Sunday, August 7, 2005

Cloudless black tablature

(A cubist musing)

There is nothing that drink won’t fix
but the bars are closed on Sundays
so it’s holy water instead of vodka
we’ll soak our cam shafts in,

Yes, the library looks like a spinning top,

Regular posse mode gives broken disc
half chance to shred party dress with
flower vase shard and splatter guitar vexing
because every nerve is a note plucked with
a pick foregrounding power lines crossing
the white moon alone in cloudless black tablature,

Where there was language commerce has ploughed under,

Peculiar pajama party pizza slice Romeo
melts like cheese, runny and gooey at the
ends of centuries he had to chew on for tests
he was late for and gazed into rooms watching
friends at desks drum number 2 pencils against
top lips moaning grieving over
the Battle of Gettysburg all over again,

Meet the author and kiss him until
his wife writes her own book and
you may in turn change your taste
in scents and spices.

Tennis shoes on power lines,

Vacant room overlooking train yard
the way you were going ‘til something
nameless crawled into your suitcase
and made it weigh more than your mortgage,
dollar signs made of brass and iron,

A bent “h”,

Let’s leave the cross where it is
and move the mountain instead
one spoon at time, several times a day,
seven days a week,
we have too much shore line as it is,

Shelves full of empty aerosol cans,

Bird cages are left open
and there are feathers
spinning down from the rafters,
we cover our sandwiches
with duck billed hats,
there is a line drive to centerfield,
vacant skyscrapers in the background,
proud as men facing a firing squad,

A hand job going both ways,

A box of pencils,
a jar of paint thinner,
a gum eraser,

Lips around a straw,
Sammy Davis Jr. felt painting,
white men fishing before the black perspective of the news,
morning comes to the last dark crevice behind the dumpster,

Modified rolling pin sawdust splayer grinds off
another batch of odes and codes and stanzas that corrode
in the places they are positioned like pistons proud and
erect like men who are thoroughly fucked
with what this life has in store for them,

An apple on a plate, sliced into four parts.

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