Paper Cheerleaders
fair-weather friends—
cut-out paper dolls unfolding
from white paper
Turn a Blind Eye
What would you do?
If you awoke one morning blind
For argument’s sake
Let’s say it's one eye
If you were blind
You’d like it where you are
When your vision is obstructed
You can view the contradictions in your afflictions
All the scattered ambiguities fly from your closet
Everything dries up, particles break off
They appear floating across your field of vision
Beyond reason
You are a blind photographer
Prayer to the Sunset
They said that had someone died.
Actually they said that someone had been killed.
There’s probably a difference.
There was probably a scream.
A break.
A crash.
Maybe there was a “Are they breathing”
Maybe there was a “no”
Maybe there were tears.
Maybe there were not.
Maybe they were alone.
Or maybe their brother, or girlfriend, or coworker, or hitchhiking companion, couldn’t bring themselves to tears.
Maybe it hadn’t quite sunk in yet.
Maybe.
But I wouldn’t know, because I wasn’t there.
Actually they said that someone had been killed.
There’s probably a difference.
There was probably a scream.
A break.
A crash.
Maybe there was a “Are they breathing”
Maybe there was a “no”
Maybe there were tears.
Maybe there were not.
Maybe they were alone.
Or maybe their brother, or girlfriend, or coworker, or hitchhiking companion, couldn’t bring themselves to tears.
Maybe it hadn’t quite sunk in yet.
Maybe.
But I wouldn’t know, because I wasn’t there.
Necromancer
Ven spoke and dead men heard him.
Ven spoke and rich men paid.
Silver to pass the dead a message;
gold to know what they replied.
Ven feasted, drank, fucked girls
before an audience of ghosts.
A year, two years, and then it palled;
he tired of gold, of limber flesh.
He cut girls, cut boys, killed.
Nothing answered, nothing thrilled.
He corrupted scholars, raised bones,
demanded: "What pleasured yo
BLAKESONG
Eubie did it better than anyone--
not just music but life as well. Sneaking
off at thirteen, already pro,
playing at a Baltimore brothel,
he filled time for men lounging on couches,
pulling slugs of whiskey from flasks, waiting
for the girl if--in not their dreams--at least
their choice that evening. Then, people hummed
his show tunes, but his true calling being
the Rachmaninoff of Ragtime.
Long fingers, doing what few can hope to,
created perfects tops, gaps leading to
rolling trills, rollicking dances on black
keys running accidentals
not just music but life as well. Sneaking
off at thirteen, already pro,
playing at a Baltimore brothel,
he filled time for men lounging on couches,
pulling slugs of whiskey from flasks, waiting
for the girl if--in not their dreams--at least
their choice that evening. Then, people hummed
his show tunes, but his true calling being
the Rachmaninoff of Ragtime.
Long fingers, doing what few can hope to,
created perfects tops, gaps leading to
rolling trills, rollicking dances on black
keys running accidentals
Sunlight and Darkness
As sure as sunlight shines each day,
There comes the darkness of the night.
And so too do our lives decay,
Fraught with pain and loss and fright.
Slicing Time
There is more than
one way to slice
time on the cutting
board of space.
Take a photograph
and trap a slice
or time’s instant
trapped in a rectangle.
Film a video and
capture a strand
of time’s instants
from the past.
Speed up the video
to see an orchid
burst in full bloom
from its calyx
in only seconds,
or a monarch’s
crumpled wings
burst in sudden
and startling color
from a drab cocoon.
Slow it down
to watch the sure
muscled grace
of a running
thoroughbred,
one way to slice
time on the cutting
board of space.
Take a photograph
and trap a slice
or time’s instant
trapped in a rectangle.
Film a video and
capture a strand
of time’s instants
from the past.
Speed up the video
to see an orchid
burst in full bloom
from its calyx
in only seconds,
or a monarch’s
crumpled wings
burst in sudden
and startling color
from a drab cocoon.
Slow it down
to watch the sure
muscled grace
of a running
thoroughbred,
Casualties of Supper
Boiling pearl onions,
Peeled and plopped into the stew,
Leaves a pot of ghosts.
Peeled and plopped into the stew,
Leaves a pot of ghosts.
What You Give
How many a fight
How many a tear
Can someone like you
Fit into a year?
For that which you did
Was such a surprise
I look at it now
With tears in my eyes
Cut to the core
At such a young age
Could my smile conceal
Such feelings of rage?
Sometimes I feel
The weight of regret
But that which you give
Is what you will get
I believe in this saying
I hope that it’s true
And one day this sorrow
Will fall back on you.
How many a tear
Can someone like you
Fit into a year?
For that which you did
Was such a surprise
I look at it now
With tears in my eyes
Cut to the core
At such a young age
Could my smile conceal
Such feelings of rage?
Sometimes I feel
The weight of regret
But that which you give
Is what you will get
I believe in this saying
I hope that it’s true
And one day this sorrow
Will fall back on you.
Moving
Moving
We confront accumulation. No room
exempt from purge; no cupboard left for later.
The dump pile: broken furniture,
ancient computers, worn tires. The shredder grinds
tax returns from the Paper Age.
But what of our outdated mix tapes, those amateur
epistolaries of our moods? Do we jeopardize
our future if we discard our history?