Fists to the wall, my marble friend, for who hears no chime when the cup is set upon the porcelain? If you lean in close, you’ll hear sentences, casting around the four walls whimpering in rhyme, dripping in furnishing, fur lined over long sips of hot tea cozied up to the counter longing to call it good—
I wake beside your name— half in snore, half without the curling interpretation of window time patters down from the Mountains. And in the hushed dew of the dawn pines the lone, sleepy bee heads forth from hive to seek the outdoors. Mingling together, the mountain and the bee, pollen falls in thick droves from the heavy clouds.
What happens. What happens, when the cold morning breath of a foggy night slips under the covers and over the lips and bare feet stretch evenly over a woolen rug to a world that smells of light eucalyptus and an open balcony door — What happens.
Exactly 11’o clock! The streets are dark and quiet, dispelled childhoods tucked deep into beds of rubber, bleach, contact tracing — when I look around me I see my bare feet are blue & bleeding; I see small swarms of cheeky mongoose rushing from trash can to trash can leaving filmy residue on the carpet street walk down the lane for a while … Read More Wednesday Night
Weary eyes opened wide propped up on toothpick espresso cups licked clean, licked smart the woman in the wide-brimmed hat warm breath, wild thoughts tells us of visions, the dessert dunes camels in hand Mount Tahat in the dust kicked up no way! some shout get outta here!
Standing with salty toes smelling of fish on the grandstands of Nazare, cliffs so big cresting giants double the height— rising great walls of freezing winter water jackets on so tight, skins the color of rubber suctioned, hands so white gripping tows a mammoth wave rising like the froth of a pub beer it crests and slams—
Wisps of sainthood waft about this living room— give me flamenco, give me Persian rhythms and sweet gypsy jazz, swing it all out of speakers perched high on the cabinet counter. Bits of wild wind shoot through the second story windows, running from the belching mountains beyond the poplar trees in the backyard. The gusts lift the melodies and snuggle them into marrow-bones, into … Read More 101 bpm
Beyond the ribbed panes of the kitchen window swings a gorgeous plum and yellow philodendron; sweeping lacquered leaves catch the breeze half in split leaf, half monstera, a good name for such a beast! She belongs to our neighbor, who carefully disregards her day after day, neutrally striving to feed her natural sunlight (9-9:30 a.m.) and a sprinkle of cloud water from the Mountains … Read More Phytophile
The mountain shudders under great weights of gusts and snow, groaning and creaking the six English climbers huddle rope-tied to rocks and tree branches listening for avalanches. And I sit here, at this metal patio table, so arbitrarily square, in a humid afternoon swatting flies and wondering what I will have for lunch.
Fall colors warm her sweet face, deep reds and blushing oranges snuggling into the gentle wrinkles at her cheeks; the low light off the fading greens bounce from the brown of her sweater to my eyes, the softness I cannot myself believe. Contained in one tiny, aging human is the breath of ages seen and past— each petite wrinkle is a memory of … Read More Lewis Wharf, Boston; 1978