Tuesday, August 28, 2007
The A1, exit 110
A crumbling hard shoulder fringed with hairy grama,
bell-shaped spikelets lining the fringes of the visible world,
spirals and scribbles from green to toe-deep rhizome.
Sprays of rabbit’s foot or clumps of Maiden Grass:
Carex blood corkscrews. God’s toothbrush, a bull
elephant’s dental floss, dreadlocks of the Great Dane,
Variegata of wands and brushes, matted tea-parties,
Beatle-browed mops, butter yellow from Summer; burnt
copper tangles, curling a dense groundcover, drooping
hints of wild oats, inflorescences accented towards grey,
battered by a tidy warmth of ghosts, pink at the shins.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Jack Kerouac
Don’t be
the man
counting cars
at the edge
of the strip mall. Don’t collect
all the complimentary
bars of soap from all
the hotels on the continent.
Avoid lavender scents
from bargain outlets.
Don’t rise to the occasion
when the country needs you
least. Don’t dismiss
the invisible hand
of the market, especially
when they hose down
and gleaners comb
the clutter of crates
for thyme and asparagus.
Don’t be
the man
coming home
at the edge
of the new estate. Don’t forget
the supplementary
guides to all
the wilderness trails
winding through
long ago
scents that only
a dog follows. Open
the window
and put your ass
to the wind.
End of the Affair
Our holiday in Cancun
was downgraded
to a tropical depression.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
The Square
I’ve been living here for six months now,
in this room with its little stack of coasters
by the skirting board near the door.
I don’t know who left them. I used them once
when Cindy and Tom stopped by. When was that?
Last week, the apple trees lining the vacant lot
were transplanted to the traffic island. I think
it was Tom who dealt them when he popped
the bottle of green wine he brought with him.
Cindy didn’t notice. There are still green rings
on the floor where she sat. I can’t yet make out
what they are building on the vacant lot.
Souvenir reproductions of Mexico City.
I always keep Garibaldi Place on top. In it
you can see a mariachi band
with fairy lights and people strolling.
Lovers go there to kiss and dream
about starting a family. About the wedding
cake in the shape of a famous match.
The small marzipan heroes frozen
in icing. The chocolate goal posts. The marshmallow
couple waving frantically from a border
of M&Ms. The evening is humid, a couple
of skateboarders are smacking down apples
in the eye of the traffic.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Dead Nature
Evidence of Martha
these last few months
and the slow
drift into an Indian Summer.
I’m obsessed with the peaches
in the bowl
on her table in the lounge room.
In the horoscope
I saw an artist’s gaze.
A fighting gape
like Vincent’s
or a old duffa’s blare
like Rembrandt’s in the dock
of the Bankrupt Court.
Either suits me fine.
Evidence of Crystal
rising out of the bath
and I could take her
from behind
like Ingres.
The French call it
Dead Nature. A cracked
lobster or a spiral
of dried lemon rind
spotting the reflecting grapes
with yellow. Silly thing,
I left the keys
on the easel, so
no chance of getting
the two Eskimo pies
I promised.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
A Pinch
No, I didn’t go
to the kitchen
and pick up
my husband
and two children and
place them in
the mixing bowl
next to the cheese
and red onions,
No, the wolves
weren’t I repeat
weren’t as hungry as
the onions in
the mixing bowl
next to the cheese
No, the two hungry
no two starving no two
hungry-as-wolves
children were
picked up, no
not my husband not
this time, no
not anytime
soon No, YES
maybe
the vital
ingredients in
the bowl, the onions, cheese,
Papa and kids,
hungry or not,
picked up,
or not,
perhaps in
the bowl, or next
to it,
enmeshed, mixed
entwined, kneaded, ground,
absorbed, leavened,
sifted, mashed and YES
maybe, in that
there was, or not
only, but with that
Dad and Progeny
Trifle
Mr. Me and Pit
and Pat
Jelly and Custard,
My Tart and Cream and Sugar
Mélange, the vital,
real
family values
not just
not
what wasn’t there,
lying around
in the kitchen. But something
else.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Pop Lyric
Break out the toothpicks, girls
the olives are rolling away
to where the house of cards
reveals its hand
on the glittered sand, and a weatherboard
folie breathes its
lamb chop cloud
over salted paddocks.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
The Jesus of Morteau
Is the world’s fattest. A bulging packet of meat.
Hung for weeks - cured
or smoked - in the rafters
during winter. Tied up
with string, wound with wood,
labeled in metal.
Best at Christmas,
with a hamper, and a bottle
of yellow wine. Some Klaus
chocolates: pralines
or a tablette filled
with liqueur.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
George
committed suicide in seventy two.
Left a note saying he was bored. Wished us luck.
Living in Spain for many years.
Lord Henry Wotton in Dorian Gray.
Mr. Freeze in Batman on TV.
Married both sisters (Magda and Zsa Zsa).
Overdosed on barbiturates in a hotel room.
Left a note saying he’d lived long enough.
Left Majorca just days before.
The voice of Shere Khan in the Jungle Book
Checked-into a hotel at Castelldefels.
Married Benita Hume. She looked for excitement.
She died of bone cancer in sixty seven.
Told David Niven he would kill himself one day.
Called Catalonia “this sweet cesspool”.
Born in Saint Petersburg. Although he was British.
He was the Saint before Roger Moore.
