Titan

for Del Dako

She balances the eclipsing moon on her head
white muslin gauzy drift across a darkened meadow
titian tresses an undulating blush over shoulders 
moonlight bursts between her fingers
like blood expelled across a brick wall 

Atlas carried the weight of the world on his shoulders
until it crushed his spirit with the heaviness of mountains

that night in Los Angeles, pulled from dreams
by the heft of Del seated at the end of the bed,
trill auditory imagining, bells, a single explosion
the book of maps scattered into the dull, windy evening
he ends at the atlas vertebra like a silver milagros body
shining under the quartered face of the moon
here, at the edge of the world.








Titan

Terence Rattigan, you exploded the walls of my heart

               April 15th 2013, for PD

It was Sunday and I think I wore a hat 
to an unexpected meeting which would helm my heart this past year
as the deep sea blues of distraught lovers
washed over a different triangle of hope
I was pulled by pheromones, the attraction of words 
by his warm hands and smile, the joyful attention
and to glimpse the possibility in the core of a man
an intimate I wanted to know, and be known by
friend, lover
I gave him the pieces of exploded heart in my open palm
to reassemble with his. 


You exploded the walls of my heart

I Groan As One Guilty

Flophouse for Cool People

The Hotel Congress, Tucson, Arizona, 2008

I am in a room above tree canopy flowering across the boulevard
the Hotel Congress is like a flophouse for cool people 
who appreciate the cosmic joke
of rooms with garage sale iron bedsteads
a bathroom’s black and white tile carapace 
Bakelite rotary phones 
I am perched in the green roof cool of the hot city
across from the Rialto’s wrought iron balcony mash-up 
Spain meets the Orient
me and the ghost who steals the butter knives
are sun-slatted by wooden blinds
below, a solitary bird sings on the globed entrance
    John Dillinger, caught at this hotel in 1934

The Hotel Congress, Tucson, Arizona, 2012

Below our room the guests out shout the band in the wild west lobby
we linger in the café beading our foreheads over cappuccino
later, we eat a perfect steak in the hotel’s courtyard
to avoid the frozen air of the building
in our room we lie down together for the first time
click-purr of the overhead fan 
I lie sleepless next to a man shivering with fever
sweat soaking the back of my nightgown, the sheets
and all of the bathroom’s white towels
outside, the cicadas chirp a background mariachi beat
in the morning, the handsome concierge
in his Dillinger-era waistcoat and tie recommends electrolytes
   we are caught against the heat in this hotel.


Flophouse For Cool People

Time and Gravity

In Asheville, despite white gauzy curtains,
the noon light is shrill on our aging bodies
five score of skin blemishes and creases
we celebrate the end of a four-day journey
with intertwined flesh across expensive white sheets
	- our mouths dark with bacon grease

we pocket our bodies between duvet and flesh
sing the body electric, caress the plains of skin
play an invisible theremin as our hands work the air
Time continues its gnawing ravaged magic
in cahoots with its old friend, Gravity
	- we appear as ancient, out of work porn stars

on trips, a strange reversal: you are neater than a pin,
fussy about spilling food in the car
while I cast clothes and towels around the hotel room
leave wrappers and empty cups for later
I rejoice in the occasional liberty of maybe
	- will every role turn inside out?

there is a clarity at this blue-ridged, southern altitude
where the streets are paved with vegans
we see beyond the occluded 
to the unguarded place sometimes glimpsed 
and check the box next to “mountain towns I like”
      - hello, Salida, Gunnison, Telluride 

repurposed health food store is a repository of sound
Dr. Bob’s touchable, playable machines – toy land for my boy 
there is nothing more apt, the weekend before Halloween,
than the spectral sounds delighting the swollen town
Silver Apples of the Moon fall into The Magnetic Fields
	- costumed revelers throng every street

we track the impending hurricane
curled together from the safety of the pillow’d bed
our plan to hike Grandfather Mountain abandoned
to race north on the skirt of the storm 
autumn’s radiant foliage’s challenge will be to stay tree-side
	- he said: being together is all that matters







Time and Gravity

Your mind is read while your pockets are picked 

We are cultured people in this barren land
who are left of centre, or right of centre
with a weirdness not of our time
we hear the telepathic rumble of farmers’ minds
the screaming indifference of trapped wives
and the crowded questions floating above heads

we are cast into the carnival, drawing a card of fate
a missed step, genetic disruption or sticky egg connection
our gifts are many, we know the nap of brocade
the tapped clear ring of crystal, the aroma of frankincense
but not the tumble of earth or the patterns of clouds
or how to tell the fortune of weather by the bend of a cow’s back

we relieve your boredom for as long as your attention
show you the clouded world of your own imagination
and the magical importance of our spirit’s difference
we find gold behind a boy’s grubby ear
enhance the romantic dreams of a spinster woman
hide from you the sleight of hand and teach you its possibilities

Night after night we place ourselves under the scrutiny 
of people frighteningly more strange than ourselves
safe in their Sunday best dark armour they gawp at us
makes it easy to take that extra dollar they can’t afford
the stage that separates them from us sideshow freaks dissolves
and we reap our own kind of wheat, trade our only goods 

beyond the backstage gloom, pockets of soft sparkle lamplight
a knot of townsmen wait their turn for quick ecstasy
strongman wrestles the dancing bear for thrown dimes 
crystal ball nestles in the fortune teller’s hand like a perfect breast
sacrifice and prediction, hanged man and ace of cups 
your mind is read while your pockets are picked 

as the full darkness of night is realized
the rubes turn from the blurred jeweled lights 
and trudge home disheveled, sweaty, uneasy
we twist another bottle neck of whiskey
drape ourselves in silk and velvet dressing gowns
and, in our caravans, tell the continuing stories of our trapped lives.
until the sun comes up.



Your Mind Is Being Read While Your Pockets Are Picked

Ma Saison Préférée

And yes, the glossy crimson of a pair of cherries in the palm
double reflection in their spherical surface
murmuration of wings, rustle of slowly brittlizing leaves
under a soft blue sky, the custard atmosphere before the height of summer

she could be more flexible, this fall to the ground.


Ma Saison Préférée

Touch

We travel our existence 
along timelines of love, loss, the quantity of years
halcyon days of childhood, always sunlit
we are lifted - by the hands of our parents -
over puddles and seashore cresting waves
the days speed their golden light toward chaos
in youth, we resemble happy, unknowing dogs 

take my hand, then, let your hand warm the ache away
unnerved by circumstance and loves who have departed
we repeat an incantation of hope to each other
our fingers trace manifest stories on temple, cheek
our hands knead open the gravity-altered body 
and we slowly push the medieval clock forward
using the ragged lifeline of our touch

we negotiate the timelines hand over hand -
hand in hand - creating an evolution of trust
each of us has no knowledge of our lives’ last trajectory 
we are unfettered of the finality of decisions
let us soar over the surprise with the grace of the airborne
the confidence of the protected child
and the wisdom of the old.






Touch

Buffeted on a Saturday in New Jersey 

Small green bird lifeless on the concrete expanse
downtown Newark is sloughed of workers
this sunny Saturday, autumn-chilled October 
we are bundled against the enormous wind
there is no sign of trauma on its emerald body

	…lovey, some of the drops do sparkle 

some of its tiny feathers curl and vibrate
and our breath, snatched by the wind,
is pulled into the screaming periwinkle sky
the air is alive with poems, contained miasma
and there, at our feet, a second bird immaculate in death

	…In honour of our ancestors 

pikin ningre you, are dead also, third completion
we look to the plate glass edifice, sheer mirror
as CK Williams, lanky page of poetry in russet and yellow,
passes - accent aigu - through the buildings’ wind corridor
a group of pigeons approach the small black corpse

	…embracing our differences

the fourth, legs outstretched, surprised curled claws
lies inert below a small whirlwind of dust and leaves
how did they die? how did they die?
our bed is a raft in a hotel room flooded with tears
all of us buffeted by gusts of wind, gusts of language.

	…nothing loved is ever lost


Buffeted On A Saturday In New Jersey

Siege Engine

It was a war
it was a war
	it was a tremendous battle
It was a war
it was a war
	it was a tremendous battle
at every turn there was an assault, an insult
no Christmas truce in the dark, wet trenches

It was a war
it was a war
	he took up arms
It was a war
it was a war
	it was a losing battle
I tried not to trigger him, I planned my retreats
but he ambushed me in the kitchen, and then in the streets

It was a war
it was a war
	it was a war of attrition
It was a war
it was a war
	there was no quarter given
sometimes I thought that there might be a truce
when I let down my defenses then came a putsch 

It was a war
it was a war
	it was a guerilla war
It was a war
it was a war
	we were naked and bleeding
there was a blockade of emotions, a counter offensive
we were running on empty, it was all so intensive

It was a war
it was a war
	it was a constant and restless
It was a war
it was a war
	it was a Pyrrhic victory

jillbattson

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