January 28, 2013

the handbill said the seats were at the end of an arrow...

image by Anne Garland ©






A Wolf Moon accordion play-poem in three parts: a bedroom with a desk, a carpet, and a window sill


A bedroom with a desk


< tear roses behind fans >

(Act I, a lady waiting)


I knocked once, you said to come in
I was carrying a silver butler tray  
tea, cakes and crudités trempettes
on little plates, savory to sweet
you said you like to snack late at night
you said you liked your divinities praised
you said digestible entrance exams
can strip mine humanity
into exit remarks
if we didn’t misbehave
once in awhile

morning is a long ways away baby
you say with a smile, apron gather me
fill me with each bow and sweep
of your fingers, pick up pieces of delicious
make every thought, idea or glimpse
be caught near my curved horizons
my shadows are waiting, to be sated
by my aching arches
and your palace palate
surrenders to them

night time is the right time
to harvest what isn’t seen in daylight
after the Sun burns petal time
in arcs and cries across the sky
above the many reaches of desire
from millisecond-ed to immortal
the trees know everything and nothing
they know cycles and release
that breathing is the circle we feast around

we age ourselves against pointed stones
we draw down within, we map direction
we bleed out of our animal skins
we stretch experiences over hollows
we harvest the dead and dying
we scatter forests of made up words
we drum beat feted feats
we mimic each exhale’s soft parade
we say to ourselves this is what we want
beyond anything we can bargain for


a carpet


< cut lights, bridge the orchestra, ready >

(Act II, lovers and lives in a variety of scattered beach-combed rumpled things)



small pieces of life are laid out on tables
crowned sounds, percolate music
for those of us that stand on the corner
while we are wading through the mist
for room between each declaration
hoping silent wishing works
and the keys and strings
of the curtains billow direction
from the side stages
to the ripe movements 
we open ourselves to

we are supposed to be
invisible footprints on each other
a smile says, we are the same
as sand and tides
and we will not be there
in the morning if we wait to feel
until we wake, we try to remember in shapes
in truths and moments when we eat she says
feed me what you prepared and while I chew
slowly savoring, you should start eating me
with your eyes going beyond capability
rendering arrival after arrival
serving tray-quiet assured intentions

the place where night pauses
the Moon knows how to play

when we feast
when we touch every sense
we know from head to toe
from past lives 
to what there is 
to know before time 
is in the drifting off post orgasm
lulling us to near velvet 
to become wrapped in sleep

I catch my nostrils flare
my descent into the ascent
of your fragrant echo bouquets
when there comes the first knock
a pinging bent metal sound
the kind old radiators make
when a giant furnace kicks in
and the echoes of time repeat
a house ritual breathing
radiant heat tickle-fingers the rise of articulations
compressed air and water are brass tacks
and the forge iron lungs
with bellowed names and twined bodies
this is hunger in the dark, waiting

I listen at the curtains
billowy, imaginary air ballets
a stillness of watching life moving
incremental glues affixing ourselves
onto the escape of silhouettes
we must know each traverse 
we must know each linger
each slight rope pull of bells inside us
is every complexity simplified
into purity through wanting

the cast marbled sky illumination
in the deep theater background
is the painted noise a Winter’s night provides
the driven base yoga disco slow biscuit dough rises
finding perfect ways melted butter says more
I lick my lips and mouth the air a kiss
and you turn a smile into a wink and say
would you warm my tea and feed me sweetly
if it pleases you to please me into rain
I want to make sure it is a breathless place we end up again

the air rises in articulations
of compressed air and water
in brass and iron forged lungs
catching the audience fidgeting
might be time for mimes and intermission


a window sill

< cue the headlights and the moan frequency machines, ushers, hurry the audience back to their seats with cloth dusters please >

(Act III, a long hallway and bay window want in as well)  


the windows are old farmers
and the glass is the rain
they want to watch too
so leave the door open
they say humanity doesn’t see
except when we are fucking animals
the transparency of life
as well as we used to
they say electricity
became a racket
gas and oil, lit the way
right round the time
bedrooms were built
for intended chimney exposure
brick and mortar limitations
to the harnesses energy
forcing our ways back
to simple thatch and sticks
into small agrarian enclaves
traded precious opportunity
for unlimited sense of wonder
a world that had forgotten what was big
sandy erodes and next of kin
we left ourselves to fetch the pail and milk
pocketing beans for warm February days
poking fingers into potting soil
filling small bathroom Dixie cups
we found at a garage sale
sprout seeds in these large bay windows

a twenty four hour grocery store
blinks its shell life litanies
across the street from us
bright and unnecessary lights
supermarkets are subsidized memories
the window keeps saying, that’s why
we want to watch you two
we wouldn’t trade our thin topped panes every night
for the vicarious pleasure of trying on
your feet, hands, arms, eyes, noses,
legs, tongues, lips and ears
if we thought everyday humanity 
could read the invisible sheet music
and actually practice being a receiver
of energy instead of pursuing
a consumable, combustible kind
of dependence we often confuse
as an emotional necessity

where are you going you mumble
I say to heat the kettle, I’ll be right back
you slowly pour your hands
from a crescent gate and traced
palmed down grace
to your belly and heaved breasts
you tie me in them 
together in a prayer position
you whisper kisses and say come back
and taste the salt we’ve left behind
act one is a high tide, still coming in
and I laugh, you’re right, I’m just reading my lines
and improvising my sins, memorizing where to get lost
inside wanting you, boiled down to one
slow squeezed thought, released

I turn the burner on listening careful quick
to the click of electric ignition and a gas blue light
I see the icebox has a pink lady apple
to slice and arrange on saucer dusted
with cinnamon and sugar placed
with a rolled napkin rose on another tray
just maybe I think to myself
can I parlay this tea and fruit
with the promise of making breakfast
when we awake, wearing one
of your borrowed little robes
with nothing on beneath
into a blowjob, another squeeze
and hand organ joy between
the dip of an egg
and the rest of breakfast
ingredients lean, know just how hungry
you might be, after your dreams
have settled and the typewriter sits waiting
while you remember calling its name too
in the middle of the night, eating the secrets of language
from the inside out, from the red shift to the blue

< bow, ask the audience to burn the house down, spray the confetti and champagne >

EJR ©

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