I almost felt like some provocateur,
Swirling the cream around the dirge coffee.
The chocolate sprinkles, soldiers of my imagination.
My life, that of an Austrian sankt;
Meaning something, like the death of that man
On the cross meant something.
In a house with bare white walls
crow’s feet nestle grey eyes
and white hair fades to blue.
Lipstick stains a chipped front tooth
When I write, the world around me stops, and the gears in my head turn at a million miles per second. I write until I can’t write anymore, until the page is bursting with so many words and letters and syllables that if I were to fit one more period onto the end of a sentence the entire page might just burst and send missiles of consonants and vowels flying through the air, right back to where they came from. I have to choose what I put down on the page carefully, how the words roll off the tongue, how they mesh with their environment to create cohesive thoughts and sentences that drive forward the story towards its grand or garish denouement. The decision between brief and attaché or serene and halcyon lies only in the moment. I can always go back and edit and tweak what I have written, but it’s those first words that lick the paper that truly determine the story’s ultimate fate.
Grow up into wine splashes,
Liver spots and
Spilled confetti guts after a good
begins on a train to Athens
out of Madrid in 1954,
when my mother and Glenna Overton
lost their seats in Geneva,
over the small matter
of a bank holiday and a lack
It is a broken prism that hangs above me,
But my eyes are cast from bronze.
Tongues leaden with ash can speak no horrors,
But fear has me rooted,
And I think I’m starting to flower.
From plane of lime to plane, the sparrows fly,
their wings scythed time transfixed. The evening hawk
has gone. I watched the birds devour his wing.
While sunlight freezes on its path, they soar
to heights impossible, each tracing trails
once ridden, air-written. A few lengths more,
beat of wing to beat, and I imagine