I told you wildness is hands-off. Aim instead
to dismantle this pink blanket of whims, breakable and nothing.
That darling space saves her lunch dollar in a jar.
Over a week, and falling asleep to another chance Eiffel Tower,
a girl can still love and run to climb that height eight times.
She ignores everything but something golden that lights up.
Diesel wipes a face. WhatÕs always existing in a lens, rampant
in our cells, this sleepy lung of smoke
drawn by hand, a hand reaching into this dream
so real it looks original or yours. Thin glass
breaks over an egg shaded and shaded
in terminal thoughts. I think: Who knows what aspects
of dreams and reality run down orange halls in a parallel sense?
Slow gold licks all the windows. I wake up.
The green glass of your eyes teems with birds,
twin wings inexplicable as paste. Watch. In this art,
each ordinary mosaic separates to single shells, rouge or
cerulean, the how-pretty inlaid panels and a broach
of distraction. Mom and the Empire era secretary
stare each other down in the museum foyer. That trembling gilt
split by wood still, still holding. A man stands nearby and
coughs a something narrower. His eyes and what I donÕt say:
Beauty. Not knowing. Our happy prisms vague prisons,
the curtain odd. No thought lies across a sweet pink
museum scratched and lethal in actual streets. Rubbed white,
I hold your sleeve: A dream comes out of your eyes and mouth.
The war wears rubber shoes to hide its feet,
in need of tourniquets, wrapping-paper crumpled, jets
arcing down to the sea. Ice refrozen. And after the splash,
what is it about this nightmare that makes me so speechless?
That makes the mind reach for cover under something plastic
and unseen. That blood, it isnÕt dreamed. The mind filters
fickle and preserving, and always a bloodied sun bursting under damp quilts.
Sparkle is a distant conflagration—then – finding the right distance
to stand from an image to see what face is hidden in its
nickel shreds, a step forward, two steps back:
You use restraint for tying nightmareÕs hands behind.
I saw a place where the museum hall breaks into the past.
Typing captions for art, a woman punches her metal lettered branches,
to name swathed kings and battlefield roses hung up. IÕm impressed
with a medieval room, tapestries that calm Mom. Her bones
shrank from being in a girl, in war, bone soaps shrinking in flesh foam.
She hates unidentifiable wax and avant and foil flowers. Pressure:
I know the meaning of dominant and when. Burying seedling
guilt, confused about who was saying and knowing—what proved
failure. No concepts strung together haphazard feel like
a solid rail in the world. Even yesterday my mother stood
in front of a chic gigantic mural: Paint peeling on a German building –
white wings revealing hot bare brick. Texture
of do-nothing. Pretty decay. She wasnÕt impressed by that nor
by an arrangement of Lucite cubes glued to a wall in a cloud.
DonÕt go back to sleep, I say, to a knock on the door.
DonÕt. After a long period of being pale to get curious again,
vital and happy—stillness being the only thing that makes
drawn, grey water tip out clean. To rest, okay, but look. The flaw:
A doom touched to you with a waxen hand while you sleep. Underneath this dream
lie cold tiles, real tiles, and a too long debate. A man argues
his dogÕs tail needs to be cut in the middle: He licks it. Cut it short.
A vet says that wonÕt help since the problem was the itch in
the dogÕs rectum. ThatÕs why he licks. She says, wouldnÕt it be better
to solve this with medicine rather than cutting the tail in two?
No, he says, leaning forward. No, no. You need to cut the tail in two.
DonÕt whip eggs or walk the dogs. DonÕt whip yourself.
We fight can fires with motorcycles. Consider this chair.
It tasted first of being clever for inventing a theme:
Disaster. I cinched a rope, a noose around my waist, lowered
myself. Then, a spin and my feet on earth. Or a swivel chair
that never noticed a better way to complement
an iron horse. An iron horse does not balk at fire.
The theme to the artwork that hangs over me is "disaster."
Clear, emotive, softly volatile, the crosshatchings make
a man fighting a bear with only a knife. His jack-ass friend
dedicated to gun-watches, no doubt loving every minute of it.
In another print, I can taste my fear. A wet fur wears droplets
again. My thoughts: a fire for touching me.
dost thou think, because thou art virtuous,
there shall be no more cakes and ale?
Marina knows Alluvial Fan. Her God puts glass in the grass. I know Tumulus. My God picks up the bracken and presses it to his cheek, and goes back to drinking bottles of ether after a momentary nap in the dirt. We had never met. Marina born within a month of me. Two moons-in-Scorpio in such proximity. Wow. I said hello expecting a ticking Parisian crocodile. She smiled big. I smiled back.. I had written a poem about slip-on basketball shoes: Marina appeared in slip-on basketball shoes. We bought soap. We thought about being international Belgian Spies with white Jack Russell Terriers. We read our poems out loud in the cake room. We knew audience. We knew hantavirus and kombu. The Plains Indian with the hatchet reared on us was Scrutiny. I momentarily felt like barfing. She looked worried and asked for a hug.
Afterwards, we shopped for clothes. Marina smiled on the silver and black dress with rhinestone buttons. We agreed on the pleasant-ness of a necklace with pink balls carved into roses. Soon, I washed my hands in a silver and black river of rhinestone fish deep in Kentucky. Marina lathered pink soaps from the back of a toilet in New York. Marina's Portugeuse mother says, Even the blind chicken gets the corn. My French mother says, Little by little the bird makes his nest. Above her, MarinaÕs ceiling is yellow with creme trim and a chandelier. My ceiling is yellow with creme trim and no chandelier. The chandelier showing up in one photo and not the other is only framing. Of course, we were in the same room at the same time.