We sit, primped, at the time of a quick life
and a prayer for a good hand. Flowers
as red as the ace of hears in my hair.
White flowers, white as poker chips, in your
buttonhole. The gun hidden beneath your
coat matches the night, a hertz, and lampposts.
I'm known as slow when I lay my hand down.
This slowness aggravates them; lead to plays
too quick for their money. Money flows out
their pockes into mine at the right speed.
He lived a quick life. Too quick to pray, Please
help me win. His best friend pulled the trigger,
quickly leaving the cinema into
a barrage of my counsin's quick temper.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's The Apartment, 1943
It's 6 o'clock. The workday ends. My back
does not tense as much so quickly these weeks.
With purse in hand I run between streetlamps
counting each one to calm me. The chilled mist
feels like a mask that will suffocate me
if I don't focus on the next streetlamp
and the next streetlamp. Only one more left.
The tea kettle has not moved. The tea cups
have not moved. I don't see new cigarette
burns stinking up my hanging quilt. I place
my newspaper on the desk. A cold breeze
lifts the front page. The tea flows out the cup.
does not tense as much so quickly these weeks.
With purse in hand I run between streetlamps
counting each one to calm me. The chilled mist
feels like a mask that will suffocate me
if I don't focus on the next streetlamp
and the next streetlamp. Only one more left.
The tea kettle has not moved. The tea cups
have not moved. I don't see new cigarette
burns stinking up my hanging quilt. I place
my newspaper on the desk. A cold breeze
lifts the front page. The tea flows out the cup.
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's Concert, 1952, and a Tori Amos Concert in Madison, Wisconsin November 1992
Her music is the ocean. We wait still
and silent for navigation. Only
by the ocean can we hear crescendo
of the wind. Only by the ocean we
feel the light touch of the sun reflected
in crystals. With the ocean as guide
we see the bashful moon hiding behind
trees as it reveals it's studied wisdom.
This wisdom a shared experience; by
definition an illumination.
Her music flows around each seat rising
to the ceiling then crashes from her
piano. Her virtuosity drowns
us, and w'ere hungry to reclaim our fins.
and silent for navigation. Only
by the ocean can we hear crescendo
of the wind. Only by the ocean we
feel the light touch of the sun reflected
in crystals. With the ocean as guide
we see the bashful moon hiding behind
trees as it reveals it's studied wisdom.
This wisdom a shared experience; by
definition an illumination.
Her music flows around each seat rising
to the ceiling then crashes from her
piano. Her virtuosity drowns
us, and w'ere hungry to reclaim our fins.
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's The Visitors, 1959
This is a surprise. I didn't know she . . .
Thank you for telling me about this. I
hope you like raspberry pie. I bake too
much all the time. Luckily, I have some
leftovers. She always looked a little pale . . .
Yes, thank you for hanging up my coat. I
remarked to my neighbors just the other
day how pale she looked, but I never guessed.
Did you get along as kids? I'm sorry,
I didn't hear you. I've seen you stop by
with groceries. I'm sorry, do you need
a handkechief? I remarked to neighbors
the other day how pale she looked. Did I?
I'm sorry. Would you like another slice?
Thank you for telling me about this. I
hope you like raspberry pie. I bake too
much all the time. Luckily, I have some
leftovers. She always looked a little pale . . .
Yes, thank you for hanging up my coat. I
remarked to my neighbors just the other
day how pale she looked, but I never guessed.
Did you get along as kids? I'm sorry,
I didn't hear you. I've seen you stop by
with groceries. I'm sorry, do you need
a handkechief? I remarked to neighbors
the other day how pale she looked. Did I?
I'm sorry. Would you like another slice?
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's The Wall, 1941, and the Fall of the Berlin Wall
A wall makes no sound. It is built with brick
made from silenced hands; hands that don't question
four corners of a room without windows,
hands that forget warmth from the exploding
sun, hands not washed in the mutable sea.
Builders of silence lose their tongues. Some see
the wall as a scar. Scar tisue layers
surround what they build, what they cannot touch,
what they can't ask for help to deconstruct.
Only the living feel remorse. Rain
bounces off the wall into opened mouths.
Stones, pieces of glass, broken pipe battle
each ossified layer. Crumbling, the wall
concedes defeat against organized words.
made from silenced hands; hands that don't question
four corners of a room without windows,
hands that forget warmth from the exploding
sun, hands not washed in the mutable sea.
Builders of silence lose their tongues. Some see
the wall as a scar. Scar tisue layers
surround what they build, what they cannot touch,
what they can't ask for help to deconstruct.
Only the living feel remorse. Rain
bounces off the wall into opened mouths.
Stones, pieces of glass, broken pipe battle
each ossified layer. Crumbling, the wall
concedes defeat against organized words.
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's The Homecoming, 1936
She walks home with a bag of groceries.
For a moment the sunset catches her
eyes. She stops short for the glorious pinks
and golds. Glorious because the sun knows
no other way. She continues towards
home. This, too, is not an advertisement.
All the tenants have returned except Mom.
This time of night we want to gallop to
and from the door, but no galloping
allowed. We want to prance back and forth. No
prancing allowed. We're not allowed to squeak
with our shoes, no peeps with our tongues, no sounds.
The front door clicks shut and we're down the stairs
like eagles soaring; laughing as always.
For a moment the sunset catches her
eyes. She stops short for the glorious pinks
and golds. Glorious because the sun knows
no other way. She continues towards
home. This, too, is not an advertisement.
All the tenants have returned except Mom.
This time of night we want to gallop to
and from the door, but no galloping
allowed. We want to prance back and forth. No
prancing allowed. We're not allowed to squeak
with our shoes, no peeps with our tongues, no sounds.
The front door clicks shut and we're down the stairs
like eagles soaring; laughing as always.
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's Migration of the Negro Series No. 58, 1941
Even the last summer afternoon we
unpacked near the Wilsons' abandoned farm. We
placed blank books on an outspread blanket. we
sharpened pencils and started our lessons.
My oldest sister passed out apples she
picked that morning then narrated dragon
legends. She wrote each word down. My other
sister drew groups of dragons near numbers.
When school started I opened the classroom
door by myself. My sisters placed blank books
and sharpened pencils on the desk then left.
I ran back out the door and followed them.
In the classroom before they left again
they calmed me with words they calmed with numbers.
unpacked near the Wilsons' abandoned farm. We
placed blank books on an outspread blanket. we
sharpened pencils and started our lessons.
My oldest sister passed out apples she
picked that morning then narrated dragon
legends. She wrote each word down. My other
sister drew groups of dragons near numbers.
When school started I opened the classroom
door by myself. My sisters placed blank books
and sharpened pencils on the desk then left.
I ran back out the door and followed them.
In the classroom before they left again
they calmed me with words they calmed with numbers.
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