20 February, 2013

Wednesday February 20, 2013 § Leave a comment

         or lastly
the practiced sideboard:
                    upstairs, or
push open
     having outlasted my
       dread, now bed

finally complex
          and alert,
                     in the afterwards
                                of my compromise


Tuesday February 19, 2013 § Leave a comment

in mi
dwest drawl
and in rainbow weather
he announces his dis

dustbowl monuments
illegible against the long arm
of the day, fa-
tart sunlight
turned loose
amongst the crying shadows
of the day’s
high, white
loose amongst his beard
he nurses a perfect concussion
and his gaze describes an
ideal yard

Lent rain
encircles the

I knew him once, though not
so you’d know it
much as, in sympathy
the harvest
breaks the earth
we withstand her

in his absence, he is
somewhere else
& it is we who are

Mediterranean Noir

Monday February 18, 2013 § Leave a comment

I smoke a Marlboro, though I don’t smoke, and order a daiquiri, though I don’t drink, and the morning reeks of baking tarmac, a hot funk rising in lines from the concrete stratosphere of lopsided and chipped sidewalks and the jumbled, parched avenues that giddily converge here, dusted with exhaust fumes and rinsed with the dry, dark sickly resin of spilt alcohol sparkling in the gutters. Alcohol by the way that lines the gutters everywhere from where I am sitting now, in the parasol-lined strip of tourist joints and super-bars on the waterfront, all the way as far as Avenida Butragaeno, where the A-Line trams arrive spent and wary and bustle in front of the cathedral, their blue and tangled symmetries frozen in the thick chlorine heat and a tangle of cables, and in whose shadow, at pavement cafes tourists recline awkwardly under limp umbrellas, sipping watered-down pina-coladas. 

Somewhere near, but out of sight, the engine of a powerboat snorks and spottles against the clamped surface of the harbour water, while at a café opposite, two local women stand drinking Espresso along the high counter, matching black business-wear, vertiginous heels, unmoved by the lurid heat. 

But the fabric of the day, itself like baking tarmac, feels cracked and veined, and the low-hanging clouds are disturbing my equilibrium, like shuttered cobwebs I can’t shake free of. 

A garbage truck and its attendants emerge from the closed shadow of a sidestreet.


9 February, 2013

Saturday February 9, 2013 § Leave a comment

blond dreams are here again
against broken weather
& the small, crisp patrol

    scrim of tides
    foolscap moorings

a swab of whiskey penance
to disguise
the high-wire act of leaving our bleary mission

what of what is left

only the starbright path
rich with consequence

as the morning slowly narrows with rain
& the throat fills with stone

Where Am I?

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