The Cacographer

October 17th, 2005

the rain taps on golden leaves where
dissatisfied, they hurtle further down
for 8 years in a standstill
and kettles and teapots
chortle sinister
and the red sycamore so silent outside
and the sun pale and gray
shines tentative
making brown amber
the label peels
table stretching from fingertips and lips
and a lamp slender and black
wells up bubbling light like a spring
far in the dark and behind corners
and one empty cup shows its clay breasts

a pen or two what could be three
it’s so hard to tell it’s murky
while doing
and the teapots at least 80 of them
all of them strangely named and cackling
Chrysanthemum Kale and Pansy
all growing crisp and vibrant with
the reds and yellows
and at least 22 kettles
sometimes they say more
named simply and starkly
with numbers like
6 and 13 and 18
and called just the same
boundless as they are

certainly it could be said
certainly there are stains and coffees
there are ashes and hundreds of inches of wood
the bark sliding down
and the portrait of ’97 cast in a pool of aspen
and oak and cottonwood
where she watched
and didn’t let them drift from the hurtling
fall to the chortling water feet away for 8 years
which condensed, like flowers,
spell portrait and desk
and everything not on it

After the abortion, waiting on PS
the snow is wanton
sticking and cloy
like heavy paint
and so viscous
even the rails run dry

so the day crept up men’s legs and
through the heavy pleats
turning black to black and grey to grey
and everywhere plaster stuck from the sky
and everywhere like chipped and bloodless flesh

it pushed itself into dunes like shredded paper made from tungsten
flakes of glass and steel in bleach
the snow snowing and coating women’s reds and woman’s blues
with Wisconsin frozen and New York lost
so that the roads weren’t seen from the fields

reflecting brown into itself and yellow into itself
and the horses cut themselves on ice
and couldn’t bleed through the mountains of rolling snow like molten quartz
and the flowers found themselves invisible

The heavy paper so covered couldn’t find any black
and dropped like rain to sea
somewhere between Paul and their could-have-been
the not new geese flew razor-bent
into the snow pitched ground

posted by OrangeDrink @ 4:23:00 PM