hand
and
the beer (ale actually) in the other
and heads for the balcony
on his way he stops briefly to glance
at the drapes that hang on either side of the doors
leading to the balcony
they are recent arrivals and there had been concerns
their colour clashed with the colour of the walls adjacent
to the doors leading to the balcony
he shrugs his shoulders
nonsense he mutters
they look just fine
orange marmalade
she watches from the kitchen as he lets a blob of orange marmalade slide off a wooden spoon unto a buttered piece of toast.
nothing about this is inherently sexual, or sensual even.
still, (stop, rewind, stop, slow motion forward) as now with closed eyes she again watches the glistening blob of orange marmalade slowly leave the wooden spoon and land on the buttered piece of toast with a thud, sending tiny splashes of moisture into the air, she is becoming aware of a yearning in her loins.
she quickly opens her eyes, turns around and hastily retreats further into the kitchen, leaving him to enjoy his favorite breakfast.
when he was a child, it was instilled in him that only a wooden spoon was to be used to retrieve orange marmalade from its container, which ideally was ceramic.
once the marmalade had landed on a piece of bread, or cracker,
was a (silver) knife to be used to spread it all around.
his mouth barely empty, he looks up to speak, but she is already gone.
he hears water rushing into the sink and the clatter of dishes and cutlery.
for a few seconds he is still, not even chewing or swallowing.
then a slight shake of his head and his fork spears the last bit of toast
context
you will find a way.
he points in the direction of an old woman dressed in a pair of faded black sweatpants two sizes too big and a likewise knitted green sweater
she did
blankly i stare at a heap of brown needles beneath an exhausted christmas tree
a single strand of tinsel refusing to leave the merriment
now flutters in the bitter january breeze
naked
the black void
not to see
with the naked eye
a naked lightbulb now
lingering on the naked
is this then the naked truth?
bordeaux
through the streets of bordeaux
on a hot day
on a hot day in the streets of bordeaux
drifting into st. emilion
on a hot day
getting drunk there
on st. emilion
in st.emilion
on a hot day
back on the ship
we sail to le havre
then on to rouen on the seine
and to paris by train
gare st. lazare
we listen to georges brassens
and leo ferre
a girl from senegal, jenny
she must be a greatgrandmother now
i still have her photograph
music is memory
and smell and taste
gitanes, peanuts, mussels
and jenny
in total silence
they are all staring at a lump of clay
they have been staring at this lump of clay for hours
finally one of them gets up, walks over to the whiteboard
and writes
it is a thing of beauty, isn't it
then he walks back to his place.
i get up, walk to the whiteboard
and write
yes, it is indeed
then i walk back to my place
the door opens and someone enters carrying balloons
a balloon is being handed to all those who have been
staring at the lump of clay for hours
the balloons are all the same colour
they write something on pieces of paper
they were given when they entered
after they have finished writing
i gather the balloons and leave
i am doing fine
so, how are your parents?
it has been years since i saw them last
your dad was promoting camel races
in the sahara and your mother was writing
love letters to maharajas in india
they were telling me about your project
and saying how proud they were
of your research grant.
they asked me how i was doing and
i told them i was doing fine, but
really i wasn't
your mother wanted me to take a picture
of her petting a camel
it turned out to be a nice picture, but
silly me, i had not even noticed
the blue bucket when i took it
your mother insisted i delete it and
take another one without the blue bucket
while i was erasing the picture
the camel took off
so i never did get a picture of your mother
petting a camel.
voyage
i tumble into the night
darkness i celebrate
sea foam dances
in portholes through
the lights of faraway
harbours
i awake to
cargo embracing
another destiny
straw huts and a shaman's
trance
not yet
distant memories
rhythm
you are boarding the westbound at st. anthony
the station clock reads 21 17
i had watched you come down the escalator and walk unto the platform towards the waiting train
its doors open and inviting
i am playing the drums
the busking license from the city cost me fifty dollars
(later, when i empty my hat i find $13.75)
the license allows me to play my music between four in the afternoon and eleven at night at two locations
three nights at st. anthony and three nights at the gardens
in between those times i can come and go as i please
you look briefly in my direction not really seeing me
and i get that
you are preoccupied you want to get home you have had a busy and frustrating day
as you slip between the open doors my rhythm slows
i watch you take your seat
the doors close and your train leaves just as the eastbound comes to a screeching halt
i pack up my drums and leave too
raindrops
he ponders my question
i sense he is trying to find the right words and when finally he speaks, he does so slowly, choosing his words carefully.
you know, i have known her for well over twenty years and i must admit that i often haven't got the slightest idea what is behind her pronouncements.
don't get me wrong, he continues as the lights in the tunnel streak by casting yellow glows on his face for mere fractions of seconds, she is a highly intelligent individual and well educated, but it is not always clear, at least not to me anyway, how her brain works.
on the other hand, there are times, many times, actually, when she and i spend hours having a most satisfying exchange of ideas and thoughts.
he takes one hand off the steering wheel and waves in the air when he goes on, telling me she has traveled extensively and not to the usual tourist traps.
meeting real people in real places is her mantra.
and as good a story teller as she is, she is an equally good, if not better listener.
now, as far as you question is concerned, guessing, deciphering, or interpreting what she meant this afternoon is like dancing where angels fear to tread, so i would suggest you give her a call and ask her yourself.
the car stops, the city's lights are all around us.
i feel a few raindrops as i unlock my front door.
the yellow umbrella
its ribs bent and twisted
the once shiny bright yellow skin soiled and in tatters
now it lies in the gutter trembling
its handle snagged helplessly in a storm sewer grate
tears mixed with relentless rain run down my cheeks as i watch in horror as car after car splashes the mortally wounded (my mortally wounded) yellow umbrella with muddy rainwater, adding insult to injury.
it was only last week that i walked into this new store on mainstreet looking to buy an umbrella
raindrops is the name of the store and they sell everything that has anything to do with rain, from galoshes to ponchos to umbrellas to rain barrels
i chose the bright yellow one and the first thing i did when i got home was to check the weather channel to see if it was going to rain soon.
i could hardly wait to use my brandnew bright yellow umbrella
but no, no rain was in the forecast here for at least another week.
the week dragged on but i was overjoyed this morning when upon opening the drapes i saw dark menacing clouds hang low in the sky.
finally it was here, the rain.
the weather channel confirmed that indeed it was raining
i was so excited i did not wait to hear the rest of the forecast.
i rushed through breakfast and by the time i was putting away the dishes it was pouring.
i put on my poncho and galoshes, grabbed my brandnew bright yellow umbrella and headed out the door.
i had barely taken a few steps on the rain soaked sidewalk when out of nowhere quick as a pickpocket a sudden gust of wind snatched it out of my hand
slamming it into a lamppost before smashing it against several parking meters
frantically i ran after it, but every time i was about to grab it the now gale force wind pushed it further out of my reach with wicked cruelty.
finally it came to rest snagged in a storm sewer grate
tears stream down my face as i look at my bright yellow umbrella now battered, muddied and defeated
i bend down, pick it up. i struggle against this ferocious wind and when i finally make it home, i gently place my once brandnew bright yellow umbrella in the garbage can.
then i look up at the sky, shake my fist and as loud as i can scream fuck you
memories
sheep on the other side
they look bewildered
as the bicycle rides by
the water in the pond is still
like the names on the stones
a bucketful of coal
for the small warmth
a rocking horse
in the corner
a tin soldier without arms
by its side
(i tore off the arms when
the gun wouldn't fire)
did you believe it would
stay this way?
he shows me a condom
he carries in his wallet
all the time
but i tell him it just
doesn't feel the same
here
there is no salvation in
being blind in one i
or a mouth
with 1/2 its teeth missing
in their flauerpots
flauers dripping pregnant blood
i will call ewe
i will call ewe
there is no salvation
in (............................
.................) random thoughts
from the wind
oh sills
there is no salvation
in trusting
the good eye
no mail today
draw a straight line from the paint tube to
the coffee mug
you wait for summer
(the season?)
in a blue limousine and you
gnash your teeth high tech
chivalry opens the door
you shuffle through
i have been watching you from here
the special of the day is
clean underwear but
you can't reach the shelf
draw a straight line from
the coffee mug to the paint tube
and watch your eyes see
the melting snow turn black
still
i looked the other way
so i didn't see the footprints
nor hear the whispers
and i didn't feel the shame
for i had looked the other way
i traveled the eastwind
and i traveled the southwind
i shook neptune's hand twice
( he remembered me
from the first time)
i appeared from mysteries
and i danced
to the melodies of longing
they knew the secret
and still i looked the other way
