the walk

i sent you a photograph today

it is of a tree dressed in white

i was out for a walk with my dog

we walk on a path along a river nearby

some years during spring break up ice floes jam 

causing the river to flood the path and we must wait

sometimes for days before we can walk there again

but today it is winter

the geese headed south weeks ago

deer tracks dot the snow covering

the ice on the river

the sky is grey and silent

untitled #53

 windswept illusions

celebrated behind an

almost bird's nest on

this a suitcase morning

wearing your mother's

sunglasses a guitar

drips silken lingerie 

on the altar and

the breeze is dark

as lead

it wasn't always 

like this take

yesterday for

example there

were flowers paper

flowers faded

paper flowers and

a harmonica playing

gypsy music applause

went for 5.75 a pop

musings 1

through buildings dark

and exhausted you

take me

my fragmented memories 

of irony and lust

unravel amid dancing

harlequins

bleed delicately you

whisper for you know

come morning my

secrets will evaporate

naked

putting on your dancing slippers

the ones made  of tangerine plastic

while being trapped in

the embers of your lust

your scarstudded solitude celebrated

in the raw narrative of your 

naked

surrender

(ferriswheels, a bench you slept on, 

an inkpot , a brigitte bardot movie)

on a deserted beach you

wink at the moon and hold out your hand

come, you say,

let's dance

bought at a roadside stand, the dancing

slippers made of tangerine plastic

were

forms filled out, boxes checked and

on the dotted line

a signature

invisible wounds

a spirit of woundedness

lurks in the backroom of your now

unforgiving and shifting ghosts

tauntingly poke at the empty and

disillusioned spaces you once thought

you could be invisible in

but arriving at the lighthouse

you know even invisible wounds 

are not really invisible

the lighthouse

once a beacon now a derelict silence

white splatters of birdshit covering

its worn red roof

this is the last picture of the day

you are tired and thirsty you

head back to the hotel in the lounge

you order a drink after easing yourself

into a soft and comfortable chair

you flip through the pictures

you took today and the day before

you order another drink then you

delete all the pictures you took today 

and the day before

you order another drink

come morning you tell yourself

you will  pack your things

and go home

found objects

a better choice of

words perhaps but

now the mousetraps

baitless and mute

drifting in disco illusions

they are merely found

objects like seaweed

quivering in a collection

of sunday afternoons or

submissive obsessions

in a b/w documentary

and so you walk on

the search neverending

black vinyl boots

shiny and cruel

laughing gas and

pretty edibles and 

you watch with

fascination as passwords

dissolve in an abstract

dance of comic strips

the walrus

the moon is sightseeing

and wanders into a field

of disillusioned tulips

you stay behind to keep

an eye on the walrus

come to sit on the edge

of your bed

says the walrus wetly

a gun the colour of soot

was found by a child

faraway somewhere

you are surprised

soot was added to the

list of ingredients

the walrus sobs quietly

silence 1

you listen to the echoes

of your silence

interrupted collections of

sounds you once occupied

(a train departs  another arrives)

you trade yesterday's theatre

for today's performance

of silence its echoes

 weaving in and out

of arrivals and departures

silence 2

the hour you shredded with

memories invented and not

litters an empty dream

laced with nylon darkness

forgotten silences offer no

respite and the wound on

your illusion is infected

and festering

you  place your wounds in 

circles that are never perfect

and you ask yourself why

you cannot ever make circles

that are perfect / why you

invented memories and

you wish you could remember

all the silences you have

forgotten

you yearn for a campfire

silence 3

and then a door opens

there are connections

here to motion pictures

bobbing on waves

toward mystical

negative spaces

time can be found here

and time can be lost here

in this foggy landscape

of raw and seductive misery

and you ask if this is

where the camels sleep

it's a mirage the dark and

heavy silence finally breaking

and wondering if you have

said too much wondering if

there was more you could

have said you close the door

leopard skins

in the morning there

is snow it came

in the middle of the

night

the snow

soundlessly in the

middle of the dark

night

the snow

descended on

the earth

you drink apple wine

and the memory of 

nothing

exists in the murky

puddle of the 

melted snow

then a thought arrives

a thought of leopard skins

clean was

the snow

that landed on your

path then

it melted and

the melted snow

turned murky

leopard skins

are not murky

imagine

imagine if you

will a landscape

filled with bleeding

voices unvisited

 and

scattered here and

there

shifting spaces

the cruelty of

twisted reflections you

escaped only to

get trapped in a tangle

of regrets and longing

imagine if you

will         a landscape

filled with pastel

strangers  their 

unpredictable 

zigzagging chaos not

totally unwelcome

imagine if you 

will

a landscape with

a single easy chair

(to sit in)