Final Choices

Madam of curious chaos,
you are concealed in hands
sliding through flesh estuaries.

The sea heaps its love on
as you roll with the tides,
beach and bleach.

You are the twin
that sank before you.

Evicted on the arduous
western shore, you recall
Asian palms, a woven prayer.

And at dusk, you eclipse
the artless, decaying stars.

oblique prayer

emma cannot be

composed

she injects capacities

of life

hits back

in self destructive             exposé

smacks

over the edge

one hand irregular

in sorrow

her man

concerned about

her sanity

finds comfort in a bed

of differing          grace

emma worships him

still

with pure oxygen inhale

in the habit

of a nunnery

imprints from Rosewater

imprints from Rosewater

                  

in the course of suspension

  over

in the act of lowering

  down

in the ritual that is burying

  under

time becomes the staggered images

of someone else’s life, bleeding

frames over your bitter green.

everywhere you uncover

a double exposure;

the thought that you

  could

have been them

  could

have been caught

in a faultless Vonnegut jump

and broken over a Dali sunrise

to find Picasso reading the soft, wet

tea leaves in your evolving cup.

your fingers are pushing into

the clay of tomorrow’s dawn

remember me

call my name

one more time

define me

refine me

inter me

until the

  tock  ing

      tick  ing

hits the bedrock 
of unforgiv ing craft.

white noise from the world's stage

white noise from the world's stage

not remembering

the name of it

the title

the reward

the application

he puts it on

thinks it on

moves all his thoughts

to the place

that will be protected

he calls it

and it comes

to him alone

slowly

he speaks it

aloud

to any audience

that might find him

he waits

for the floods of winter

buries himself

in withered growth

an immersed rattle

thinking

she might return

this thought touching him

as a wisp of air

to his mouth

it keeps him alive

in the torpor of autumn

his heart

a geode

of undetected splendour

his future

an uncertain wish

of erosion

hoping that

a wild river

takes his words

to her ears

any other road being the same

any other road being the same

outside a grainy wisdom,

the highway participates

in a penciled regression

between covers

yet to be found.

in Brando white,

there is a simple plan

formulating

under the guise

of eastern routes.

something spills from the head.

travels become

inked in the flesh.

Charley knew.

and Sal left his sweat

on the fortunate mile

that ended it all.

Ivor and Leslov

Ivor and Leslov

Ivor and Leslov face each other

over hot coffee.

They talk with urgency

and no little substance.

Ivor says, “No, no!  It wasn’t like that at all!

There was snow that year

and the roads closed. 

We had to sleep in

the railyard.  Don’t you

remember?”

Leslov shakes his head. “No, no!

You are wrong.  It was the year

before,

the year Marika began coughing blood

and poor little Istvan was lost

in the North Woods.

Anyway, you were deep in the vodka then,

how could you

remember

any of this.”

A slide of disgust.

A glance of mistrust.

And finally, the slight twitch that says,

“Yes, yes.  We know each other

 far too well.”

Silence.

The raising of mugs.

Sometimes,

  you have to forget.

Sometimes,

  it’s best to let go.

Dearest Isabel

Dearest Isabel,

I am in the tarnish of cloud we sought.

I am walking in the graveyard

along the sea.  I wander only the edge

where the questionable are buried,

their bones crumbling at the same rate as

the nuns resting higher up;  Sisters

cradled together in encouraged sisterhood,

seeking to define viewpoint even in death.

There are no postcards to send from here,

no tiny stones to pick up and send to you, my

Dearest Isabel, only this small vial of soil for

  your art

    your life

      your breath.

Though you disappear for years at a time,

there is no one who knows me

in the hidden ways you do

in my tarnish of cloud,

Dearest Isabel.