Is this...?

I.

This is not the burnt out bulbs
behind lonely windows,

drawn curtains.

This is not frost that spiderwebs
across reflections,

fractures faces…

This is not dim memory of smells:
patchouli lovemakings & rivulets of tears –

a certain dampness.

This is not clenched buttock
or moist skin,

synapses tattered by ecstasy.

This is not a dark mark of shattered capillaries, this
is not sweat on your breast

or yielding flesh

or the electric taste of blood.

This is not green memory,
or the lover dissipated, their smell

evaporating from the bed you shared –
& this is not a rib dislodged,

wandering in skin –

this is not crimson regret…


II.

This is a thin sliver of morning,
silver baths of light –

visions transcribed
from pages of slow wandering.

This is shallow brushstrokes
layered over blanched canvas,

this is bright air & buoyant clouds
forgotten in dark winters.

This is a giddy wind
sweeping up another hat,

& this is the hand in yours
still cold from walking…

This is the song that vibrates
in the hollows of ears

long after it has ended –
this is simple melody.

This is the sun almost blotted out
by trees exploding with Spring –

this is light filtered
through veined palms…

This is a thought of departure
abandoned – these are quiet moments at home.

This is laundry day – hangers swaying on the rod
waiting to be laden with clothing.

& this is the smell of your bedroom,
that lingers in the fabric of old shirts…


III.

No, this is not manifesto;
this is morning breath.

No, this is not crippling fear;
this is hair, not yet dry & fragrant.

No, this is not timid caresses in a dull September;
this is the subtle heat of another body, shuddering…

This is the bad cooking eaten
because it is there.

This is the smell of coffee already half-gone
because you were late to rise.

This is the flicker of eyelids
& the constriction of irises…


Is this love?

Giving You the Business (Everything Must Go)

There ain't a thing you can do about your death, but there's something to be done about the road there. You can choose to travel over glass shards, let your tires slowly deflate, or go off roading in ditches full of oven and dishwasher carcasses, an elephant graveyard for outmoded technology. You can choose to use the scythe at your side or follow the ruts that deepen with each passerby. It is a delusion that the road has no memory. The act of observation changes the observed. The road never forgets. It outlives you, your generations.

You can choose to settle for comfort or to drive with the top down through a hailstorm, laughing. And who will protect you out there? Whose hands will pull you from the jaws of the death of your career as unassisted lanspeed record holder, when your leg's trapped under the chassis that slipped from the grip of the tire jack? Who'll be there to help you laugh it off or feed you your medications when the cancer finally overtakes your ability to regenerate throat lung and cervical cells? Who indeed? Who in deed will make you forget that this life is brutish and short? You can choose. The pendulum forever swings away from you. Grab its singular, weighted huevos and ride.

As I Lie Waking

Since I arrived here, I have had the same dream - of a desert at night, lit only by blue moonlight, endlessly cold and noisy with the sound of trumpets. Pianos cut their strings and make love to the air in melodies only heard by cautious mice. There is always danger there, underneath the dunes, something waiting to give way underneath my feet and a fall deeper into what I imagine is a love, inescapable.

Technical Difficulties

My apologies, folks. The wireless router at home burnt out, but I've got two poems to make up for the delay. Hope you enjoy.

Yours,

A.L.J.