half dome

early morning upheavals – the earthquakes of barking dogs and ringing telephones. in the empty mind lurks the devil. but when the days all look contrived it seems like the most honest thing to do is to wait. and in so doing, what type of stories does the world expect us to tell? how much more can we dig out from our pockets? reading is almost cannibalistic at times. and these arbitrary lights, they fall upon me as they wish, bemusing me and damning my already monocular eyesight. it’s not so much the confusion that bothers me, but the distraction caused by these little creatures of momentary blindness.

The fire in the middle of the square burned as the little children made little balloons of paper that shot up into the sky. I threw my clothes into the heat and wandered around naked, anxiously waiting for you to find me. You came to ask me about poetry, I knew not what to say. I just grabbed your hand and pointed out the floating flames against the penumbra. That was my answer, don’t you see? And then, in a daze, I fainted – your blond hair blurred in the background, in some dream-like state. I woke up against a jagged tree. In the daylight I could see burnt pieces of your skirt scattered around alongside bits of my own cloth. Worrying about how much of yourself you had given in, I stood up. As I balanced my weight on the wood, I saw you coming my way. You sat beside me with a book and read page twenty-three out loud. A sea of white, the beauty of skin, your voice as breezy as the ocean.


I found myself in your bed once again, it looked like home. The same white linen, the same freckles. A room of the last days of our childhood, of all the beautiful things before I had to leave. And now everything pretty much looks the same, your slippery smile, my deep eyes. The way we laugh, the words you don’t speak. If it weren’t for that ring and that passafire, I’d swear we were a few years back in time, before the car arrived, before the airplane took off on the horizon. Before. This limbo you call present, this home you call yours. I’m no husband, no father and yet this room in white feels like home.

Such an appalling creature, this tiny old man. His beastly body can barely contain itself in his black shirt. The contents of his pockets show through the jeans as he stands up, bewildered. He has the face of a mask and the eyebrows of  the mad. Shrewd little man, conjuring his words, pretending to be the Messiahs. He talks about the truth as if it were his. His bald head is connected to his shoulders, the neck being composed of two or three wide wrinkles and he lusts for destruction – you can see it too, just look at his eyes flickering – and bangs on the table with his fists. “I cannot change you”, he says, “but death and disease are already working their way inside you.” He laughs, pounds on his chest, sits, tilts his head slightly and looks at the floor, gravely. The devil may care.

Midnight’s cove.

Longing doesn’t make for very good writing. A life on hold, a luke warm existence…there is so little to be told. Our clock handles are going at a different pace: I lay here so small and wonder how long ’till midnight.

Spring is not far

I came back from the war wide-eyed, longing for those open curtains and bringing you an umbrella. [always an m before a b]. The umbrella is for the sun, since it seldom rains; I’ve seen girls using them – none as pretty as you. Whether your freckles have waited or not is beyond me, so few were the letters you wrote. I’ve decided then…if you deny me entry, I’ll turn the umbrella upside down and make it into a big nest.

Two warm faces in the middle of the void. The floor above me jitters in unknown lust. Apartment buildings helping voyeur men. A moth on the screen and an empty side of the bed. Boredom has become me. And the nostalgia of skin. But before I turn to ancillary feelings, I must let you know. You are to come back with your love whole.