Blue in Green to
Kind of Blue
Rains
So What.
Listen, Freddie
Hollow out sounds
to hollow-out sound.
Introduction to You
The eyes flicker for stillness
For tomorrow’s noon,
For the new night.
Your voice and these sounds, an invisible washing machine
Your eyes have their cymbals,
Your nose, an erotic hurrah. And on your back you lug
The ergocentric earth mat of longing.
Your forehead chimes blue.
All this and when you sit still I can’t hear silence.
Harsher melodies trickle over teeth. They are the fillings’ lullabies. A hyperstatic
rushfield.
You are obsolete to someone.
Yet to me, there are echoes in your skin. All the mines are sounds in bones
as whistles in an orchestra. Each tuning
makes sense.
You want to shoot words as darts and only notes come to mind. They do not
know their names, only these sounds.
This one is a gas, a white light
The noise your chin makes brushing air.
The other has a halo of red, for pensive thought, or when you’re in some mood.
Still longer is the sound of purple, which reaches into a wooden panel beneath
your heart. You press and it reverberates.
The ceiling fan waves
A longer noise
saved for rainy days when you are left alone to brood, and green.
It slinks and rounds a hollow rhapsody, but only when orange is resting beneath
the coolness of your linens.
The sighs in there are worth the digging
One bitchin’ yellow.
And black is for your bones clear down to the skeleton beneath the blood. The
sound that you give off when washing the day from your loose fingers.
No man’s hands are as beautiful as this.
Dig it. Dig Grip.
Dig the way your hands dig into
Me
Dig the way the building digs the dirt
Like you dig me
I dig.
Dig Air.
Dig the way your mouth forms ohs around
Me these lips are tasting what it tastes
To be the mouth that digs the air
Like you dig your mouth
I dig.
Dig Sound.
Dig the way your sound digs into
Me
Dig the way your fingers grip the
Hips that dig the building bricks
That dig the dirt
Like you dig me
I dig.
stupid Monster bites me in the ass and then
I say things
I don’t mean.
Poetry in place of a house
Building my grandmother my Cajun fingers and the things in the kitchen
Scents filling all this, too simple
To explain
Matches Marlboro whiskey calla lilies cayenne salt pork
Crab-boil burned butter onion and garlic a smoke-black pot
These too important
Peach trees shag-carpet honeysuckle love cages
The mildew that lived there and called itself guhr-rrl.
Poetry in place of a person
Playing my mother my father my glass repertoire these bones
An upright nostalgia, the sinking sticky of 88
Played blue and me, a muted F
To explain sounds
Punctuated, perforated, red-penned adjectives, circling lines
around me,
Always a staccato.
I am raining fingers
I am raining memory
Eyes loosening horizons eyes haunting
photos
And mine
I do not recognize.
I remember your hands on an Oregonian train
the roads and Doris, California.
Leaving the homeless under interstate bridges
say hello to my little friend
everything spinning away from our motion.
Canadian snow geese on logs
smoke-stop bagels
and palominos fenced beside marshes. What is the seagull doing
so far inland? We waited for over an hour
on the next train.
I walk in the door at midnight, it is
as quiet as this.
Come willingly, Billie Holiday.
I will not get to it. I will not
Let me pick me up, I am
under the furniture now
Each time I come in here
Someone is crying.
It is me in here
with the songs and the blues
I am the one who is crying.
Standing
barking naked night fool,
I caress your outline of air with my tongue.
So easy
to love what surrounds
what is, never
touching.
Lover
Am I not
Eros noise
Crowding
Meows
Crying
growls.
I howl
Timbre. Pathos vocal-
Ing chaos.
ho You. Hoo! Senses unsense
No dissonant
tremor
a chord Not echo.
I call your name You insult me
Nothing.
Smoothing of lines track empty
open hands to palm readers gazing
motionless
Outside
cobbled streets wait for dark, the markets
closing
and dusk’s shifting.
Streetcars, drunk with strangers’ dreams,
smoke with night.
This hushing town, losing light to humidity,
sleeping pallets built up on Mamas’ floors,
breeze through moss to candle-windows
blue curtains and air
sigh
Chouchou
Take the trail of your dress in your arm
hair in a chignon
fertile feet on asphalt
trolleys, infatuations
assuage, assure ~ little whispers.
Fickle lights hustling in air
flaming
simmering
gleaming
slowing desire.
Let the night be for blue and green strangers,
restless with itself.
Little streets trailing to moonlight and water,
lights losing light,
shushing on the river’s edge.