A Day in Twelve Pieces

The painting above is because I am missing my Dave.  The poem below is an experiment in a day's worth of writing.

A DAY IN TWELVE PIECES

6:23 a.m.  From the milk-giving tree

First milk, then butter, then the sun and the moon, then the witch waves her wand, hazel wand and brings luck to the lovers.  These are models from life.  These are models.  From life.  These are… ah, warm elixir of love.  There is no time to start with the small things.

8:45 a.m. Marginal language

Between the in breath and the out, the realization and the smile, a message slumbers revolving around this refusal to be reduced.  Parry, parry, parry, unable to thrust--beyond the necessity for needlework, what do women forgive?  Unable to trust, almost lost in translation, they need music in their hands and dialogue body to body.

9:50 a.m. Small savior

Scantily dressed in worn shorts and striped shirt, I saw you bow ceremoniously to the unseen.  In front of a suitable backdrop, a single peach hangs from an almost barren tree, careful to cling just enough without appearing needy.  “Are you pleased to be the last peach?  Will you die for the answers?  What will the end be like after all?”

10:00 a.m. Further the modern

Chock full and aching, I would like to talk of other matters.

11:40 a.m. Precarious and uncertain

I blend colors to make brown, but the light changes, and the red shows through.

2:00 p.m. Loquacious Woman

Behind lacy incidentals and boiled credentials, she cracks nuts with her teeth to boot.

 

3:19 p.m. Red on black

Observe these grit-tempered wares impressed with fingernails… Probably made by a pupil, or perhaps a poetess occasionally employed.

 

5:50 p.m. Anticipating Carravagio

Ecstatic dancers and half-seated figures… “In this position?” you may ask as I take off my mask.  You may ask, or you may say, “Bravo!”

5:53 p.m. Utterly indeterminate

Perhaps love is a cliché, but if you can get an actor Meisner has trained…

 

5:54 p.m. Lady of light

When the water drips from my hair, I would be a streambed.  When I look in the mirror, I would have a silver back.  When steam rises from my legs, I would be the cool above the tub.  Where there is friction, you are the vine joining earth and sky.  When you smile at me, I shine beauty above the waterline.  If you touch me, I will shatter into a million shining droplets of deception.

 

7:36 p.m. Too far gone by Tuesday

Colors can push you over the edge, and I really prefer the sketchiness of the pencil sound, the way the round, undefined housing shelters me from the lead.  I prefer to live with the promise of eras ability, so ironically decisive, yet I still cross things out (out of habit).  You must realize that even this writing is not without some danger.  The friction can become tiresome, can become needy, can become divisive, and I might get caught up in the reflection of that shiny metal piece that ties eraser to wood, that little connector so needlessly intricate and cold.

 

9:20 p.m. Double bind

The sun, the moon and the earth have aligned themselves but the belt hangs low on the left and no adhesive holds this image aloft.  “Here I could love you,” you say as we lie in the grass, but my arms have fallen asleep and machine noise loads the sky.  Still, you sing.  If I could hear you, such tunes might move me.  If I could lather away these fumes, I would breathe you in that you might soothe me, but the city is deep, and no bridges cross the mystery.