Means and In-Betweens

Julysia, oh, what were they thinking when
they dropped a name like that
on you?  Oh, July, Elysian, delirium, what were
they going for?  Unfair, Julysia, you
just born, saddled with that anomaly, before
you knew to suck in a breath, oh, before
they even had to gut-punch you so the straps
would settle right.  Oh, Julysia.

Oh, Julysia, July is the worst month
of summer anyhow, neither coming nor
going.  Give me a June, grow a fulminant radiant
halo clouding open on a May Day tree, white
petals snowing down, next pink baubles
cracking into flowers on the rose tree of China.  July
has nothing going for it, Julysia, by July
the shine of summer has worn off, I'm sorry
to be done here.

Remember the silky silverine
voice of the flute that night,
Julysia?  Remember how it emanated
from a window you couldn't see
through, a window like a cataract, and echoed
to the park where we sat, Julysia, holding
each others' hands, where that tin whistle slipped
a noose around each our necks and
strangled tears out of our eyes
with its sharps and rills.  Oh, Julysia. 

My Julysia, remember when we
flew?  When we broke through the clouds, floated
above all the mountains, looked down at
the spines of the ranges breaking clouds like
dragon's backs coming up through seafoam, oh,
Julysia?  Julysia, connecting our hearts
is a Chinese finger-trap.  I don't know why
I'm more enamored with romantic melancholy than
I am with romantic romance, but
Van Gogh who painted his setting sun-
flowers with those rising would understand.
Do I have you hypnotized now?  Have I held
your head underwater long enough, are you in
a fugue state yet?  Look at that, May Day
petals floating in a slick, carried by the
stream.  Are you ready to give it up?  I'm ready
to give it up, Julysia.  I'll count to three and you'll wake
up, your somnambulism will stop, the spell will break,
let's get on with it, oh,
Julysia.  Enjoy your next spring, enjoy
the May Day tree bursting
into a cloud.  Enjoy the gentle night
and the clouds haloing the mountains.  I don't
love you enough to give anymore.  I love you this
much: good luck. 

Three, two, one.
Wake up.


Having to do with Fire

A summer poised.  Full of running,
readiness.  Never seeing
the fire but knowing
the fire like a stranger
uninvited browsing the
adjoining room.  Smelling strange
sweat, feeling hot breath
drafting under the door.  Hearing
the alley cats scream
at the ashy moon.  A long
summer in waiting.

That summer we lived
in a suburb of hell.  The dry
prickle on the breeze drove
everyone mad, the skuzzed-up sky induced
depression, smoke refined its presence
as fire munched through the forest,
skirmished back and forth with the
fighters.  The night, moonless, lightless; the fire
ran us ragged, chased
people from flash
point to safe point.

The smell of smoke in
my hair makes my heart
pang, beat ready, ready, ready.
Makes my nasal membranes flash dry
and prickle remembrance.  Smoke still smells
like transience.


What is Silence?

The world talks. The world
talks to itself.  If you go,
go at night, go when the world
settles under the soft-feathered breast
of the dusk. Water speaks; cars murmur
with the voice of the water. Trees
converse with the wind. Birds squabble. The snow
grunts to itself. Dusk smokes the glass sky; the world
curls up against the cold, coils up tight
as the inner ear. Birds find shelter. Nothing
moves. The night unfolds its
black wing. The world listens. The world
listens to itself.


In Transit

Think about planes.  Think about
contrails, criss-crossed once, no other
point of connection.  Do you ever think
about all those people?  Those people
in boxes, thundering their own
directions.  Think about that.  All those
people you'll never know, lovers you won't
love, generals unsaluted, messiahs
unrevered.  Scientists, presidents,
artists, instrumentalists, any one of those
behind a bored face on its
way somewhere.

A musician coaxing wood and string
to sing, in the park, in the night.
Hear that?  Does she know
you're there?  Your ear up against
your cracked window.  Hello to
the cello.  Drink it up.  This is
the magic we get, this is it.  All of us
in the audience, packed close, jowl
on jowl, never having looked each other
in the eye.  Still the music and its
maker.  She might not know you're
there; this soundless, shifting audience,
watching her.

She might not know you're there.  The world
is like that, playing itself out to almost
nobody.  A frog,
a fish, all humanity, no difference;
the audience doesn't know
the score, the name of the song, anyone
else's name.  You barely get to know
your own name.  All those people moving.  Do you ever
wonder?  The world hushedly playing itself out,
blue hexagonal clarities ice shards
breaking from the whole into the sweep of
river.  You'll never know
the rest of that story.
Think about that.