stagnantpolariods

Winged Victory

2008-02-11T13:13:00.000-08:00

It was with growing irritation that he watched her sashay in front of the mirror. Her minnow hands weren't sleepy like his and her head cocked left then right. But her eyes were never once on her reflection, they kept flicking off and catching the birds darting in the corners. He tried to catch them and calm her but when he turned they were always gone. His breath caught in his throat when he imagined her dancing alone with the birds. Her skirts fluttered and his vexation flew with feathers.

Oh hey revival

2008-02-04T12:12:00.000-08:00

Silly deceptions with frog eye salad and egg in a nest were simple but when she moved on to ginger lightly muddled with whiskey he knew she was in over her head. And now he could no longer look at her with the same whimsy that had once overtaken him when she blinked with brass spyglasses in riverbed hands.

Interest

2007-01-28T16:07:00.000-08:00

upstairs someone was pounding veal but they lay on their backs and ate jelly sandwiches and knew that somewhere people were talking about them. but there were no burning ears here, just crocodile tears and mirrored sunglasses. and they journeyed to the ocean and walked past sea glass and sand dollars, preferring washed up tires and old fire pits. and when the sun went down they went searching for Angelyne, holding cigarettes and orange segments in the same hand and shrieking innuendos over music no one else would know until next week. and with her gold hair off setting all the shades of black they'd drive to the eternally lit supermarket and sit in shopping carts and on children's rides and discuss french philosophy and the smell of cinnamon. finally he'd notice that her bright lipstick was leaving imprints on her knuckles as her fingers crept into her mouth and he'd grab that shaded hand and pull her home for cups of bad coffee until the maids came in the morning.

A Sestina for Jeff and Suzanne

2007-01-24T22:43:00.000-08:00

You are already feeling woozy from the wine
But the waiter assures you this is one is better than chocolate,
Than sex, than tea after a day in the snow.
The room is filled with people waving spoons,
Fingers, anything for attention in this theater.
You observe everything as if for a class.

You vaguely recall having a class
With the woman now screaming for wine.
She had been social while you haunted the theater
Looking for a way out, drowning grief in chocolate.
Now her's is a world of silver spoons
And you're floundering out in the snow.

Among them you feel like a fox in the snow,
Your red fur the sign of a different class.
Unlike all of them, you weren't spoon
Fed money, raised on wine.
But for you it was a treat to have chocolate,
And the most beautiful thing was the theater.

They jabber nonsensically about that same theater,
About some show that they braved the snow
For. About the mud and chocolate
They left in their first class
Box. Someone spills a glass of wine
On the coat of the waiter as he picks up spoons.

Now the sound of clinking spoons
On glasses fills their circus theater.
"Speech!" They call, their voices thick from wine,
All are too drunk to remember the snow
That will hinder their trips home. Upper class
Means getting a cab is as smooth as good chocolate.

They tilt their bowls away, each bit of chocolate
Sorbet being chased (demurely) by engraved spoons.
A man tells his neighbor "Now that's class!"
As she accepts his invitation to the theater.
They send their best men out into the snow
To grab a cab as they secure a final bottle of wine.

But regardless of the class of the chocolate,
Of the wine and the perfect spoons,
They're merely theater actors, stuck in the snow.

Dunes

2007-01-21T01:48:00.000-08:00

i fell half asleep, one leg curled between yours, before i remembered how you came to me in the grass and shook your head and crinkled your nose. you'd come from the beach and said "i can't find it all but i know there is sand in my hair." and i combed the strands with my fingers, stretching your hair out behind you as you moved toward the house. i loved the soles of your feet as you walked away and i lay flat in the grass, waiting to be stitched to the ground, feeling the clouds in my eyelids. then you were above me with a half finished glass of rosé and sandy toes that tickled my ears as you smiled down at me, backlit by the sun.

Pacific

2007-01-16T15:34:00.000-08:00

they sat, heedlessly, in the dirt and plucked tiny violet berries from the thicket. she felt against the grain of his corduroys and curled a finger in the shape of half a heart. he put his scalloped one to hers and completed it as she wrinkled toes and noses and fidgeted with the bangs framing her face. he pulled her head to his nose and smelled the sun in her buttery hair. and it grew darker than but they stayed fixed there, static and serene, a like-minded seduction of earth and slowing sun.

For Nora

2007-01-15T00:28:00.000-08:00

noses rubbed perfect concentric circles on the panes as gauzy marshmallows seeped in cups of cordovan chocolate. he clasped her hand and they left the circles and the warmth. she was pulled outside and across the deck, slipping on the gelid steps as they made their way across the icebound yard. stopping under in the dusky shadow of a tree they began to waltz. she could feel the sparkly pins of her feet and she could feel the frozen air and she could feel they were rising-almost breaching the world's ceiling of stars-but all should could do was murmur simply, almost dumbly, "it's so beautiful, i feel so good." and he pulled her onto his toes and gave a long, shaky sigh as if the air around him had finally given him enough oxygen and they balanced there, wobbling on the edge of reason, nearly falling together into the black universe.

Fall Pantoum

2007-01-15T00:09:00.000-08:00

“We always listen to this song.”
You told me, lying breathless on your back,
As I watched the calumniated sun
And we drank cups of dark, burning coffee.

You told me, lying breathless on your back,
You felt guilty about loving fall.
And we drank cups of dark, burning coffee
That we had set fire to in a delirious, burning moment.

You felt guilty about loving fall,
Fall is about all the dead things
That we had set fire to in a delirious burning moment,
A reminder that life is easily consumed by flame.

“Fall is about dead things.”
I knew the words were wrong when I saw your shoulders heave,
A reminder that life is easily consumed by flame,
I turned up the music in an effort to relieve the tension.

I knew the words were wrong when I saw your shoulders heave.
As I watched the calumniated sun
I turned up the music in an effort to relieve the tension.
“We always listen to this song.”

Found Poem from a Lorca Essay

2007-01-14T23:52:00.000-08:00

I completed my letters for frivolity,
on benches longing for sunlight,
though I was on the point of boredom.
My irony.

Demon pot of ink!
Destructive, I scratched at the lines.
In the little balcony, the Muse stirs.
Roused from the scent of violets.
It was useless.

Silent, I whore the trembling spirits.,
A furious rhythm of pure music.
Say! Muse!
Change all the arts who failed
To triumphs.

Inventiveness and trifles.
I was devoid of expression.
It appears dying, middle of the road,
I am done for.

If I can never freely work,
It is easier to close this drama,
A struggle with measure,
While aid is required to drive home
The nail of artistic truth.

Playing with sonnets,
When that Muse appears
And must bow to sound.
I raised hands and
freshly created things.

Sunday

2007-01-14T23:40:00.000-08:00

Lying, curled and naked in your bed,
my head on your chest,
on a stay-in-bed Sunday morning.
I lightly trace my fingers up
and around your chest.
In my mind I can see
a tiny, perfect, golden star
above your heart.
I circle it lightly with my fingertips,
I can feel the muscles in your face shift
as you smile down on me. An unseen
smile, but felt nonetheless.
Your hands begin exploring:
my hair, my lips, my neck,
coming to rest with one hand
lightly cupped around my breast,
the other curled on my stomach.
I draw hearts and write words on your chest,
my fingers drifting lazily; mispelling words,
leaving out letters. I can’t pay attention.
Your lips are now in my hair,
reminding me of every single follicle.
I feel your breath falling lightly,
creating tiny indentations in my scalp.
I trace the perfect star again.
My secret.
Fingers following the lines,
jutting out to the five points.
Perhaps the repetitive motion is noticeable,
you look down, chin pressing into my head,
‘What’s that you’ve got there?”
I stop, frozen, as you run your own hand down your chest,
feeling around where the star is set.
Your hands move up and down by the star,
you begin to circle around it, coming closer
every second before
suddenly stopping.
“It’s one of your hairs.” You smile.
The perfect, tiny heart flushes red at nearly being exposed.
Blinking furiously, it twinkles and shimmers at me.
And I, red and warm, twinkle and shimmer back at it.