May 14, 2016

tête-à-tête et Nissa La Bella and my washing label instructions

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 
tape-looping red 
construction paper 
spit on scribble-y breaths ...

a wine host 
touch taste 
and bouquet 
Bacchus and 
sobriquet bane 
as bright 
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 
loam spawn 
children thought 
of as spilling 
blurry words 
sounds and eggs 
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 
the wheel 
a little 
differently ...


No comments:

Post a Comment