|'In the Kitchen of Good and Evil' by Caitlin Rose © |
an illustration from
Baba Yaga House: Thunder and Writing,
by Polonius Ficklebottom 2010
a muted tantara for breakfast
we had barely crossed into morning light
with the trappings of night still flush, in our eyes...
here is where we had decided to ride
in a lively tantivy until all our indecision was gone...
we needed to convince wind to be our friend
instead of a slow jeweler's knife
with a penchant for reading...
we needed fire to boil the little lathes of sea
known as local tongues-of-sky, rivers
are why we went out for tea...
we would trade eggs for lashes
and hatches that were already battened down...
rodents and daggers, with swagger
they come a-crawling the between-the-walls...
so now I am back to being
Tantalus the egg-eater...
he, of the crept theft parlance,
who knew the best dancers
were from the Slavic regions...
where cities ate forests, we had
to sometimes call gypsies names
just to understand we didn't understand
the very core nature of vagabond-ed beautiful lives...
their women had eyes that we could never shake
from our memory and as such, we often had dreams,
which were guided by shadows chasing the lights...
there we were and are, character and caricature
slip minstrels wanting, listening to ourselves
as sounds scents made, denizen mingling
in late 19th century cobblestone-d
gas lamp flickering(s)...
these dreams of ours are desires undressing
they are our oil slicked catch basin squinted glints
stretched over everything night knew
would wear us well into dawn...
only bits of bones, honed
the rest was stain,
audience and arresting
black velvet mass
a canvassed lance
and silhouetted bleeding...
hungry, we said nothing
knowing, this is how
the soul gets its bones
every night, when it begs
for more ink to store
inside each song
and stink of ours
that doth give rise
to the masks
we wear spying
along the edges
of what tomorrow
may yet bring
for us to eat into...