December 12, 2007

a vacation
not unlike your very own

Shigeru Oyatani, Splendor of Fixation, 2006

The Coming of Light
-- by Mark Strand

Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow's dust flares into breath.

Sixtieth Birthday Dinner
-- by Michael Ryan

If in the men's room of our favorite restaurant
while blissfully pissing riserva spumante
I punch the wall because I am so old,
I promise not to punch too carelessly.

Our friend Franco cooks all night and day
to transform blood and bones to osso buco.
He shouldn't have to clean them off his wall
or worry that a customer gone cuckoo

has mashed his knuckles like a slugger
whose steroid dosage needs a little tweaking.
My life with you has been beyond beyond
and there's nothing beyond it I'm seeking.

I just don't want to leave it, and I am
with every silken bite of tiramisu.
I wouldn't mind being dead
if I could still be with you.

-- by Noah Falck

Those people
who gather
your empty
Coke cans
in the alley
are the same
people sleeping
without pillows
beneath the highway
and they have parked
their shopping carts
before the green light
of Main Street
as a kind of fuck you.

-- by Noah Falck

A tiny hand reaches out

from a pile of roadside leaves

think of the next American body in song

the sound and its trenchcoat flashing

the hills, clouds carving their way

out of morning and later

sprouting from inside a buckeye

with the patience of a camp councilor


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