I like the Way....

 

Lipstick and Mascara III mixed media on paper 20 x 20 cm

I LIKE THE WAY…

I like the way that shirt fits.

Yes, flannel can look girly.

Where Were You? I looked

not everywhere only in the piazza,

the square, the exquisitely well-lit

Plaza Mayor. I am not ready

to climb over nor under everything

thin, uneven or crooked to find you.

No bridges, no canals in Venice, no buttered

scones or stack of waffles sticky with syrup

consumed non-intellectually in a Berkeley diner

while I speculate about the ins-and-outs of your body.

On the other hand, glad I haven’t met you yet. Me,

that folly on two legs, its tongue hanging out, saying

how do you do, nice to meet you, the pleasure’s all yours.

Lipstick and Mascara

Lipstick and Mascara II 20 x 20 cm mixed media on paper

TO LIVE LIFE BETWEEN A BREATH

Contrary to expectations Isolda

stopped singing and Tristan froze

in space. The orchestra took industrial

action, walking out in mid-note, and the

conductor dropping his baton broke down

as Berlioz famously did, flinging himself over

the kettle drums, weeping copiously. Tristan says,

“Let’s make a move,” as Isolda slides forward and back

at the same time, seeming to defy physics,

but only in her mind. Smiles are what matter now. Words are

of less weight. Yet each encounter is a story. Narrative

abounds in an instantly bared shoulder; fingers press

yours as she hands you the change. A twitch

of sinew, all the flexed intensities of movement

caught in a web of unwavering attention. The conductor

walks slowly out of the theatre, climbs into a cab.

She’s from Puerto Rico, sits behind the wheel, will listen

to him, will change his life before the evening is over. 

Take it Easy

Lipstick and Mascara I 20 x 20 cm / with mat 30 x 30 cm (part of a series) available

MOVING

I am moving

like in a painting

or in a movie

to an island

I am moving

some place in a south

where I imagine

anyway sitting beneath

a supple, leafy, dense entity

aggressive roots fingering thickly through

pale earth and sun hammered rock.

“It’s a girl, my lord, in a flatbed Ford…” no,

we are not in Winslow, Arizona. Turn off the radio.

It is an olive tree.

And it looks classical, with no odor.

Towards a white boob like thing

I am moving and fasten upon

a ripening nipple similar

to a raspberry-strawberry

confection-

ary’s delight. Or is it

the other way around? I just don’t know.

Ovid would say: “Every-

thing looks like something else.”

I can get into that.

I can meet him half

way turning

into something

vaguely intermediate

an “ambiguous thing.”

Fact, everything is something else.

Sometimes you only

need to unravel

your most recent skin

switch addresses

just before you harden into

empty phrases and stiffening smiles.

I can cope with that too.

The wind shapes us all

the sun carves into us

all and sometimes I feel like

a cicada in mid-hurricane

desperately rubbing

my legs together. And

sometimes I feel like a big

cat purring for my supper

amusing a particular

cluster of jaded rich folk

with their fascinators

barely shading the girth

of a Habsburg jawline.