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January,
2009
You are
Cordially Invited
The hours in preparation were a short
affair;
there had been months of thought, days of
collection
and invitation.
Todd Hargens had won Best Cook in
January.
Maria Kesper had been twice nominated a
State Hostess.
Janet believes it is her turn, and her
party will be both
lavish and personable.
It is a warm house, fragrant
with extravagant meal and perfumed
doorways
She has bettered herself, caught a spark
of newness
from old haystacks, and she has worked
rigidly
for the creation of her one-chance
night.
Each daystart, her cooking is stronger
than Todd's,
and at each end, more informed than
Maria's.
Janet is disabled from pride,
however. A Malfunction.
She must gather her self from others, is
eager for it.
With settings drawn out and the
coordinated music
pleasant in the cozy home, with the
friendly scent
of a detailed, summery dinner, she paces
near the windows, near the music, panting
in imagination, a love loving to cook,
spark loving
her contemporaries, as she waits out each
moment
for guests who never come.
Heavier
than Air
Leaward or in shade have I slept the
nights,
closer by each, to a dim and grand
dream,
eyes latched shut and sent down passages
more subtle than shapeless grades of
fog.
If I tamper myself thin
and steadily shit away my
wiles,
a peeled lime of panic aired as an art,
but wobbling, fearful,
I waste ballast, I tip and dab my nose
into that froth that tops the surf
I hoped, as a boy, to glide
over.
I no longer glide;
I have flapped my arms busted and bony,
pure, pure, you see, sinking and
pure.
Leaward I rest, in shade or divorced by
each
previous minute. I
will glide again tomorrow.
I'm there and I'm here, and sleep
yesterday
was short; tonight's sleep will be
short.
Look now, I am not gone long, or here
long,
if you do not look.
Self-Portrait of a
Goat
This is a man
who knows he is soon
old. His hair has no
lasting pigment.
The semilunar line of brow has been
dissevered in the center, a torn
letter,
by that scythe of a
nose.
His face has grown
round,
drawn from the fats of sunlight and
the touches of time's hands who
are people.
He shows two faces within a
one,
and in the left face there is
emotionless
monotony.
The left is
figurative.
In the opposing face, there is a
weeded and cavitous
sadness.
It has no form. It
is only there,
presenting
itself.
Could this man have playwrighted
the nervousness of animal
living,
having ascertained so abstractly his
own?
They fear he will forget them, those
eyes,
he is trying to see through
time
but the eyes, they will not leave
him. |
