O

Author: Santi Elite Ratio:    7.28 - 299 /307 /90 Words: 269

Class/Type: Poetry /Misc Total Views: 2504 Average Vote:    No vote yet. Bytes: 1729

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O

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squinting through setting-sun & shotgun talk, Beppo, Seb & Vito love me enough to drink my backwash on a regular basis. we share at least 50% of our genes anyway, chased down with il vino della casa, unearthed from the cellar. I consider how this has to count for something, should be enough, while out the window of the old ford my hand becomes a hawk scouring its wings through a wind of fine muscle & bone. : at dusk, our empty moon is low along the coast & nearing the teapot in the constellation Sagittarius as we travel eastward against the stars. each night this week the moon has waned in cosmic reverie, the houses drawing closer to the trees in a sooty light that kept the very thought of us alive. now we are four night birds falling into each other, spilling wine on cracked leather seats & saying che minchia! to every bump & curve in the road : out of town. we watch each silhouette giving in to the no-light. the earth itself spewing grit & salt, grinding on its dark axis, seemingly alone. having always moved, our bodies can't recall why we spin this way or who first named the blank moon New, believing with enough faith for all that the moon was not lost or gone forever, not a greatly missed & missing O, but an unlit promise: a there-not-there still full.

Submitted on 2011-01-27 00:46:04     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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gosh, now i see how Aly ups her words per, she just posts a pretty poem, talk about sneaky! i couldn't write a poem like this, even if i replaced all your things with my things i still couldn't write a poem like this. it's lovely, it feels a bit elusive- the way raphael is sometimes elusive, not really elusive (your poem) it's just that in 3 particular passages you hit me with your phrasing and the rest of the poem is like glue, like the 985% of a rock: holding the seam of a rock. i won't copy paste and name them, like this poem, i'll leave you wondering. and because it's not something i'd change, not something i could replicate i'll not give line by line on the poem, but just enjoy the view.

| Posted on 2011-03-11 00:00:00 | by theludus | [ Reply to This ]

this just makes complete sense and makes me think of when i would have liked to have been born had i been given the choice and so it is a favourite in the way that the remaining 4 square inches of childhood safety blanket are still a favourite. you tell a story well and when words are set out this way it is simply that: a story well told and there is no-nonesense-no-padding-no-fat and maybe that's what i like the most about this: it is sparse yet somehow fulfilling, in the way that the last piece of good breakfast sausage is best, when picked up and eaten from the hand. it is impossible not to see steinbeck in here and maybe lorca too before he got all radical on our collective ar5es and well, that's it i suppose. i like the language; i like the descriptors and i like the atmospherics too (being out of town in order to watch yourself disappear is just the mutt's nuts). whichever. take it easy, lemonsqeezy. k

| Posted on 2011-02-21 00:00:00 | by Awkward | [ Reply to This ]

August Esta Spalding Skin-tight with longing, like dangerous girls, the tomatoes reel, drunk from the vine. The corn, its secret ears studded like microphones, transmits August across the field: paranoid crickets, the noise of snakes between stalks, peeling themselves from themselves. I am burdened as the sky, clouds, upset buckets pour their varnish onto earth. Last year you asked if I was faint because of the blood. The tomatoes bristled in their improbable skins, eavesdropping. * This is one way to say it. The girl gone, you left. & this another. Last year in August I hung my head between my knees, looked up flirting with atmosphere but you were here & the sky had no gravity. Now love falls from me, walls from a besieged city. When I move the mountains shrug off skin, horizon shudders, I wear the moon a cowbell. My symptom: the earth's constant rotation. On the surface the sea argues. The tide pulls water like a cloth from the table, beached boats, dishes left standing. Without apology nature abandons us. Returns, promiscuous, & slides between sheets, unspooling the length of our bodies. Black wild rabbits beside the lighthouse at Letite. They disappear before I am certain I've seen them Have they learned this from you? * I read the journal of the boy who starved to death on the other side of a river under trees grown so old he would not feed them to a signal fire. His last entry: August 12 Beautiful Blueberries! Everything I say about desire or hunger is only lip service in the face of it. Still there were days I know your mouth gave that last taste of blue. * When you said you were leaving I pictured a tree: spring, the green nippled buds not the fall when we are banished from the garden. * Another woman fell in love with the sea, land kissed by salt, the skin at the neck a tidal zone, she rowed against the escaping tide fighting to stay afloat. To find the sea she had to turn her back to it, stroke. The sea is a wound & in loving it she learned to love what goes missing. * Once the raspberries grew into our room, swollen as the brains of insects, I dreamt a wedding. We could not find our way up the twisted ramp, out from under ground, my hair earth-damp. I woke. A raspberry bush clung to us sticky as the toes of frogs. A warning: you carried betrayal like a mantis folded to your chest -- legs, wings, tongue would open, knife the leaves above us. * If I could step into your skin, my fingers into your fingers putting on gloves, my legs, your legs, a snake zipping up. If I could look out of your tired eyeholes brain of my brain, I might know why we failed. (Once we thought the same thoughts, felt the same things.) A heavy cloak, I wear you, an old black wing I can't shrug off. O heart of my heart, come home. O flesh, come to me before the worm, before earth ate the girl, before you left without belongings. * You said, there are women I know whose presence changes the quality of air. I am not one of those. The leaves lift & sigh, the river keeps saying the unsayable things. I hesitate to prod the corn from the coals though I have soaked it in Arctic water. I stop the knife near the tomato skin, all summer coiled there. You are not coming back. One step is closer to the fire. September will fall with twilight's metal, loose change from a pocket. Quicker than an oar can fight water, I will look up from my feet catch the leaves red-handed embracing smoke. Around me, lost things gather for an instant in earth-dark air.

| Posted on 2011-01-28 00:00:00 | by AlyRose | [ Reply to This ]

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