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| photo by Edward Rinaldi |
you see me as you want to see me
though remember I never forget
your thimble thumbed lip
as if every quiver
was sewn into me
at the beginning
when all
I wanted was
to taste
what I could ...
embroidery thread
dead strand lives
silk ties and the bed posts
calling us
one at a time
by name
stain and
desire ...
I stayed at this place
while in Nice
during Bataille de Fleurs
it had iron balconies encrusted
with the Mediterranean outside
each bedroom
of an apartment
on a sea side
parade route ...
I woke up with
Moroccan hashish
and pressed coffee
remnant last night
strewn about s
waiting ready made s
nostalgia first
dreamed, wearing a fez
imagining large
cockroaches talking
poem language
slurred
seraphim
imagery
tape-looping red
construction paper
spit on scribble-y breaths ...
a wine host
touch taste
and bouquet
Bacchus and
sobriquet bane
as bright
Prometheus
Lucifer
Vulgate
Hesperus
we all want
to be morning
star sometime
when ensconced
in the poor filtering
of truth and being human ...
"Don't you see!?
Humans are thirsty and habitual,
they will eat this up! ",
Henry Chinaski screams,
"And when foreigners
in a land, we begin
almost without thinking
immediately to shit
in the corners
the right ways ..."
... it was an Algerian and French woman's building
she rented out the flats weekly, she spoke very fast ...
it was such a great apartment ...
I would say to myself
omfg her brain
is rattle pan marble
frenzy kapow and such ...
she came knocking
the second night
with these fresh
pied-noire cocas
she'd show up
mostly after dinner
before midnight
floral-ly boozy
dress open
slightly up
along her side
steamy and
delicious ...
she fed me things
canapés, slow seductions
in the stone entryways
of her building ...
she seemed used to
squeezing into evening
she came from stock
night vine clung
olive and nut tree
Moon orchard fruit
pine to hardwood forest
root and clay
valley climbs
farms to cottage
to the sky
seeking rain
by steed stag
crag and season
reason, was a ghost wind
carves my name
with her inside me ...
she had the body
of an optometrist
she took me
on trips, trysts
of glass, my
flesh and
how her iris
dances, poem
and language
at once
intermingled
loam spawn
children thought
of as spilling
blurry words
sounds and eggs
sac-guttural
tiny finger flourished
everyone had fast wings
herds and murmurs
early greens to late
berry tenacious
sugar salt magic
weaving weigh stations
leaves changing
catching sunlight
in a lens of bitten
and captured ...
written was
each day
turning
the wheel
a little
differently ...
EJR ©
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