To The Man at the Bar with the Red Tie

November 25, 2014 § Leave a comment

He was September cool.

We ate peaches. French music played in the background, and a car door slammed.
The Soundtrack to an evening with the man in the red tie.

I rubbed my hands over the pockets of his dark leather vest and straightened his red tie- from left to right to tighten it.
Lastly, I ran my fingers through his coarse Turkish hair fixating on the silver at his temples.

We told stories of kindred love. Or, at least, I did and he went along with it.
Flirtatious illusions like bullets moving clean through him and he was sweating.

I awoke to the train. Alone, in a blank hotel room. A single black cord held the light from the ceiling. It swayed like a ticking clock.
And nothing else, but the memory of a man walking away.

In the morning, I walked to the spot where we had met, inhaled the past,
held it in my lungs: cigarette smoke, musk, and hints of whiskey shots,
got high on the story I created in our drunken romance.

Who is to say it wasn’t love? A small momentary speck of love?

No one can say anything.

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Hlavní Nádraží Station, Prague 1:00 a.m.

November 2, 2014 § Leave a comment

I leave you and walk toward
the last exit. I see the
marble tables like
backgammon pieces,
but no one is playing.
I jump empty chairs except
for where two junkies
sleep with their
heavy heads rested in their
folded arms, using their
elbows for pillows
and drool catchers.
A junky
lifts his head mumbles to me.
His mouth barely opened,
a soft grey hue, like
crusted milk around his lips.
He’s falling from his seat.
I stumble backward to
exit doors, and escape.
On to the open street.

The Last Painting

November 1, 2014 § Leave a comment

This is still an early draft of a poem I’m working on. I can’t seem to grasp what I’m trying to capture or how to say what I want. The poem at this point is visually interesting and uses many references to actual paintings, but there is a disconnect in this version. Who is talking and who are they talking to and why? These are the questions I still have around this poem. Why is it so important to write it, why not throw it out and move onto something else? Another question.

Fixed like a Japanese etching; He sat alone in his blue
painted room. In the smallest corner, a yellow bed frame.

one pale chair turned out waiting for a guest- any guest
perhaps another painter?
He wrote letters: “Dear brother, dear sister
they do not see what I see.
They do not see what I am showing them.”

In the wheat field crows
gathered around the lonely scarecrow.
Dutch, with an orange beard
a palette in one hand, a brush in the other
supplicating in a blue smock.

He painted thick strokes of yellow wheat.

Ocean blue sky, and a road
long, bending, and coming to an end.
Where are they going?
They had sat on his easel and cawed at his brushstroke.
They scatter like dark clouds spreading news.
The gunshot? Did he paint the expectation of sound?

They flew.
They are
still flying,
all of them,
from painting
to painting-

Over his yellow fields of golden sunflowers;

swirling starry nights;
past the harvest women
and their round full bodies bent

over rows of crimson and purple grapes.
Perched atop his maddened trees
soared over lavender lilies, and
 picked through tactile gardens.

Once the shot was fired they 
drank in his night cafes.
Poured one out for the fallen artist.
Triste! Triste! Caw! Caw!
A TOAST to an artist! CAW!

The crows the murderous ravens.

They love him now.
They covet him, now,
tour his history, now,
his home, his life, his pain.
They understand him now.
In life they never once 
reached
to touch his dark wounded face.

He must have,
before that moment,
silently swayed 
peacefully as golden wheat. His quartered ear
covered by orange hair the color of
a monk’s robe. Smoke at his heart, vermillion at his feet.

Where Am I?

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