1.
long walk little moon dash
of red pepper in the pesto
plated on the floor faced you
& then myself the dog curled
beside our naked thighs I go
too far you reel me back I stand
under a shower water falling
from the ceiling I write actions
never do them.
2.
unpeeling yellow back
in time to stone like going
back in time to something
before we had touched it, rock
as something ancient she said
when you’re in it, it feels
ancient. it stacks on top I see
through the diamonds it was
sticky when we unpeeled it
stone untouchable in two
dimension –
2.
if I stick you to
myself as she does acrylic on
top her fingernails will I make
a better accessory of myself
for your life?
I was one of those people who
plays music from their pocket those people
who impose their auditory pleasures all over
a place usually with a large speaker whenever I have
visitors I take them to the park that tonight I was playing
my music beside and they say this is the park of bad music and
I don’t disagree. But tonight it was me I needed my music to reach
out to something, interrupt quiet’s cadence, embellish a steel sharp hole,
needed to think of you after taking all those orders and pouring all that water
often into glasses and also on my shoes. You who I cannot touch and must imagine in
the space of without, playing a song called Vertigo, which for Albert Murray is to “Just spin around!”
to keep spinning until I am so dizzy I am made insane thinking that spinning and spinning
again will change the results, will bring me the clarity of your body instead of delirium,
the song making me think of In a Sentimental Mood, which when I told Sheima
I loved she rationalized rather fast: I was always in such a mood. Passed a group
of happy party goers as my music played from my pocket, none of us
said Hello. I think they were made uncomfortable by my blues
and so my blues affected nothing, furthered nothing, what’s
the difference, I am thinking now, of trying to save you
from silence with that music in the dark night
and these marks on paper desperate
to revive you? Sounding into
the void my true
moored
solus
grey sky light rain little movement pull of wrist park green
skirt black umbrella up slight chill little distant dozing off
cafe closed money adding chartreuse paintjob surreal union was i
too affected was it an eagle atop the tree bad punk cover band
new york light lessened in the dew glowing drawing “the head
of a poet” started a conversation meant for later felt exposed
bringing it up sleep talking light snoring mirrors pitched
at every turn not my job but missing shadow’s reentrance
now after this altering is it better was it true yes true and
so sad a little didn’t know if i could do it and then it was done
back to dreaming bumpy star talk following signs hung bizarrely
Phoebe Brown has been previously published in "Impossible Task" with Another New Calligraphy, Anthropocene Journal, and in anthologies with Hog River Press and Moonstone Arts Center.
