Letter # 14
Perhaps
you were never born
who - sleepless
waits patiently for my familiar steps
after the dying growl of an engine
and I
not having to fix a pillow beneath your head-
guided by the light of a muted screen
my arm warmed briefly by your breath-
perhaps
have never lived.
(some recent drawings)
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Orpheus With Breasts
I want to burn in the fire
walk on the shivering wire
push against the blade with my neck
so I may rest my head
on your plate
I will be the bird in the bush
a noisy target for your bow
as you gently, then urgently
cut and saw these strings
that won’t break
and the strings will plait what the bird could not hymn
as ants pry his eyes wide open
as he hides in the curling leaves
shy
as stone.
Do we understand each other?
( some recent drawings)
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Vacancy
In absentia
you’ve moved
my furniture around
though the bed is wedged where it’s always been
and the chair
claims the same spot of hardwood floor
the usual view through the window seems
unhinged
it’s been weeks-
you may as well have moved in
my key slides smoothly
yet I turn the knob like a burglar
I sit at the dinner table
where there’s no space for my legs
I could speak to the landlord, but-
this vacancy won’t get evicted.
( some recent drawings)
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Letter # 17
At dinner
it takes days to cross her face
her laughter flutters in my head
like a caged bird
and her fingertip resting lightly on the tablecloth
pins my tongue down
What?
her words crumble-
syllables fall through her lashes-
It’s late.
and I’m drunk from the sound of her heels
on the sidewalk.
( some recent drawings from Spring Studio and a private session)
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Departures
we must leave home
without leaving home.
the grown man tiptoes out
shuts the gate to a house
where a woman turns fitfully
and a baby freezes in mid-cry
gathers the reins of his horse and rides
across rapids and swollen hills
the forest breached,
that horse, magnificent beast
is butchered and buried.
we must leave home without leaving home.
this young woman, bent
as warm blood stains her folded skin
reaches through the window and looks for him
deserts him , finds him in the face of what’s idolatrous
on her wedding night
tugging at a pair of trousers.
we must leave home without leaving
skimming what’s familiar
numb to routines,
we must leave home
become prodigal of mind and money
give away our hearts in huge dollops
dripping with gravy for the homeless
we must leave home,
become homeless, to arrive.
years ago,
so ancient as to be beyond forgetting
a man left a city with an orchard
and the mildewed stack of wood
next to a tool shed full of hammering
and a road that measured out what’s known.
did he ever return,
did a mother or a father or a wife
long ago recognize
did the friend of the stag hunts,
did the teacher see
this dust-robed beggar
with the empty bowl offering nothing
did they take the gift he came with?
-1/31/2004
( a painting I did in 2010, oil on canvas)
Mara
pain brought me
i greeted you screaming
i was never meant to be a good son
the one you still caress in your womb-
an only child, to be born at my death
(some recent drawings and a painting)
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Letter #31
it seemed you were running away
from dark clouds ballooning out at sea
the weathermen, like a Greek Chorus were cackling
boy oh boy it’s gonna be bad-
this unwanted something akin to fate, after the fact
and who can guess where it brewed
a mere collection of breath and accidental clutching
retina to retina, eyelash to eyelash
eyes of the storm searching for sunlight
and what are numbers, but numbers. I call ten what you say five
once we agreed five and ten made twenty, with a shrug
who’s keeping track in the dark anyway
except the miles in an odometer
the hands on a watch
calendars
heartbeats.
Sometimes
storms just want to rest.
(some recent drawings )
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IN other news, I saw Ane Brun at the Bowery last Monday night~
And You Know
and you know it’s not about the books, about authors, famous or otherwise.
they are mere milestones. a time, a place, a state of being and of mind.
for instance, Gunter Grass, The Flounder. reminds me of Wilson Avenue in Chicago. the train rides, a roommate. that girl. roads not taken, and roads taken. the bluest shadows on snow- bluer than any sky or ocean I’ve seen
the books, the authors you see are mere excuses. i want to examine the impression on the skin peeled around them ( like browning petals around a bulb) , the impressions on them. casts of my discarded faces.
you pick this book or that author not to absorb ideas but to find echoes of your own, inchoate and garbled.
we are dogs on the scent of ourselves
and the the world is pure music and we are nothing but tuning forks. we learn or not learn or learn clumsily to vibrate.
In other news, I made it back to Spring Studio again last night. They had a male model . After drawing the female form for so long , I found the male body crude and unsatisfying. It’s sort of like coming back to your drab little hometown after a magnificent trip around the world
(some recent drawings)
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And Then
and then I also have a strong urge to retrace my steps, backwards, to excavate myself through the countless books I’ve read but mostly forgotten, with titles and authors whose names I sometimes accidentally hear or come across, like the names of past lovers.
maybe I’ll find myself again.
( or find my way home: these books , these authors as breadcrumbs )
we go through life searching for god knows what, like a dog on a scent. in the end we realize perhaps, that the search, or the manner of the search
was who we’ve always been:
the way was the mirror-
the landscape we traversed was our face
( some recent drawings)
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Letter #28
If I play my cards right
she won’t ever know
I spend my time
not thinking of her
and despite myself
her voice is like the moon
this close to the ocean-
she wipes every female
off the face of the earth.
And I don’t know Spanish well
the few words I remember
from high school are no help
but when she marshals those words into breathing
shifting from a convivial mariachi song
to the staccato challenge of a flamenco dancer
her eyes blazing like a topaz sunset
I laugh with her , I cry with her
I fight with her,
I believe.
I know things happen for a season
and soon I’ll spend my time
not thinking of her words
or the mouth that shaped those words
and everyday I will forget her name
mariposa, mariposa
and her blinded wings
dame un beso me gustas pero-
vuelas al sol-
my cards played right,
nunca-
you will never know
I was lost in translation.
( a painting in progress)
