If facing the paper, your thought is 'I am an artist', you have no clue what to do. If the concepts of your function are, 'I am a shape maker, an entertainer, an expressive symbol collector'...then you have an explicit road map. Edgar Whitney

Saturday, July 25, 2009

The Accountant Cries

On his solitary walks
he feels the air in front of him
searches for her soft arm
the smell of soap and roast lamb.

Her hands folded in her lap
even when she watched
the 6 o'clock news her hands
were stored competency
reserved for mysterious tasks.

At school he'd imagine her hands
(he loved the fine wrinkles
in the pads of her index finger)
he'd imagine them at school
as he learned to rule
exercise books in neat columns.

Pushing his tie more firmly
against the knot of his throat
he flicks imaginary lint from
the knee of his immaculately
crossed trouser leg and

He feels the air in front of him

the long breath of years
too frightened to leave his body.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Appeared in The Press June, 2009:

Not Tonight

I’m a water bird trapped in the bellows
of a piano accordion.

In my walnut brain
a migraine of box headed musicians thumps.

Love song, thud song, an incessant canto of
dribbling basketballs.

It’s a peaceful lie
that God can distribute love on my behalf,

wrap it in a clean tea towel, crush it with
a rolling pin,

then scatter crumbs
in a trail that doesn’t lead to me.

Appeared in The Press, July 2009:

Fern and the Sandman

I hung the words inches from her face
in a painted dirigible filled with

go back to sleep little girl
and blew it into her half closed eyes

we won't run away

just down caves
swimming with seal pups
into the convolutions of a shell

a chirruping kiss
uncurls her