old speak easy haunts lingering up into inevitable manhattan
dingy murmurs haunting sewer vents, pushing up, pulsing down the alley corner
brown stone tapestries, layer upon layer of cloistered, fading trademarks
now playing. 1926 ‘Flesh and the Devil’ - painted canvas down the stairwell wall
slow moments, where nothing much had happened nearing each step. every step.
a slow march, swimming against eyes. pulling against faces. down. out of sight.
down to the subterranean. down to the subeterranean.
but with tail coats lashing out over starched eyelids, tied off necklines
a crowding up around the bar. running away. piling up against walls.
down to the subterranean. down. down to the subeterranean.
down to the lair of pythons and haunts and viperous sinful beasts of pleasure and idoltry
sharp faced, reliced Edwardians, raised on promises of tiger hunts and adventurism
sweating off the last ten years, drowning in it, forgetting to forget. begging.
downing night caps under the dusky haze. small prayers of off-putting tobacco clouds
whiskey snakes and cigarette ashes, false-lipped players and small-time. all so small-time.
there is no small-time in the now. the now of quick steps. of roaring. the ROARING age
to be hear, to drown out, white noise, elephant hunts blasting over phonographs
pouring out into the minds under Lindbergh’s dubious eyes - passing over in the night
red lipstick, everywhere red lipstick. flapper.
fading across napkins, dampened under the rounded eyes of martini glasses
children of the Knickerbocker. stained watermarks, love letters. bruised for wishing.
blushing autographs buried deep in the subterranean. the subterranean.
that slow, drawn out bop jazz thump thump thump - slap. bursting on the scene.
drawn up. upwards. a slow roll. a slow roll. a slow roll. roaring out in to night.
awaiting the next hunt.
Bastard faced, hairy eyed balloons
Gorilla fisted mist rising slowly
With cigarette holders laying flat
Dangling licorice across the horizon.
Campfire facelifts with collagen lips
Caught against elephant tusk nostrils
Snorting cocaine, scraping at the dust
Street signs pointing in on themselves
No place like home.
Faceless fucking liaisons in bathroom stalls
With red doors on red hinges with red herrings
Creeping open in to the dawn
Splashing around, a day at the beach
Wet willy.
these starry eyed tapestries
modernist zebra faced altars of desire
dice casting, rubic cube nightmares
of botched, honeycomb facelifts
at last, set upon by wolves in the night.
morning elephants lumbering cautiously
staring through the misty dotted lines
these flat top monsters of yesterday
rolling joints and rubber stamping
signed off in triplicate.
these sexless, starry eyed deceivers
square faces with sharp edged smiles
they swallow up the day in deep breaths
inhaled up dingy elevator shafts
shuffling up past the typewriters
that meet with short howls of joy.
a controlled fall - running down the ladder
spilling out at each rung, caught reaching
by that nosy neighbour who hardly knows
where to see your city best.
craning your neck - looking back
in the foggy window a dotted portrait
barely feeling the reflection,
lopsidedly falling back upon your face
streetlights leave their mark
with a toothy smile, entrusted to you
to ration out across the years.
- as you see fit.
reaching up - inching along your calfs
this city spreads like hand drawn tattoos
inked frames and smothered wholeness
obscuring what it reveals, we catch glimpses
as it wraps itself at the foot of the mountains.
i’ve been thinking: there’s too many cars in this city.
there’s all kinds of colours, models, makes.
0.5% APR financing, 1000$ gas rebates, goofy ads.
red ones, blues ones, grey ones, yellows ones,…
all pimped off in the awesome carnival of showrooms.
all sold off by a man in a suit, slicked back hair.
a firm handshake and thick eyebrows, “just sign here.”
they were shipped up from detroit only to rot
discarded in scrap yards, waxed up and primped for showing
a few years later, cannibalized for steering columns.
spare loose bolts, reclining seats, stain resistant cup holders.
life’s short for these forgotten ones, these liminal beasts
these sights of tomorrow, these bucket seated holy rollers
these white-walled jallopies, these akward depositories.
prom nights and rainy days. road trips and racing home.
drive in movies and reckless abandoment. too many drinks.
i’m sure i should have walked. no, that’s not true.
they don’t make them like they used to. that’s for sure.
i’ve been thinking: there’s too many cars in this city.
it’s the way they suck the wind right past you.
we love cars, but we’ve learned to hate traffic.
the slow hum all night. radios passing
“CKNW News 1130…traffic on the ones!”
better take second narrows, agassiz crossing.
three hours at the border? are they kidding?
a reprieve would make it sweeter.
i’m not asking alot.
only to walk in between the crosswalks
no man’s land. that patch of grey your mother warned you about
that depository, island of lost toys. soccer balls and kites.
don’t go there, they steal little boys from there
my cousin used to stand on the sidewalk and shout down to me
“Get off the road!”
i’m not sure i was ever the problem.
i shouldn’t have to look both ways.
i should be able to draw chalky long faces all i want
up and down the asphalt, they’d soak up the oil stains.
these days there’s the sidewalk.
behind me drags a red wagon full of reminders.
i write them down once, and forgot them.
they just got up and walked away. done talking to me.
it’s like we never met, just a hazey acquaintance.
they became self-absorbed ever since i told them how good they looked.
this time. i stashed them in tree trunks
didn’t tell a soul. tossed down rabbit holes
safely stored for winter.
until spring came and they read me my rights.
down on Granville, just past two or three.
noise dances. opaque windows. a buzzing haze of the street below, lingering above. following dotted steps and stenciled footwork. drawn along the glass. carved along the pock marked conrete, a light dusting of faded charcoal. a city still hiding behind yesteday’s rouge. all dressed up, trying to hide the years. vain. alive. dancing a slow waltz, sped up momentarily. it hides its legs from sight - a real lady, with real secrets. with each slip, glimpses. with each spin, real flashes. red and blue. real scars from pamphlets. flyers. real newspaper ink. tattoos. needle exchange. real track marks. staples and thumbtacks hang off. fleshy barbed wire. the sinnue of a real city. no trespassing. but we can all watch. really.
the street holds a rhythm. strangles it. building, culminating. ectasticly, brick by brick. a bearded street peddler stands hunched, playing. nodding off, a slow shuffle emerging slightly. banging its head on the walls. it grow with each passing breath. speaking - to no one in particular. sideways glances passing by. this street has been spoken for already, long ago. (or so they say). his strings bend to meet the night. marry it. make it theirs. a slow romance. long glances. held, precious. if only just for a second. almost, as if never happening at all. hoping to forget by remembering.
passing cars. ghostly echoes. red, yellow, green. puff, puff, pass. any spare change? pale faced spectators. eyes darting away, scattering feet. they haunt bus stops and night joints. walking city blocks looking for lost love. spectres free of time. wearing ribbons of transfer tickets. next train, 3 minutes. caught. there’s a web of desire - played across the stage. a city. a muse. sirens. in the distance. drawing us in, until we are whole. behind the curtains, we curl up and go to sleep. oz.
a slow waltz. silhouettes flashing across the wet concrete. reflecting back onto the empty storefronts. row. upon row. falling down into the Creek below. polaroid impressions. sand to stone. glacial imprints. they’ll find it tomorrow morning, stuck on with old gum. used up flash bulbs piled in the doorways. a train of archivists. taking notes. carbon dating. photos. just peeling - ever so slightly, at the damp edges. a city cast into the ocean. passing against the rocks.
but that night, lost under bus shelters
they would shy away and squint their eyes
caught looking up like blushing children
while cable buses pass behind the glass
as though they weren’t even there at all -
if not for that slow shuffle
pale beneath the soft glow and rhythm,
below the patter of a city coming to life.
should words be transparent? open pages where the ink presses through. holding it up to the light each morning. water marks. webs weaving outwards, spilling over the edges. momentary. a minor autumn, raking leaves into filing cabinets. locking away the winter approaching. trying, anyways. ethnographers will take notes. measure skulls and consult graphs. Boas - the authentic need only apply. please. dreamers. one might check for defects, consulting the blueprints. they were written long ago, in long-hand, longing for something, on short scraps of old newspaper. or maybe it was yesterday, who really remembers. framed, and caught on the wall to be admired from afar. (no flash photography please, gallery rules). the New York Times, headline, blank. and spilling over into the sports section. portrait artists line up along the boulevard. THIS IS A SENTENCE. splashed in thick paint below descriptions of flash cards. notes on nothing in particular. more than you bargained for. material irrelevance: papyrus, reed, stone tablets. it all arrives, carried down, carefully, carressing the slopes of the steep caverns of an ivory peaked horizon. it lays flat upon on the backs of mules. sherpas draping exotic carpets to keep it fresh, warm, loved. smelly beasts. burden. hung around their necks. GPA. thick scars and brandings. each wore thick, horned rimmed, glasses across hairy snouts. perks. dozing. a prescription. a cure. a drug. stare down in to the web of meanings, dream catchers & get tied up(down), bound & immobile - in the moment. displaced. a dense underbrush, drapes of words that veil a window. a slow drag in the floorboards, long slow drums in the distance. BOOM! - wait a moment, freeze it. in memorium. or so they wrote later. well, someone did. long summers staring down into ponds and counting the stones - falling in head first and paralyzed. who really knows when, the time passed free of me. the coldness, the waking dead, slumbering. crashing upon fabric altar tops. at least, that’s the way they’ll write about it. in memorium.
I should grow up; wipe both hands
across my rounded iris, squandered in lashes
clap them, blowing the dust
float away, i could
stop. - smell yesterday’s breakfast.
I should draw; a wishing well - and hold
fondle, each breath between my toes
with the [plop], in each copper penny
get lost, at sea
stuff holes with pencil tips.
I should save; my baby teeth too,
cash in; before christmas - dangling
drape go-lightly earlobes, across my chest
go around, my neck
know - hearbeats have ears of their own.
I should wade down into the water line
night time - let my webbed fingers feel
for the ripples, pass them, up against
me? listen?, they move
swiftly, with the sureness of knowing.
oh heavy handed wind
that handled yesterday
tenderly
with the same five fingers
it will carry tomorrow
to a handsome end.
5 easy steps
———-
stand on the tarmac, let the roar wash over you.
with little to say there’s no sense listening
[manufacturer not responsible for damages]
go through the motions instead, silent movies.
speak in signs and listen sweetly in tongues.
[use only factory recommended tools]
rip out your fingernails, cast them like dice
pluck out your eyelashes, see a little clearer
[self-repair voids factory warrantee]
then, lightly press your ear to the ground
and finally feel - for the pulse, murmer.
[***please fill out our survey]
we filed for divorce, from
signed sincerely ____________,
ourselves.
it’s too bad (you).
…i can’t read the names.
the papers were served on
old photographs, in lomo
lithographs and red ink
rorschach
cordially,
draining down the edges
of those pretentious. nothings
“now, tell us what you see”
the something that was
they’ll tell you
but now isn’t, wasn’t, and
won’t be.
we can hover around typewriters
[bang] on tabletops and discuss
equations the shortest distances
to the soul, still
straight lines flowering curves.
you can feel the parachute, walking
through the door.
digging in to your shoulders
silk dragging on the doorframe
hot, sweaty, damp
that slight tug in the air
it pulls, crisp
a slight wringing of
your hands
you’re one to answer
sign language “stop.”
who is it calling?
“sorry, i don’t know him.”
they’ll throw tin cans into the wind
pull the strings tight
hang
themselves.
“can you hear me?”
now - but the modern times
“oh, back when,” they’ll say
they’ll take you
“that’s okay”
but will they give you back?
“not without proof of i.d.”
