You must cross the busy street to get there
There isn’t a clear path really
Where we cross there is no light
And it seems just too far to find just one Continue reading
In the morning light he stands silhouetted against the kitchen window’s gaze. Trees are a near image of black and white the backdrop behind him. They have grown there of dinner’s waste disposed of in pots of soil to late reap trees of plum and lemon, dates, and tomato vines, melons sprouts that will never grow pregnant into their confined space, and a new sprout yet to be determined as orange or lemon, but he knows that it is citrus.
As he pours the water (word for just before boiling) into the pot the gas flame flames licking at the sky stretching great feats of distance, three and four inches high unbridled flame. Tea and toast and little cookies. He watered the plants and there is a slow cascade of water dripping that blends into the choirs music wafting through the kitchen that seems just all to fitting for a Sunday morning. He discusses living in the shadow of the Roman Catholic Church and wonders why the Pope doesn’t save lives instead of souls.
He plays the harmonic on the toes of one foot—no, it’s the pan flute—on all ten toes to Mozart’s K622.
Of water disturbed
Path gouged in depths
Of raging darkest blues
And once serenest greens
A momentary trail
Of where he has gone
A small dark room
Cool stone walls
On tiled floor her feet move
Fluidity of movement
Leg to thigh
Hip to breast
Arm to neck
By the cicada
In the corner
A haunted dance
The fan vacillates
Antiqued metal stirs the air
Its grace never touching
The sweat upon her face
The music fading
The melody that was
Walls of burnt caramel with bookcases holding treasured and worn volumes of poetry, Dorothy Parker, textbooks of youth and scholar, biology and war, movies in black and white, and dust covered CD jewel cases. A desk faces the window—a tall and double width window—out of which a pale sheer flutters through as the wind inhales causing it to move about as a woman’s dress tangled about the knees giving hint to life’s source.
The desk has space for one to sit and spans nearly as wide as the room, much longer than a bed might be. Papers and books, and documentations of authenticity are strewn, but neatly, across. All are centered about the chair which faces the window of flirting blue reminiscent of clouds.
Against the only other wall with space not adorned by books—volumes and volumes of books in mixed language and genre—is a red couch. The couch is of modern style and pulls out into a bed in a way which seems unique, though this is really nothing altogether new.
Old jazz music plays—a pianist who played with Miles Davis.
It smells of rosemary and fennel and of roasting aubergines.
Against the back wall, opposite the window, is one framed photograph. Black and white, matted against creamy white, in a thin wooden frame. A table of elegant men and women are frozen in a moment. The woman in the right corner stares out with clearest eyes of glass, just as la Fornarina. She wears a hat. To the other end sits a mother, though not yet realized. She looks out of the photo from the slight turn of her face. In between, men are locked in various states of unaware being, one looking at the camera, the others simply arranged in a Caravaggio construction of the Last Supper. The photo is placed high on the wall—positioned for the tall, dark and handsome Italian man who lives here. Or is he Spanish?
Sometimes, even he’s not certain.
Date: Friday, September 7, 2007 at 1:35 AM
To: Brian Goldfarb <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: to tell the truth
Here’s one of those moments where I’m sad and vulnerable. I want to thrash myself, and thought like “I suck” come to mind. I say no wonder why I’m not wanted. I’m a disappointment to everyone I try to love.
I’m sad and I miss my dad. I see you talk to your parents and wonder what it would be like to have that. I believe my dad would love me regardless… I know he’d be disappointed in me, but he’d let me come and cry in his arms. He’d pat my head and tell me everything would be alright. He’d let me call and tell him how my heart hurts even in the middle of the night.
They say I was daddy’s girl.