the oeuvre of the soul

 

 

 

I had fallen asleep in my writers swivel chair, yet again,

the one that sounds, when you lean forward, of the farmer

killing the duckling/

 

                              The same one who's screws have fallen out

                              from the bottom, where even without my glasses,

                              I can see their black, metal twists as wornout odalisque

                              on the carpet Mrs. Lisowski had installed in the upstairs,

                              with it's pattern of destination and her sweet-pickle-Polish

                              comprehensible terms. Yes, the carpet I refuse to

                              change because I liked her and the idea that her

                              husband built this house before he smoked those

                              unfiltered Chesterfield Kings to transgression; before

                              his liver would spread like the sea over land areas. Before

                              his jokes needed no translating.

 

That chair, whose cushioned armrest has worn

down to wood, as if I could prevent the equator

or a latitude reached by an overhead sun.

That chair where the poems, weaving in the

stink and red interlace, try to unite in some

coherent whole.

 

I dreamt today of backing into a car

with my old van and sent it spinning

down the street, then passing a business

card that somone had given me to the

tall sailor, who nodded as if his face was

a ripe fruit, from some

weary tree.

Reviews

[Steven]

I mean, you had me on the edge of my seat the whole way, then slap--

who nodded as if his face was
a ripe fruit, from some
weary tree.

Just GREAT.

[Circe]

I love the subtleties in this story telling.... every line trails off to leave you to your own wondering... why did the farmer kill the duckling, am I even asking the right question? or how come his jokes needed no translating? it assumes a familiarity that is so pleasurable and appreciated... these observations of life that leave me weak in the knees... quaking before enormity.. the coherent whole, if there is such a thing and if so would we know it when we see it. and all I can think of now is where did that sailor sail from? thank you for this.

[Emily B]

i think the world will change tomorrow - but not end. A dear friend told me that we will be given eight minutes on Saturday to see our entire life and the whole Universe, too. I don't know whether to be excited or afraid.

[Emily B]

besides i think everybody already knows that the world will end not with a bang but a whimper

[Shmoke-Sifted Heftlander]

I'm pretty certain we've all been studying the apocalypse for quite some time, Emily; idk if I'm ready for the mid term; I need a stiff drink before I review this and re-read a few more times

[Emily B]

just got home and poured my drink, apparently it is five o'clock somewhere

[Shmoke-Sifted Heftlander]

I'm running late; I missed the five o clock bus

[Eve]

Why do I feel that this might be the only safe place on earth? I love that I have to look every third word up in the dictionary.

[Shmoke-Sifted Heftlander]

I actually have fewer wikipdeia and dictionary tabs open in my browser than usual; but, yeah I feel the same way when I read this page :) I cherish it, and I've got some catching up to do, but I've got all the time in the world right?