Author Archives: epistolographer@gmail.com

July 15th :

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I see your hands with cameras, that light
you carried from some bright Sylvania
filament in the days that followed the
Fête de la Saint-Jean Baptiste, sepia
froth of your café au lait set aside
knuckles poised in estimation, white gold
and the whole backdrop of Europe, the streets
finally unrolled like a screen behind
you, in the fraternity that followed
Bastille day, another shot, a poet
a poem left by the river, pulled into
focus, there’s a story about the day
you were born, all about being alive
though I’ve only heard half so far, other
summers, reels of film not yet developed
from those pictures we see with our eyes closed

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past participles :

we stood in the shop doorway, one flapping
curtain, one translucent bee wing from a
hundred exotic flights of fancy, cracking
paint the color of tree bark, soft eyes the
color of clay, sunlight splintered yellow
a cursive decal of aromas, storms
on the side of the mountain, us below
sandals, technology, sweat, transit forms
woken late, a groggy Western mind, pounds
old currency exchanged, the sun red through
my eyelids, to inspect a chart of sounds
and chakras, what harmonies to construe
the vibrations of enlightenment, all
just to buy one small brass bowl from Nepal
in the ‘Hands of Tibet’ store, I recall
the same ones imported home every Fall

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aspects :

aspects

there was that decade of citrus lipstick
painted in shades of a ruddy cliff side
which had collapsed in the shape of a woman

that whole morning was a happy mistake
the light mandolin twang of alley bands
one thing freely plucked out of another’s hands

maybe I promised never to transpose
those echoes from the storm the night before
salt perfume, a frayed red cap, burnt pancetta

as our young captain gabbed each new line out
we got caught up, we gazed at the fresh snow
at the top of the island’s old volcano

it would all melt by midday, when we swam
trying to concentrate on those other
fish in the sea, colors of forgetfulness

I remember my heart of burning oil
on a hot engine, sunscreen in your beard
Divanti, diet coke, a yellow sundress

eyes, the green of unshelled pistachios
no, I couldn’t tell you when it surfaced
nothing for a while- then finally, a whale

I know the poetry had brighter aspects
but I was already blind in the sunshine
we only spoke briefly of Sedona

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more notes :

unpack more notes from the slow magic show
cities in boxes with stickers that glow
rome here and holland, if we can go dutch
honolulu and tissue and miss you and such
cannisters, bannisters, barrels of oak
and I do not recall if ever I spoke
about things disappearing with a distracting snap
the magic you tried to keep under your hat
as we were all waiting for that one thing to come back
a promise, a mission, a lady, a laugh
probably everything ever that felt sawn in half

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construction :

Construction

wicker woven terms, sheltered revisions
furniture fables remodeled, retold
exigent blueprint redefinitions
passions built to scale, possessed or resold
edifice rising from scaffolding bare
through living rooms and lifeless exhibits
hammering verses, tooth and nail repair
budget veneers over unowned templates
superstruct fancy through connecting doors
inching unfurnished to restoration
the reneged construction of set contours
in pencil marked hopes for preservation
lines drawn on unrolled scrolls of conjecture
hoping to summon your architecture

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calendula :

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in remembrance of oak slats, arrant nouns
a kiss, a ribbon falling off its spool
summers behind flowers, ties beyond towns
gardens without a gate or latch or fool
to journey through life without a number
of names made up for Creole winds and sighs
no weather or regrets yet to plunder
inside the sweet calendula sunrise
when one mosquito sailed by, some lone rogue
captain out for blood, you said our fragrance
was endless- swamp breath, virginity, prose
hot saxaphones and New Orleans vagrants
a wine with too many notes to name one
forgetful, I pinned the list to the sun

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each :

I will go mad if you do not write soon
muttering charcoal, gold spinnakers off
past oceans, my hair a compendium
a sailor’s book of every kind of knot

If I could backmask all your vinyl sighs
unzip the sky, refurbish the mountains
with your corduroy light, fevers drawn out
my own star, you are as cold as heaven

the world is a shiny gun, a bullet
that’s going to backfire, out of your hands
while I keep longing for yellow dresses
and meeting you in your Allen Edmonds

but each to his own, artful persuasions
Cezanne’s apples, and all the finished poems
of the Romantics- if you write at all,
it is possible, just I will read it

judging by, our love, the artist’s reward
I say this will be a year of first drafts
the way I sailed unversed frames on water
the day you gave each last painting away

#2016

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hello as years:

hello from the loose dirt of destiny-
the crushed nutmeg lumped out on the table
every hand-dashed season, no recipe
as the last sunlight leaves a slice, fateful
decisions are laid out, as someone sweeps
the tablecloth out, or the crumbs away
something under the rug, what often keeps
coming to mind these days is how to say
hello from the impermanent craft board
of every November, hello as years
grow trunks and branches, I seem to be floored
as I hear hello from beyond the fears
from the seams of old boards that save a flaw
through so much weather, whatever they saw

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all those first sidewalk drafts :

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dirty laundry :

it’s just that
the last few days
I’ve been in the spin cycle
fervor, old cotton, a temperature
mixed with all the colors

that bleed into static
walled panels and dry humor

aye, that’s the scrub
balanced on a rusty rotating drum
did you think I would
read the instructions
I never did
no, I never knew exactly what
to hang on a line
or what would be
going to the mattresses
all this longing for
unfolding
though we argued about that from the very beginning

about all the buildup

to keep the machine going

and whatever kept you
– the exact change,

timing, water, cycles
always on the other side
of that glass door

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