I cant shut Miller up

                    hes a voluptuary who talks incessantly vivaciously an to keep up with him I fire synapse after maddening synapse into the air through the smoothvaulted ceiling that is my skull an from it bolts of shivering light peer down through cordite smoke tickle the floor an up from the batshit pinholes blink like nuclear stars an inbetween on wrinkled sheets of tissue projections are cast by reels an reals of purple memory blue experience and yellow unrealised possibilities 

   I run my hands through my hair

light shudders 

motes of dust are stirred

   I want to fall back to sleep dream  Im in my bed beside my love her warm breath at my cheek her breasts near my breath upon them

                    sleep  deep  sleep

but sonorously his voice washes across the chords of my nerves  the vibrations they intone are irresistible

                                                                                                                 they writhe like slick serpents on tines of wet grass or blind earthworms burrowing to evade ivory beaks of famished birds

I cant shut him up

I wont shut him up

                   fast phantoms jailbreak between the blink of an eye I scarcely have a clue that they were even there  dull irradiated shadows evaporating on the film of my eye like the scent of fresh water in the desert the smell of roses of a feminine ghost 

 

1409,  Saturday,  20  10. 12

by the sea 

            a grizzled hawk clasps a rusted metal-rail fence and watches us intently she scrutinized the wet rounded stones we slip and turn in our hands in our fingers which were usually underwater but this afternoon revealed by a still approaching low-tide 

   unimpeachable  Farmer’s Almanac summonsed us

high-tide was 3.89 feet at 1243 hours  itd be 1.04 feet at 1835  in another halfhour

 

we knelt together among the warm stones and sand

 

the Pacific receding furthur than we had ever seen before at the cove

 

the surf crying out from under the belly of the sea-carved land bridge to-day was mute  and in its stead was a susurrant plea  a seductive coo 

                                  its cool breath  feathers  stroking our ears

 

the hawks eyes glittered like the coloured seaglass we sought

 

once abundant were fortunate now if we can salvage small bits and pieces

 

yet no matter their size their facets and colours are breathtaking as we capture themdeftly tickling the stones sifting sand with our fingers where they hide 

                                                        betrayed on confessional strands of unfrequented beachheads 

our accomplices  low-tide the cove we descended into

 

the seaside hawk was unexpectedperhaps  as surprised as we

at first blush suspicious

                           then she understood there was no calumny in our sudden appearance

 

we respected her bristled patience

 

our silent awe our reverence coaxed her far better than puny words might have

 

 

she kept her place her talons poised ticking the flaky metal and let us pass unmolested not more than an arms reach away

 

as we did she looked away regally casting her eyes on the shining sea the abrupt tawny rocks

 

maybe we were a curiosity

 

though nothing more

 

 

she might not remember us

 

we would not assume what she might

                                         but this afternoon the stones and sand under our fingers under her gaze felt radiant and alive and the suddenness of the seaglass peering up at us  rapture  was only intensified by the reality of lifting our eyes finding each others

                                                     then lifting them just a bit further

realising her eyes on ours 

 

2352,  Thursday, Valentine’s Day,  14  2. 13

0953,  Twosday – Aniela’s birthday,  25  4. 23

decrepitness 

there is a surly decrepitness 

                              excrescence 

                                                 the New World has no sense or appreciation of the Old World  European  Asian  decrepitude mouldering sepia-coloured 

                                                 sublime

                                                          spectacular 

                                                                       sensual 

                                                                                  ugly  

a perversion that ceases at cold waters edge and cannot swim or drift to escape 

ripening Age and Decay has its place 

                                        though sees no welcome on these electric blue shores

which are too inclined to fiction

                                 bizarre mythologies 

                                                        false prophets 

                                                                        to bother with its Import and Utter Reality

 

the New World willfully averts its eyes refuses to look back and fills them instead with preternatural Longing  Promise Delusion 

               if a defiant word is breathed for black Legitimacy it risks in no uncertain terms bitter excoriation and defilement

 

This is the New World

It will accept nothing Old in it

 

1817,  Sunday,  17  2. 13

there is a mangy feral kat

who creeps onto his back porch

a brushfinished concrete slab

split sideways by a recent earthquake

hidden behind fourbyeight foot partition skins mounted at right angles 

hung from tenpenny nails on twobyfour studs spaced on twentyfour inch centers are balias galvanized metal washtubs and trussed on anglebraces was a fourbytwelve inch plank shelf that holds goldflecked quartz from Montana mines rocks from Oregon shoals and Cornish hardrock slag from the Sierras above Nevada City and Grass Valley California 

strewn among the rock are sunbleached deer bones and weathered fused vertebrae antlers and long-ago thrown rusted horseshoes tangled with crooked blacksmith nails 

the kat sorts through them nervously

eyeing the bones

eyeing him

she spites him by pushing rocks from their cradles where they fall thud stab bullethole stars in the greygreen concrete under the fluttering palegreen leafy awning of twisted wisteria vines

feral has another name 

mischievous

she is stoked with legendary feline curiosity

the muffled rock gunshots her claws plucking at the tines of the screen door like the strings of a harp

she lets him know it is time for her to eat

laconically he cursed her under his breath but fills small ceramic bowls left for her with kibble and freshwater

other ferals also help themselves to them at night

                                                    other cats and opossum a fantastically fat raccoon who wrestles itself under the partitions with spastic garrulous grunts and groans

later her sudden litters

he never met scattered rains he did not like or hawks who peer down at him from on wing and pity his lethargic walking as he jealously regards their flight and soaring above me

                                                              leaving no prints on the sky

sitting on the back porch amid these histories he misses her wile and irritation when shes not there

smoking a cigar sipping a whisky and soda he wonders when next mischievous and he will meet 

1403,  hallieday/Thursday,  15  12. 11  40 months

he found a young boy hiding in the feral space behind a leaningrotting garage under the overhang of purple lilac bushes and a stick bough of a disfigured pear tree rooting in the cool black Midwestern dirt with a flatware tablespoon he ostensibly had taken from the silverware drawer in the familys cupboard

the boys back was to him

he was a small boy  peering over his shoulder was not difficult

above the rut the boy gouged was a scroll of toilet paper and on the toilet paper a bloodied tooth

occasionally the boy spat

where the spittle coiled he could see it was laced with thin lines of blood

the tooth  the boys

he worked solemnly

he made no noise

the boy set the tablespoon aside and leaned back on his small haunches

then leaning forward he took up the tooth and holding it between his thumb and index finger he put it in his mouth  seeming to try to replace it from where it came

the tooth fell out of his mouth

he picked it up brushed it against his tshirt and laid it back on the toilet paper

then he laid the toilet paper and tooth on the soft pile of dirt he had unearthed and cried

his shoulders shook softly

noiselessly

 

***

 

with the back of his dirty hands the boy wiped his eyes

he picked up the toilet paper and tooth and taking the tooth again between his thumb and index finger he held it for a long moment  then deliberately wrapped it in the toilet paper 

he held it up to his mouth and said something into the wrap he couldnt hear

the boy kissed the wrapped tooth and laid it in the rut he dug

he laid the tablespoon atop it and pulledpushed the loose black dirt over the sacrament with cupped hands

as the little boy rose into a kneel he backed quietly out of the feral sanctuary behind the garage and strode to a tall elm and hid behind its trunk to watch 

 

***

soon the young boy emerged

filthy  distracted  glum

he brushed his hands together brushed the loose dirt from the knees and thighs of his corduroys and briefly shook like a dog

he stomped his feet unfurled the cuffs in his pants and emptied them then recuffed them

he pulled his tshirt up to where his head disappeared into it under its crewed collar and sullenly wiped his face and eyes

when his head emerged he looked down on the tshirt slapped and pinched it to shake the excess dirt free with a grunt acknowledged its filth

the boy looked over his shoulder from where he came

a longing look

he sighed

then with shining eyes he shuffled away

   he did not look back 

 

1541,  Sunday,  23  12. 12

I just said goodbye to a friend

his wife died late in the Fall

it was snowing

his son returned that winter and told him he felt it was best that he move to Washington State to live with him

so he and his wife could better care for him

What I asked

I knew he cared for his wife during her long illness

I knew his heart broke when she died

I often saw him sitting in his studio after her death

he wasnt working

the potbelly stove was cold  unlit

I hadnt ever seen him there when he wasnt feverishly at work with his paintbrushes and oils  the stove grinning with flames

he was more fun to watch than cartoons

I knew him since I was eight and had taken on the neighborhood paper route

I knocked at his Prairie Avenue door late one winter afternoon and introduced myself

Im your new paperboy Is there anything I can do to make the Chicago Tribune and the Sun-Times deliveries better for you

I know you know young man that I only receive the Trib

Yes sir but I also said you might be better informed if you read both sides of the story

A smart guy huh

Yes sir I read both papers 

                             I did as I walked my route pulling my red wagon stacked with papers behind me

he bought a subscription to the Sun-Times

Young man

Yes sir

Do you cut lawns

I do  I cut lawns edge sidewalks rake leaves shovel snow too

he told me if I would like to make a couple of bucks to come back on the weekend and I could cut his lawn

Yes sir

we shook on it

I stood on the street curb and watched his face through the cab window as he and his son were to drive to O’Hare for their flight to Seattle Washington 

I had to look up Seattle in my National Geographic magazines

it looked like a pretty place a place where he could paint his landscapes again 

he said they were Impressionistic

as the cab pulled away he waved wistfully

behind his eyeglasses he was weeping

I hadnt seen a man cry before

he touched me

men dont cry

I cried as I walked home

we talked before he left about seeing each other again

we did not

it wasnt that we didnt mean it

but he wasnt well and I was only twelve

I liked him best whenever we talked outdoors together

hed take a knee  call me young man

he said that was called mutual respect

he said You should know inside me Im no older than you  

2329,  Twosday,  1  1. 13

Yasmin Levy   Naci En Alamo  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WZKLSg1kjQ0