Tiger’s Eye. Apache Tear.
A crushed napkin from the Black Eyed Pea
where Valerie left me.
A small wooden Milarepa
the so-called ‘happy’ Buddha
of the future
missing a foot.
A bit of broken scrimshaw
a two ball from Lola’s
that graffiti bar where the women dressed
in teddies and Maori tattoos.
And a picture of Alice
you remember Alice
a bartender there
whose lips seemed perpetually swollen
as though she spent her afternoons bruising them
ever so slightly
with the chilled smooth curve
of the common water glass.
I can imagine her, even now,
sitting at her kitchen table,
the brittle antique formica
edged by steel,
a poster of Mick Jagger on the fridge,
baring her teeth as her lips parted,
welcoming the round clear pressure
she brought against herself
to make herself pretty.
You need it this other life.
You need its leotard and muscle its bang
And smatter its preening detective.
You need its triplicate its nurse.
You need its special.
What would the darkness be without its invisible accent without
its register its pipe its current its goof its liquid and crystal
its ridge of white feathers.
What you want is exclusion is wardrobe emergency.
Is tryst and purse the fat scent of lilacs
stomp and patter.
All day long you do what you do
Not want to get
What you need.
And what you need is this:
cartoon and vampire and virus travel. Catch and repair.
Th e hectic report of malevolent weather.
Posted: April 25, 2012 at 9:43 pm