11
Jan
10

Three submissions to MOSAIC

Its been a while since posting. So, I’ve decided to put up a few at once. According to my instructor, “Its never too late to say something”. I am inclined to agree. Though, it may be too late to be heard…

Seasonal Depression

A river of salt is smeared
Down the walk and I realize,
It is not just the cold
That abominates the winter.
Not just the leaveless, stretching,
Witchfinger branches
Nor a miser sun that shares no warmth.
Not just these. And though the swelling nights
Encroach upon my days, shortening,
It is not just these. But winter comes,
I have no falling nor hibernation.
I have no defense against this rape
And pilfering of warmth.
Lesser life just dies or sleeps
While I have nothing to shore
Against this Siberia of the mind.
I have nothing for a naked psyche
But crunching salt beneath my boots
And coats and gloves. How nice
It would be to birth into spring,
To awake again, warm or warming.
But now, winter looms above the buildings
Descending upon all the naked students.

On Watching a Cello Orchestra with Soprano and Conductor, 11th Floor, Thompson Library

I.

Poor posture cellists,
In medulla oblongata
Of this spinal tower.
Your fingers dance on necks,
While sawing string ribs
With wooden rapiers –
You are musing me and I write
Anything these days. But I swear
You are different Cello Orchestra.
Keep sound checking.
The soprano is sitting two seats
Away, warming up and though
She is beautiful in voice and body,
Your stroking of throats
Make my hands shake.
II.
The lost orations,
The conductor’s archaic
Language matches no cadence
Of the cellists.
He does not rhyme well
With their beautiful instrumentation.
Coat-tailing diva! Your wizard wand,
Followed only by my eyes
Like fruit flies
Buzzing about my head.

III.
Solo soprano, though beautiful
And womanly strong,
I can only tolerate
Second-hand Italian.
For some insolent reason,
I am told the best conductors
Perform their worst songs
Twice.

IV.
Stairs down from eleventh floor.
Concert above and behind me,
The music only echoes
Down the stairwell, chasing
Me and though I wish it could,
That moment will never
Catch me again.

Rubbernecking on I-77

There’s a hard rain on
the highway. My windshield wipers are
heartbeats after nicotine
fast fast fast

There’s a slowing pace
in my lane.
A truck rolled on its side;
like me asleep in bed.

Hopefully the driver
-And possible passengers –
Are like my sleep after nicotine:
In bed on my side, my heart beats
nic’tine nic’tine nic’tine

Surely the passengers and driver
are nicotined hearts
in the sleeping car
on its side.

Surely they are
refusing to be
snuffed
out

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The reason for all this is not reasonable. The reason, strictly art, Still makes no sense to me.

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