Scrutinies & Tangentia

Taken For Granite.

Sculpture.

Medium: Rock.  Artist: Time.

Taken for granite

Your eyes spelunk into mine

And then I cave in.

Nagoya, Winter, 2011

Beneath Stones

Beneath Stones

The moon is a grey wisp of lint in the navel of this

dark belly of a sky.

And the stars are smothered in their sleep under a

quilt of murky clouds.

There's the polite applause of waves committing suicide from the

arena of a cove.

And a criminal breeze makes its getaway under the

cacophony of quiet.

But listen.

Vines strangling wires.

The clench of petals. 

Molecules rubbing up against each other.

And the rustle of worms

Beneath stones.

Yakushima Island. Winter, 2011

Waterfalling

Waterfalling.

Tugged by the tide of you

The curl of your shore.

Bolted to the liquor of you

Drunk in your cascade.

You are the sea I evaporated from

The bed that I made.

Tokyo, Summer, 2011

The Nose

Mask carved by Ida Sutarja, Mas, Bali

The Nose

Carving the inside of a mask

Held on the floor between my feet.

Mallet hits chisel.

A curlicue of Hibiscus wood

Flies in a delicate arc 

And lands

Like a dragonfly 

On my splayed knee cap.

Making space for where my nose will go.

Bali, Spring, 2011

Sketches from Bali

Ink and watercolor on paper,

Bali, Spring, 2011.

"Balinfluence"

Ink and watercolor on paper.

Bali, Spring, 2011

Why.

Offering, artist unknown, Padangtegal Sacred Monkey Forest, Ubud, Bali.

Why.

Who is the artist

That made the perfect brush strokes

That are your eyebrows?

Who do I compliment

For the exquisite sauntriness

Of your gait?

Where do I go

To offer an offering

For the blessing of your pulse?

Who sprinkled those freckles on your cheeks?

What is the longitude and the latitude

Of the place I should show gratitude

For each of your earlobes?

Where do I kneel

To pay homage

To the perfect knobbiness

Of your knees?

Where exactly is the temple that's dedicated to your temples?

Who is the sculptor

Of the slope of your shoulders,

The decider of the circumference

Of your wrists?

Who dreamed you up?

And why did he inflict you

On me?

Bali, Spring, 2011

The Man Who Works In The Catacombs

Ink and watercolor on paper, 2011

The Man Who Works In The Catacombs *

The man who works in the catacombs

Said that he caught some tourist, a young man

Kicking the bones.

Just because you buy a ticket do you think that gives you the right to kick at bones?

He shook his head.

Does he think God does not see down here?

If that is what people are becoming up there, I don't know, maybe I prefer it down here.

I have been working here for ten years.

...Ten years.

He shook his head. 

I have another job.

Up there.

I don't have to do this job, but-

Ten years...

He was just a guard.

He had a flashlight and a badge.

He was there in case someone, a tourist, became overwhelmed.

By the bones.

By the dark.

By the low, dripping ceilings.

By their own mortality.

He was just a guard.

But after ten years I think he qualified

As a priest.

Paris, Spring, 2011.

 * also appears in Pure Slush at http://pureslush.webs.com/themancatacombs.htm

The W Word.

The W Word.

She was washing a window.

The window of her shop.

But when she looked up our eyes met.

Hard and bright.

A perfect slant of sunlight bisected us.

Haloing her.

Blue-ing me.

I commented on the name of her shop.

1962.

"I was born that year!" she said.

"Me too." I lied.

We began talking.

When she was listening she tilted her head.

As if she was trying to help the words pour into her ear easier.

The sunlight had its way with her neck.

I leaned against the wall.

She leaned against the door jam.

It was like the building was a vertical bed we were sharing.

We talked about travel mostly.

And between the words I saw us hand in hand,

Chasing trains as they pulled out of stations,

Cooling our feet in alpine streams,

Making love in the afternoon in high ceilinged rooms.

"Where are you from?" she asked.

"San Francisco."

"San Francisco?! We love going there."

The W word.

And the train crashed

And the stream dried up

And the high ceilinged room disappeared.

And high above, a plane crossed the sky

Traveling to some destination

Making the sun

Wink.

Paris, Spring, 2011.

Also appears at Pure Slush.

All The Women In The Place de la Abbesses, Paris, March 27th, 2011.

All The Women In The Place de la Abbesses, Paris, March 27th, 2011. 

a song.

It's as if they all decided,

It's like they all agreed,

And every one of them was beautiful

Indeed.

It's as if they all conspired,

And picked this time and place,

To synchronize for a moment of perfect grace.

It wasn't sunny,

It wasn't cloudy,

It was something in between,

And every one of them

Was beautiful

Indeed.

And all their boots and skirts and pants and hats,

Their blouses and purses and this and thats,

All of them, all of them, perfectly matched.

And every one of them

Was beautiful

Indeed.

And the one with the rust colored hair

And the one in the wheel chair

And the one hunched over her phone

And the one standing alone

And that whole giggling girly bunch

And the one eating her sad lunch

And the one with too much make up on

And the one with not enough

And the one with all her shopping bags and stuff

And every one of them

Was beautiful

Indeed.

The old, the grey, the tall, the tan,

The one leaning perfectly against the taxi stand,

It was as if they'd all conspired and impossibly agreed

That every one of them

Was beautiful

Indeed.

It wasn't sunny,

It wasn't cloudy,

It was something in between.

And every one of them,

Every single one of them,

Each and every one of them,

Was beautiful

Indeed.

Paris, Spring, 2011

Poem About Itself

This poem was written on a piece of paper.

In ink.

So there's already something pretty special about this poem and it just started.

Also:

This poem has a purpose.

For example

This poem can be used as a coaster.

Or to buff spectacles.

Or to wipe the whip cream off a mustache.

This poem can be used for a magic trick.

(if you know a magic trick.)

The edge of this poem can be used to get that little piece of food out from between your teeth that's been bothering you.

Or to crumb a table.

Or to make tiny yet irritating cuts.

This poem can be crumpled into a ball and used to impress a girl with your aim as you toss it into the recycling bin.

Or used as fodder for origami.

Or for the kindling of a very small fire.

The ashes of this poem can be collected and blown into the face of an assailant, momentarily blinding him.

You can tell this poem, like all poems, wants to be a hero.

Paris, Spring, 2011

9 Baguettes

9 Baguettes

If you ask me

What I did in Paris

Those 6 days I spent in Paris

In the early Spring of 2011

I would say

I walked a great deal

I danced with 4 girls wearing polka dot dresses

I had 8 conversations

Made 5 people laugh

Made 2 people giggle

Made 1 cabby angry

Ate 9 baguettes

And every morning I met with an old poet who stared at me silently

In the mirror.

Paris, Spring, 2011.