2004, or thereabouts

The next posts will be words i first put down 7 years ago. i recall that writers in classical antiquity would write something and stow it away for 7 years. they would come back to it after that time to see if the words still held anything of the art that they thought they did at their inception.

song for calliope

(This song is not a song unless someone listens)

and he reaches for another cigarette 

before finishing the last 

regretting that last drink 

and nothing now but blue remainders of 

smoke—smoke 

where something was 

sung—a poem 

a song once, now only 

words—words 

etched in haste like webs of filigree 

line spun out into the unknown 

night—words 

scribbled in 

fear—words 

inscribed on the night’s parched pavement 

or rolled into another hasty 

glass—words 

poured onto the ears of fish 

deaf ears still ringing with memories of songs from another 

stage—words 

lost in the rush of fluid, 

the rush of crowd, 

the rush of 

wind—words 

blacked out by 

pain—words 

drawn in to suffocate on loose 

boards—words 

filleted and vivisected under eager eyes, 

eyes of strangers, 

eyes of friends, 

all eyes the same in the end, 

just more 

holes—words 

pummeled under the weight of more words, 

crusted in ash, 

barnacle-ridden and naked under the tipsy light of third 

watch—words 

corked and left to float in foam on the open 

sea—words 

spinning out on another thin net only to be cut 

loose—words 

lodged in blowholes and gill slits and filthy warm 

fissures—words 

scribbled on the wall in the privy, 

anxious and always 

alone—words 

tied up in 

tentacles—words 

married to unnamed things, 

things below the light, 

things beneath the 

water—words 

sucked in quick and blown out strong 

in great blue rings and rainbow-edged 

sprays—words 

snatched from the very edge by a northerly 

wind—words 

dropped and spread see-through over ground

glass—words 

lost to the rush of a foreign 

tide—words 

scratched in 

sand—words 

alien in another alphabet, a foreign 

meter—words 

abandoned for nightfall, 

left for less tiring games, 

beached, left for 

dead—words 

taken from him just before they were 

uttered—just 

words—just a few words—just a few words before I go…

ink already dried from a hundred tiny wounds, a loose bundle of man and paper dives for the edge, gagged, singing to you until he hits— 

--geo

jun '11