1.

The cat is lying, gazing endlessly in wait for the arrival of Billy the Kid, so she may sit and stare upon that forbidden lake of her dreams. Poor thing, she is charming at this time of the night, during the day she is such a puss, but when the sun has fallen it’s a though she puts upon her dress waiting for the pumpkin to carry her away. I have tried to write but I simply cannot, though I feel within the churning, the stirring sensation of worlds and words; I can make sense of none of it, only the image I have of a woman named Belina with whom Barabbas would travel the world endlessly so that he may feel the warmth of her soft caress. Is it that I am indeed Mr. Barabbas Little? Surely I am not, but if you were Belina would you not, and with one swift glance, steal the breath of those whose eyes met with yours? I wonder, yet it is of that hour when wonder flourishes openly, kisses all that it touches, charms those who in the vigil of a summer night have waited eagerly for her arrival. And it is no small consequence that I have these fleeting thoughts, curled upon the divan, the pen, the paper, writing while my little green machine sleeps, for it is clear that the good thoughts I had this evening were meant for you.

 2.

As a sailor is to the sea-

She whose anger has never been enough to settle those who endlessly long to be held within her endless midnight arms.

But a thought…

Let us live upon the rooftops, with the chimneys we sill smoke stacks of burnt gold, that we may rise and greet the morning with she who gives life to all. And so begins the story of two who have loved, whose brothers were the clouds, whose sisters the stars.

3.

I used to dream of the days when at night I would write you and in the early morning sunlight that which I had finished was yours, left to be found as you awoke to approach the day. I am sorry I have not done more of that which I had so often thought of. I have pulled the wooden chair from outside because it feels correct for the moment, that, and I have tried, is one of the most difficult things out of all there is to put into words, simply, it feels right to sit upon that which matches my humble escritoire.

4.

Tonight I blow kisses to the stars, cold and sitting- insular clouds pass like cars and I wonder who else could be sitting, mystified at the subtle beauty the night has freely given us, cold, yes, but soon I have forgotten and the memory of you walking, approaching gracefully, and I see you in the distance, the hood of your red overcoat drawn and you are more beautiful than that which I have words for; your face finely chiseled beneath the shadow cast from the wheezing moon- it was raining, the moon coughing.  As of late have you said that it is beauty which moves, something beautiful rather than that which is modern? Until time takes me from you, always will that image rest within my heart… I am writing tonight! Yes my little lion, and you are sleeping; your dreams are that which in the morning paint vibrantly the wearisome thought of an old cynic such as I am, old and grey, a little more in the morning-

Parez-vous, dansez, reiz. Je ne pourrai jamais en-voyer l’Amour par la fentre.

5.

Strange running into you the way that I did; strange is all and everything! The blueprint of the cosmos freshly drawn each new morn before the valance of night is parted and the sun again lifts its golden eyelids. Alas! I am awake and you are once again within my reach. Makes you wonder, no? And still do I look to you and feel that which I have always felt; joy, wonder, that which has and still draws me towards you. Time has changed me, maybe you saw that, or maybe my incessant charm for once affected a rather positive outcome, but dear was I nervous before you had arrived the other day and thankfully it has passed. I have been carrying you around in my thoughts, anxious to see you again, and what that means I have not a clue, nor am I concerned, simply, I am happy, blessed by the warmth with which a woman can give to a man just with a smile.

6.

It is nighttime, I am writing…

-Her hair falls like water from a broken piano, as her mellifluous tresses blanket her raindrop shoulder, as milk in the morning, the sound of bowls, trees falling; I am drowning, dreaming.

-I wonder at the armpit, dishes, she says nothing and then interstice, silence lathered like a convalescents limb.

… I said to myself that our social existence, like our artists-

7.

I feel such as I am, my age… Leave everything echoes within as a flickering candle, my thoughts the wind. I see within you that which is good, within others, not so much. I reproach myself tonight for not being more selfless, more giving, for always could I be doing more. The three of you tonight standing formed quite a strange little menagerie, delicate, dainty- I am reminded of myself at 24, quite possibly it is why I feel as such… I love you in all the different forms with which you appear before me. Some days with such grace, some, of course without, yet it would be most unsettling if you were not to stumble from time to time, if I were not to notice a slight change in your womanly stride, regardless, I love the way that you walk. We are at moments are own individual galaxy, sustaining, floating, incalculable, and the distance between one another, at these very moments is unfathomable, just as the galaxy itself, twirling I imagine in a pirouette upon the littered cosmic floor, and then to bed, and then the song… would you like a cup of coffee? Weeks ago did I write this…

8.

I am sorry if as of late that man I sometimes think myself to be has been but asleep- In his absence there arrives a foolish little boy who knows of love only as a bemusing, fragrant, subtle draft from which when he rises to follow he finds that he is lost amidst the shimmering, glittering, modern world. If only our doubt was but a cloud of smoke and with a breath I could blow it out the window, singing ‘Lets us be the forks which feed one another, turned over, savored by tongue!’ And the man dispels the boy who becomes a man who is always chasing the shadows of his youth. Life is funny, like the expression upon her face tonight, upon entering, the wheels set into incessant motion, plans wheeling along, for the night which had not yet begun. Silly that one- at 24 I was pulling down stars and bathing in the showering golden flakes of their bursting hearts, asking, asking everyone, “But have you seen my watch?” And once found, one wishes that forever had it been lost.

I love you, I am, your big white buffalo.

9.

Sleep is sleeping somewhere and I have looked but cannot find her, wondering if you have taken her and the moon and the stars and the heat from this little room.

For it is cold and then the vent blowing kisses, I simply cannot catch, so I’ll pull at my hair and wait for the shower to whisper in the distance of the warmth which it has to offer.

And all the pearls and puddles and the midst which the walls are unable to swallow, rather, I open the door to avoid that of a room swollen, to prefer for the moment which  I was trying to avoid.

Funny how fickle we are in regards to all things matutinal, yet always unknowingly know the end ending, always the same…

10.

I phoned this morning to be relieved of my duties, to spend the day playing house; to make that which was yours, ours.  The rest we can do together, breaking only to make love in the bedroom. It was quite a now and then, father groaning about the stairs, parking, another flight and, ‘yes father I am sorry I will worry about the rest.’ Little fat man folds his arms and grunts or shakes his head; his hands in the air like semaphores to the good lord, that whoever was responsible for the stairs, for children, for children who live in buildings afforded only with a staircase. Silly man I know he loves but only through his frustration does he- love is love is love is a fat man sweating up a flight of steps, each step muttering.  Goodnight father and please find out about mother, please and don’t forget. I often wonder if I saw the world as he does, to take stock in something, believe what I was saying, to see meaning, purpose, where I do not. I scratch my head. But is there time enough in this life or the next, to understand the goings on of human thought, or my mother, an enigma to those which she bore and to father, who had never imagined life, inflorescent, vibrant with possibility, often from that which was once thought to be impossible, ah life and Europe, circa 1950 says the wall…

11.

Two kids pass on the right and as I slowly drive by he reaches over and grabs her, laughs, she laughs, and in the passing headlights their smiles flicker. I smile. We, all of us, are cowards before a smile. To think of all the days behind you on your stairs, sliding my hand between your thighs, upon my face a smile.

Strindberg- ‘I love you as the sun loves the dew, to drink it.’

Never have I been so taken by a woman; your beauty is beyond me, beyond what I have words for. Even your skin bemuses me. I become lost within your skin…..

Cat sits and she stares and I am jealous of----

I wonder sometimes if they all have written you love letters.

12.

I am gazing, smiling at the picture you have given me which as you know sits atop my desk which as of late has been quite forgotten, but tonight, as in your picture, like you, it is glowing as I write for you alone, waiting for dawn to lift her heavy lids. I have not, as you so often asked, finished Moby Dick; tonight I swam upon the glittering shores of master Frances’ graceful prose which like a smoke ring lingers, yet as it dissipates something invisible to the eye remains within my heart of hearts. It pains me to leave you, always; if I must I would rather always return to something which we may call our own.

13.

December seems ages away and maybe we should think about August, September, however I want what you want, always-all ways! - The humor in that which during the day is dry and boring, to finish that which you have begun – I admire you but I am still a boy sometimes; that which takes you from me is that which for the moment robs me of all reason- still am I a child and because of this I am sorry, only did I want to spend time with you during the hours which normally separate us. When I look at you I see the girl in this picture and the boy in me wants to chase you and spit in your ear and pinch your bottom. Your smile is reminiscent of youth. Of your youth. It is the source from which much of your beauty stems and with one single gesture you take for the moment that which endlessly I worry over- I am calmed, happy, in love, love, love…

14.

The night pales like a sad pup as the apparition of your all encompassing smile glitters in the absence of a pocked moon- the shades are drawn; the lights bring to life that which for many others at this moment is lifeless, sleeping- but I am too awake and too bright eyed to enjoy a pillow without the gently crashing waves crashing atop my neck and cheek; your ocean like hair without sand; a beach endless and all the joy, the joy of joy is joy! Only have we seen a snippet of the better days which lie ahead. Days will always be better if you want them to be, the day is yours is more than just a day and the choir teacher I had as a boy would smoke chalk, see, I am smoking, not chalk but who is to say that when we run out of tobacco leaves we might find chalk dust more interesting, a brand called ‘clouds’-cigarettes of the gods- and goddamned white children for everyone. Making love this morning I felt like candles melting.

I am kissing you like ships sinking….

15.

It is Friday and you are working. Cat asks, ‘why is she working?’ Why are you working? I tell her it is your love for the finer things in this world which impel you to do such, she asks, ‘such as?’ And I grin like the horizon and chase her into the next room. This weather is something else, no? To wit, darling, sweet as apples, like a woman it is rather fickle, what with all the back and forth, whereas last night, sweat beads like water atop a glass beneath the sun, makes it impossible to enjoy a good nights rest, yet as of now, it is cold and the trees bend as I look out of my window at the big big world, the wind sweeping in and out of the house like fabric on little old highland avenue. The coffee pot hisses, the sibilant water flowing to warm the stomach, the other, my humble little abode, the city of books! As master France so says, ‘with the air of a man who understands the humor, more often than not, of ones own station in this life, and is able, whole heartedly to laugh of his own account.’ I am wondering if tonight I will be able to pinch your soft hips and smile, warmly as clouds of your laughter fill the room..

I hear the sound of birds chirping and it’s the sound of an old church bell ringing. I yawn. And again as a boy walking with my mother into church as we used to do on so many Sundays, the ennui; literally she had to drag me like a resilient pup into church

16.

I have been reading Moby D. and the window is open, cigarette- poor Cat loves to have the window lifted, sits in wonder at the sounds of the world creeping in. I say, ‘Cat, really, you are missing nothing!’ And if I myself am mistaken, and if to miss something…sorry and I feel rather pensive this evening and what woman, sensible as she may be, would so desire to have such a pensive man; I cannot escape that which I am subject to, feelings like tethers, the sun and work awaits as always there is work to be done.

Spanish music plays and what are words, lips- I have a tongue but like most things, the two which are seemingly useless without one another are also useless together.

Still I understand the sadness of harmony.

17.

There are nights my little lion when the day pales in insignificance, crumbles, and I am free to create, alone, worlds which will never see the morning sun. My imagination, my heart glowing, and for once I fell free. It is that, and only that, which is truly my own. We have nights, oh so many nights! Days, morning which are waiting for us with eggs, bacon- I smile at the thought, imagine how you curl your toes beneath me; you have that which I dream of. Time is the most delicate of all that is alive.

The snow falls lazily, glows; the buildings become a mere backdrop, softened, disappear amidst the white sky falling.

Yesterday morning it was the thought of the smile formed upon your face upon finding the note which I had set out.

As the night dons it’s hat and the sun lifts its sleepy head, I am yours again, over and over and then coffee and a kiss and a door quietly closes…

18.

I have taken quite a liking to the emerald green divan; I lie upon her immemorial folds some mornings tending to that which weighs upon me, this and many other things, to shift, fold, expand-

To make manageable that which we are powerless beneath the weight of.

I am beset by indifference- why brood over such a brooding land.

19.

It is maddening… tonight, out of silence, I seek to find my voice, to say what I had kept beneath my tongue, to speak of the ghosts which I am sure are now sleeping, to imagine to have said! Yet if only for myself! What insanity, or if, even to draw some conclusion, to better understand that which but hours prior swelled within, I scribble and mutter saying alas! And my eyelids fold over. I say, but just one more, and my arms are lazy, limp, my legs cold, buried beneath a somber blanket, my toes finding company in one another…

20.

Always is it from a place of love that I write you- some mornings you are insufferable, as am I; a knot in your beautiful head of hair- always am I trying to have the patience which sometime escapes me, to change that which inside of me at moments I have no control over, habit mainly, and that which as a child I knew growing, always reminding myself to never becomes that which my mother and father-

Their love for us children unparallel, their love for each other distant, moments-

I remember seeing a glint within their eyes of that initial spark; their love for one another, silent, without the words I fear to fully express the way they felt; only silence and then it is over. And I am growing all the while reminding, living within a perpetual conversation within, telling myself, asking, and so many nevers.

I feel I have not entirely failed that boy I once was, that to some extant I have fulfilled those wishes, but the mornings we spend distant in a row, remind me of all the mutterings and uttering’s I made while I listened to father and mother as the sun was coming up.

I too dreaded the waking hour.

Our lives spent endlessly in our heads, telling, asserting, convinced, and then becoming the opposite- I never want to live in silence.

21.

It is never the case that I want to leave you alone while you sleep. There are moments when my thoughts afford me no rest and upon seeing you, snug within dream, I often sometimes forget to disturb you. Such is the effect you have upon me when through the curtain the moon subtly laid upon you the soft glow of its nighttime charm…

22.

So much to say before the suns comes up…

Walking to the station around the corner, dear it is late, and I remember when you and I had done the same at the start. Your beauty bemused me; for the very first time I saw you beautiful, or what I had imagined beauty to be, and there you are, standing, then walking in the cold. Still everyday day do I look upon u and see that which I long to share with the world…

23.

For the longest time I swore off the making of acquaintances; the talking, the strangers-

‘I have no need for that, I have no need at all’

But I doubt myself sometimes and as much as I think that it is you and I and drown the world while we stand outside of it; I cannot- I feel human when I talk-

History as the unfinished painting with which the artist chooses to set aside-he waits. The moment when he may return to something which had already been started.

Or despite the effort, the time and all the paint, that which was life for but a moment is destroyed.

The waitress approaches suspended from above.

We were young once and we looked at the women at the bar, their gossamer dresses, hazel irises marching on, the Mississippi show stoppers; brother bending slowly upon the bar, the smoke lifts, floats to where the window is cracked and then is gone.

The women come and go often and in the morning will have been forgotten.

A girl who pulled the clouds upon her, shaped them and let them go, I know her no longer, only I know the women, she smiles and I do not remember her the way she was; warm beneath us I felt the earths feet, I desired, Europe in the afternoon calling.

The lines of our broken lives, the brocade of fall approaching. It is summer and I miss the sound of the floorboards bending beneath her pilchard toes.

China, I say china softly; sitting I see my neighbor smoking in a robe.

My legs are hesitant from all the swelling; I have forgotten the walks I would take upon the broken Kansas lawns. Can you not see the leaves as they have fallen, sitting upon your porch? The coffee smiles in the morning, the steam lifts from above, years pirouette then fall, and after all this? Yes, and after all.

I have broken so many things; the walls velvet green, let us go then you and I; as I lay atop her gazing endlessly, her soft countenance colors the tragedy of life.

Each day I await the cracking of the steps outside the door. They are calling, I stand and the door from above closes. It was nothing. Upon the green divan the curtains keep from us the hands, the arms, I draw them and it is dark out, is it getting darker, I lay upon her and dream a bit more. It is time for bed to rest our sleepy heads, do you dream as I of the night unmasked?

I awake again and the door closes. Is it I or am I the son of my father? The sililiquouy of your signs blossom within my chest; it is in your home that I am always your child.

I awake and she has not left; Sunday morning when the teapots sings of peaches. In bed, the sibilant kettle from above says ready, she saunters lazily as I pour the tea bedside next to her shapely legs.

I watch her so many mornings and then she leaves. She is graceful when she walks, I can hear her from behind the walls as she slides into my sleep, the thunder rolls along, the rain batting against the windows does not wake us, I dip her and she rises to my lips and we drift out to sea weightless.

I awake and can hear the water tumbling into the tub.

On a train to Kansas I am traveling with my thoughts, my green valise above. The barren Midwest flickers in the photographic window. Lightening flashes, the image, the moment. I am seated next to a pair of lovers.  The tracks which have folded the earth over, the modern world in a bowl. We stop and I stand on the platform watching all the trains coming and going, all the tired faces, I have forgotten where I am going; I miss her thick curling hair, her hips in the morning. The storm has yet to pass, the thunder, the days I spent walking, visiting the withering homes.

Her cheeks are pursed, her cheeks are rather lovely, her prismatic mind has seven different suns whose moon she says in not a moon but a star burning, in the shower she says, it warms her with the rivers she has shown me.

I try to tell her that I want her to stay and she says nothing. She holds the sky within her jowls. I says lets fumble about the earth together, let us be buried beneath the feet of all the angels fallen, beneath the brass balloon where the children get their wings. The car approaches, the engine purrs, the red door closes.

I am sorry for yelling I am sorry. How trivial the imagination can be, how the water reminds me of when you wash your beautiful skin, you dress as I imagine the Egyptians played with sand, you are not sandy, rather, you are beautiful composed.

Mother touches me and I turn, I should not have turned away; I turn and gently close her eyelids.

Beneath the cover of my duvet, under the rose, the petals fall slowly above a fluttering nose. A street bathed in blue, I see a woman, her cheeks red and her lips too.

At night we sat waiting for father to come home; I have known love, tumbling, loves supernal womb of never-ending oranges- I fold beneath the weight of a heavy tongue; the son of my father, my mother the sun.

I sit and listen to the sermon longing to touch the curls of her hair. I hear the voices fall. I follow her whistling, ‘The two twins born;’ turn the vase over and watch all the stars falling.

She fathomed that autumn would always be better upon the frosted tips of grass falling; sand from a bucket, children’s hands too much. If anything she says she wears her dress a bit shorter.

My father’s boots damp every morning. He can barely walk now; he walks, but very slowly. I remember us first working together. I am told I must keep working. Too many tongues, kidneys, stout little men, midwives and knees and come yes I am coming.

This morning I asked for cream. I arrived as my little lion has awoken. I kiss her saying- she says to stop asking what is wrong. I ask because I want her to be happy. She smiles, her cheeks like egg yolks.

But the sun has barely risen to kiss the tops of all the roofs still sleeping.

Like a heavy cloud I fist saw her floating, but it has been so long, time a sleeping oyster under a sea of pestilent chords.

Like children remember all that was not or was nothing never as the mist of the bay melts into the skyline.

Amaranthine and her tiger-eyes

Amaranthine and her tiger-eyes await me blushing; my stride the length of sleeping mountains, my heart an ocean. It is cold on the eve of fair June approaching. Barabbas sitting, whistling at the girls as they walk by. Come, he says, let us pluck a few feathers, let us wait for the moon to lift us upon her breast. The orange peels slowly, the church bells ring, I can hear the tantara, the bay which crashes from afar, as the café door closes his shadow kisses the floor. I take leave, I begin again to walk. Amaranthine, who lay upon the soft jade, doused of a burnt orange.

I pass the patrons of the inn wiping away the fog, ale after a day’s toil. The procuress catches me from the corner where the crows have kissed, motions me to enter with her thin taut lips witch I catch through the window. The scent of her amber curls; the sun sitting upon her vanity combing.

I sit and order softly something hearty, full of body, foaming. Her hair is red, how I like her red hair I thought, her bodice rather charming. She turns, glittering, she turns again, a cup overflowing. I peel the top with my tongue turning to face the restless. Heels kiss the floor; rouge lipped kisses on the smug cheeks grinning.

Amaranthine and her crimson lips

Amaranthine and her crimson lips the night I lit a candle, blushing, to lay upon my untouched cheek to keep her through the evening.

A woman approaches, blanketed, milky white clouds of smoke. She sits upon my leg; the bundles of her fitted flowing dressing gown brush me. Elsa, a rose petal falling, sedulous, her languor is charming. Gazing eye-to-eye, rosy noses touching, childlike fancies, Amaranthine and I.

Elsa from afar, her plum like body dangling. Amaranthine and her father are walking. I lay my eyes upon her as winter’s first snow upon the street. Her father is portly, her parasol bouncing, they fade into the song of all the passersby.

I would visit grandfather with the hopes of passing her. Strolling slowly, I turn the corner, a glance cast over my shoulder. To see her made the day glorious, the night even more, when each star became a freckle upon the cosmic skin of an imagined Amaranthine, who covered the earth till morning with the pallor of her abundant glow.

Beneath a tree in the orchard of Grandfathers vineyard, I would take to sitting, praying on Sunday the next for a glimpse of the girl whom I longed to possess. In the distance I can her grandfather approaching softly, as if not to break the grass beneath his giant feet. He smiles slowly, places my hand within his palm, his wrinkled sun bathed skin, saying always, ‘Come and let us walk.’

Amaranthine my love forgotten

‘My child’, she says, ‘my darling, Mary my blessed mother,’ her bedroom is just above. Her hips sway upon the stairs; the undulating ocean of her supernal eyes. Elsa, I say, and bury her beneath a violet.

Grandfather has since left, my mother, father, still with open eyes. Grandpa, I say, may you be warm beneath the brocade of a thousand undying smiles, a sun which never rests her head. Amaranthine my love forgotten, I pass the church, the tired houses, tired lights waiting to be put to bed.

In the morning mother used to wake us with song, father having already left before our dreams had ended. She would dress us, with comb she would tend to our little heads, pressing, parting, sending us along as she watched until we disappeared into the depths of where her vision could not reach, held within the well of her eyelids.

It appears some nights that the stars I may touch; crumbling, flowering sparks of gold, the lives of others, the life of my own, the pages from the beneath the splendid oak in the campo santo. I hear her calling, her voice the sound of the unadulterated, Amaranthine like a violet. In my dreams I approach her; delicious are the sugarplums, the honey. We walk towards snow-capped mansions. In the campo santo we hear the song of the pariahs. ‘Listen,’ she says, ‘can you hear the broken voices?’ She falls, obsequious beneath the moons eternal teardrops which we drink of until we are full, heavy and without breath, lazy and we lay forever.

I am awake, not sour; an iris yawns, I say, ‘Quiet iris, the sun is still asleep.’ Barabbas yawning, his breathe the death of grapes. From afar I can hear the bells held within song. It is as I remember and I remember it is Sunday. I spoon from my eyes sleeps leftover kisses, tumbling, dusting my chin. The thick midnight purls beneath us. The world yawns and I yawn with her, waiting for the pearl.

Amaranthine and the clouds within her eyes

Amaranthine and the clouds within her eyes, pleading that the stars not fall.  Down the piano steps I walk, the velvet august night, the town, she waterfalls, the water, I gently touch her, I touch only her water soft hands. It is not time it is timelessness. Barabbas I say, do you dream as I of the night unmasked?

I imagine mother and I carrying on endlessly in conversation, the echoes timeless within bounce between our soft hearts. I imagine to peel her open, to free all that I have not known of her, of the love she has given, of love lost, her disappointments; all of the joy it blooms like a rose in the garden wrapped within her lungs. I have a view as of late before just a wall, the vines now flow into the luminous street; I envy the sounds which only my ears can touch, the puddles beneath the feet, the rain, the rooftops drip dropping from above Amaranthine in her pelerine. 

Coralina

Upon her eyes where the crows feet call, it is you Coralina whom often I dream of; her teardrops shelter the shimmering glimmering afternoon stars which make upon her cheek a deep red dark.

I am sleeping but have not slept a wink; the women whose toes curl beneath the web of a gossamer dress have not been sleeping with me.

Upon the way a couple, between them an apple tree. It is a shame to think- I have thought, arms are never as long as we need them to be.

‘It is night, can you not tell?’ Across the way a home, a chimney smoking, let us take this bed and ruffle the sheets once more.

‘The problem is to survive. If our youth is to get into his consciousness that love of life-that with the male comes only through the love of surfaces, sensually felt through the fingers-his problem is to reach down through all the broken surface distractions of modern life to that old love of craft out of which culture springs.’

‘Save up your money, and save up your rocks. And you’ll always have tobacco in the old tobacco box.’

‘And the time of the factories was just at hand.’

-S.Anderson