Ekleksographia: Wave 4.1.c: "At the Atchafalaya's Edge"

A Song for the Deaf

I shall lend them my body
but first put a hit out
on my predatory past, mire vigils
& a failed screen test for a gram
with the occasional others.
The plot is simple but any gun will do
Hayes Valley, Russian Hill, Cow Hollow
Macbeth's witches have no place here
but this is not a taser situation
the feelings wear off
then take on any form to stay alive
part ward of the city, part imposing façade
former guests that return to life
a sign I used to wear, a speaking likeness
somewhat like your own

Cartography

Held to the light
these visitations are harder to trace
than the usual union of opposites
when I think of them I imagine the whole thing
a suite at the Chelsea & forget about the sweating years
of doom legend status & obituary beer talk
always this convincing of singular beauty and promise
a heightened awareness caught in the same starving odyssey
time to forget about the inner crashes
& make use of all these dashes and hatchings
as for their present arrangement
I make no commitment but to resist what I know
& leave an account of things as agencies of sound
built as a maze that one can follow and be found through.

Night School
for Skip Fox

Off hours
I inhabit a roll top desk
& read in waves to let the voices war
dead names ignited with a pilot
the brightest ones
are stars of the same order
hard looks that fall apart on entrance
I can never see their faces
but the music stays there
a wheezing organ
& my last debt to high society
public crypts that greet you with a smirk
one diamond one heart
the perfect setting for a silent movie
I feel caught by the hours dragging
& bluff it out with a few notions of my own
the smell of tuberoses
starving for a shoulder
just enough all these sheets & ruffles
there aren't many sonnets like that anymore
precise arrangement, contrasts & relief
a fugitive appreciation
learning to hold one's own
you practice for years & make a pact on instinct
to surrender it all
entire constellations accomplished in nuance
then notice another typo
the consignment of the keys
the last monument to this living hand.

As If Only Atmosphere

We want them back
& get so wolfish at times
impending moods
stuttered to relieve
I would like to think other triggers
but instead choose love unbound
our moments are silent tinges
hovering veils that hold the room
a new poem
& the world seems ripe again
all other confusions mended
any distance no longer
necessary
we go through periods of worship
then learn to silence
the shortcomings
make shift altars we destroy
with our mouths our hands
they laugh at us writing things, living them
opening the door for one another
servants of the sleeping
we wake to speak through
real life isn't like this
stuck here in bed with wind & rain
beating the windows
I wish a crowded bus stop
cement steps that lead to grass
or a headdress touching the clouds
yeah, that's more like it

First Lesson In Arabic

It was hard to see
that he was an ordinary man
that I was an ambassador
& there was no one you could trust
besides the merchandise.
Some said he carved them forever
& even if I tried to forget
the fragrance would always bring me back.
There were alabaster jars
they had things written on them
painted figures
all of which were crossing a bridge
no one dared to drink from them
this I knew
his own kind wouldn't even whisper
the secret of distillation.
It was said never to be recorded
not even through symbols
& this I knew too
right past the first sip